Contact

I have news. Excitement. Disappointment. And newness to my drab life among this slow release/slow cook nightmare that is Soybean Island.

First I must project some images. Small. Banal. Boring images. The Apparatus does not read. They involve themselves in images and soundbites and the occasional caption--yet, I must (as always) be careful.

So, here:

And, there.

My news is that I have made contact.

I have confirmed my hypothesis that the original inhabitants--the Eye-Nye-Habs--do exist. At least descendants of these aboriginal indigenous humans still live amongst the unknowing denizens (and we renditioned prisoners) on this non-emerald isle.

Yes.

I was walking through yet another park when I was approached by a group of them. I did not know they were them. But they were. They convinced me that that they were them. Yes. And I was taken into a secret spot for counsel. A council. Me and them. Them and I.

They told me many things. Including their work--as I suspected--as I hoped, hoped, hoped--to oppose and eventually overthrow The Apparatus and regain control of their ancestral lands (be it as it may).

Wow!

And they want me to help.

That is, they threatened to expose me if I did not help.

So, though I very well may be willing to help, I have little choice but to help.

Ah:

So. It turns out I must be careful what I say even to them. But, given a choice (of which I have very few) I would chose to work with them. Even though I have little choice.

They did inform me that there is an underground network of resistance to The Apparatus. That they know about the people of prisoner status, like myself. They pointed out--quite pointedly--that all regular citizens of Soybean Island are prisoners themselves. These inhabitant just don't realize it. The only citizens with freedom (and knowledge) are The Apparatus, The Corporate Masters and the Elite of The Elite.

They--the vestige offspring of the Eye-Nye-Habs--call these unenlightened low-information citizens Snailians.

Yes.

Snailians.

Interesting.

I am now, officially, an agent for the resistance. I am a Non-Snailian in cahoots with the opposing force.

I have been asked to continue with my job as An Object of Curiosity.

I have been given the sortie of doing nothing different than what I have been doing. At least for the time being.

Hmmm.

Seems like the new boss is the same as the old boss . . .

We shall see.

Please do not inform on me, dear reader who does not read. Who evidently does not exist . . .

This is all I dare say.


Goodbye from Soybean Island

Art Cont.

Soybean Island City: Public Art: Sculpture: Art?

Yes, I continue my expose on the artworks that sit like frozen lumps of calcite upon the urban landscape of this un-urban island. The works are scattered about, mostly correlating with downtown areas in SIC and Cornana. I have seen no artworks in Ste. Abattoir des Chevres Pres de le Mer. Yes, there are artworks in the open at the University of Soybean Island, but not so much in Snailtown; I do recall seeing some open-air art in Academic Economic Zone #2, however. Of course the homesteads have no use for art, only farm implements.

Anyway, nonetheless, whathaveyou and whocares, this is stuff from downtown SIC (sic):

Here we have what amounts to a statue of a giant tick.

Ticks are fearsome and feared creatures on this island, except when they are a food source for the many starving children. Hence, this statue gives off, paradoxically, a feeling of revulsion and salivation. Abhorrence and hunger. And, tri-doxically, one of great fear. And, quad-doxically, respect.

A snail would have been a safer subject, so I give the artist credit to go for this rusting hulking image of a tick.


Now, here we have what looks to be a soccer ball:

But, is it?

No, it is not:

Because if you look closely into the soft tootsie-pop center of this work, you will see that it is a bomb!

I have no idea how the artist--if he/she is still alive or not in a torture chamber--got this past the censors of The Apparatus. But this is indeed a (soccer ball) bomb just beginning its explosion . . . At least I think so . . . And if I think so, well . . . Draw your own confusion (as if "you" even existed) . . .

But this is what the bomb would do if it really was a bomb and not a hollow piece of artwork depicting a bomb disguised as a soccer ball:

Maybe.


Onward:

The above is a rather snaily piece. Quite safe and popular in its snailyness.

Nice.

And here we have some ersatz blue accordion. A metallic squeezebox. Or, one could potentially see, a caterpillar of enormous size and durability. Or, one could if one wished to see, a stairway leading down to the depths of hell which would be Soybean Island. Yes. Yes. That is what I see . . .

This next work is difficult to discern:

It just is.

I think we can leave it at that.

More:

The above is entitled: Wishing You Well


The below is entitled: X Marks The Spot With A Line In It

And this one: Extra Concrete That We Didn't Know What Else To Do With

And here we have one of my favorites:

Yellow Pointless Box


And of course an old standard from the island:

Visit Soybean Island

Plastic Flag on Wire Stick with Accompanying Red Line


Wonderful.


And that's it. I think I will try and get to Cornana next for my continuous exploration of open-air artwork on the island. I do not think there is anything in Stalag Ranville--though one would think the many prisoners and the poor souls who tend to the prisoners would need--much need-to create works of art. But I do not think I dare take another trip to that forbidden town. No. No. Maybe.


Until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Goat Skeleton Park

My plans were to visit some outdoor artwork in Soybean Island City, but as I neared my chosen destination I spied a sign that led me to another new-to-me park.

Yes.

Goat Skeleton Park:

My, my . . .

It is a small park half-hidden in the half-hidden underbelly of downtown. My understanding is that it is named after the many long-ago deceased goats that used to inhabit this island. Goats that the ancient Eye-Nye-Hab race used to tend and survive off of, who put them to use for milk and cheese and undergarments and, eventually, meat on the spit.

That is until the current race of corporatists came and systematically slaughtered all the goats, making room for the many many soybean, corn and rutabaga fields.

What can one say about Goat Skeleton Park?

Well, it has the proper display of drainage:

(Look at those pipes! What rapture!)

(Here, a diving board! Jump into the drainage, dear fellow. Enjoy! . . . Or, possibly, this is where they made the goats walk the plank to their carnivorous deaths.)

(Ah. Truncated nature doing its best to reclaim what Islanders have wrought.)

The park also has flowers:

And fences:

And shrubs surrounded by chopped and mutilated shrubs:

True.

What I think is not true--or at least, perhaps, curious--is that there are no goat skeletons. And why is that? Because, I believe, this is not where the goats were murdered. Excuse me, eradicated. I mean, harvested for their own good . . .

Yes, because everyone knows--well, what you can know in this mind-controlled, thought-regulated, informationless cesspool of a place--is that the goats were rounded up and herded and trucked and railroaded down to what is now known as the town of Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer.

That is where the goats were killed and where the many tract houses and strip malls and straight-curbed roads were constructed atop the littered bones and blood of the once native goats.

(And, quite likely, upon the bones and blood of the slaughtered Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs!)

So I think Goat Skeleton Park, in all its shabby and trivial banal beauty, is really but a distraction. A false flag. An erasure of what even a portion of the witless locals know to be really true. It should be named Diversion Park, perhaps.

Oh well. Someday I will be gone from this wretched isle--whether on my own secret volition and locomotion, or by the will of the powers that control me, or in a pine box or urn. That remains to be seen. But I will be gone and then such issues as wrong names and false history or lack of history will no longer compel me to write stuff like I am writing right now. This very sentence . . . Perhaps, in the end, sanity will prevail. At least, one hopes, where my individual brain is concerned . . .

Look!

A roundish object:

And a tunnel:

 (Of sorts.)


And what a view of downtown Soybean Island City:

And such a vista wouldn't be complete without a spy tower:

Yes, The Apparatus is alive and well . . .


This is all I have to report. Oneninefiveseven, over and done with:


Goodbye from Soybean Island