Art in the Heart of Cornana

So I continue with my march through the dubious artwork set out in nominally public space here on this island. I do so due to a lack of anything else to do and by mandate that I be An Object of Curiosity (by order of The Apparatus) and that I continue with the charade of my life (by order of the Anti-Snailian radicals, the Eye-Nye-Hab descendants).

I really should not use the term heart when writing about any town or section or region of this island. No, I would not connote that organ most associated with willpower, devotion, fortitude and love with anything on or in this dastardly land. I'd say Soybean Island is more of a lower-intestine kind of place . . . But what's a lonely prisoner to do?


Art!







Animals appear to be a theme among the works in Cornana.








Yes, all of these items and the following are from Cornana, the ostensible capital of Soybean island.

The artwork of this unfine city appears much more benign than the works displayed in Soybean Island City, which is the true hub of horrific life on the island.

Anyway:

Art!








Like me, it is obvious that these subjects have not had a decent meal in quite some time. Years perhaps. Like me . . . But they are still racing off somewhere, perhaps to a garbage bin, or to their deaths. One does not know.

Here's some interesting stuff:






Well. Maybe not that interesting. But at least there is some cold sunlight throwing cold shadows upon these cold works.

And then there was this! Or, rather, these!



Wow. And more Wow. Wowwowwow.

I don't think I need to say more than that, except maybe one more wowwow.

Though I do wish I could read the scrollwork of the first entry--a rather dyslexic piece.


Okay. Time to finish this post up. So, for my final entry into this pointless exercise, I offer this:





A blank. A work of blank. Meditations of Blank in Wood.

Nice. Nice. No wow, but nice. My favorite.

Unless you consider this. I promise it is the final entry. A lagniappe, if you will.



Rather circular in its illogic.

That's it.

I think I am done with my study of artwork here, at least until Spring. I must savor the cold dark heartless winter first.

Oneninefiveseven--Goodbye from Soybean Island

Clowns, Snails, and Perhaps A Toad

May I introduce the Elite of The Elites who run Soybean Island:

















Hah. Who would know if these are the actual Elite of the Elites . . . I certainly would not.

Though it could be this:



Though most likely--in all reality, which is a large sum of reality--it is not.


No, winter is now upon us. Upon me. Upon this wretched little island. And once again, my own sanity is in question.

Yes.

Reality? Sanity?

One may ask if I am sane. I would not blame you. Has this island driven me so? Or was I not sane to begin with?

It is okay to ask such questions. Fine and dandy. But if you too were brought here despite your wishes, against your will, and lived here, breathing the agricultural and incarcerated atmosphere, here, then I hypothesize that you too would question your own sanity. And the sanity of all who live here. And reality, to boot.

Speaking of boots--here is a snail:



Soybean Island Snail. Fighting Snail. Transcendental Snail.

Are here is a workshop rendition of said snail(s):



A second rendition:




Art!


And speaking of snails fashioned out of hardware, here is a toad:




Hah! And they call me insane!

Yes, yes. Are there really Snailians and Eye-Nye-Habs and Elites and Prisoners and The Apparatus? Do you--dear non-reader--doubt any of it? Does it matter? Should it matter, if you are living in the free world and have a roof over your head and food in your cabinets and can rely on a modicum of justice? Hmm? And will I run out of question marks?

Well, this is where I am. All questions are but moot points. I am a moot point--one of billions of points in a sea of moots.

And winter is just beginning . . .


Goodbye from Soybean Island