Cracked Rib Park

Yes, yet another new park to explore in this deplorable wasteland. I am quite surprised that I did not know of this park, as it is rather large and empty, bleak and depressing--just my kind of place!

Yet, there it was, on the far northeast side of Cornana: Cracked Rib Park:







As you, Dear Mythical Non-Reader, can see by my insightful photos, there are a number of simulated and synthesized opened-up ribs on display in Cracked Ribs Park. I'm putting this down to the fact that this site was no doubt where the early Soybean Island invader/colonizer/settlers came to feast upon the roasted ribs of the many native (and now extinct) goats that once roamed freely upon this currently-unfree island.

Yes.

But, as always, there is more to discover, no matter how oblique and bland that discovery may be:



Along with depictions of extinct edible animal ribs, this park also seems obsessed with defunct transportation as well.





All stylized and immobile and half-sunk and in disrepair: lovely!





It is always enjoyable to see 3D depictions of things that no longer work and are mired into the fertile soil of a prisoner island.

Indeed.

What else?

This else:




I am afraid that I have no snappy or pertinent observations for the above photograph. I can only assume that these brightly painted objects are some form of information-gathering spy machines run by The Apparatus. My guess is that there are not only 24hr cameras at work here, but also devices that record ones weight and height and body temperature should you sit upon these childlike things, these gaudy items that would certainly attract not just children but certainly the adults of Soybean Island--like mini-casinos without the bells and whistles and mirrors and bars and manufactured-psuedo-sophistication and WayneNewtonish/Cirqueish-du-Soleilish/CelineDionish entertainers and clanging false-jackpots and loss of great wads of money. Like that, sort of.

I kept a wide berth.

And this:



Plastic rocks . . .



Plastic rocks with the ever-popular and ubiquitous metal bars.

Why?

I do not know. And, really, yet I do.



Also, some murdered-tree logs. Just for good measure.


And lest we forget, more of the cracked-open ribs motif:





Nice!


But as I said, it is a large park. So let us wander and mosey and un-gallavant over to another side of this greenspace among the wastedspace that is Soybean Island:




Not just a bridge to nowhere, but a bridge from nowhere, and, as unlikely as it seems (not) above nowhere. Or from, to and above nothing--your preference.




Here we have yet another young tree being tied and punished and shamed.

There are many versions of Puritan-like stocks and military-like stockades for trees here on the island. For trees and, quite unfortunately, for humans such as myself.

And here are odd, alien, ancient-astronaut, slash-and-burn-farming type markings in the soil:





Or perhaps disturbed-earth, quick-burial plots for, again, people like me: the Prisoner Class?

And, in the vein of multi-use facilities, of course there are mysterious and potentially nefarious buildings within Cracked Rib Park:







Hmmm . . .  I would not want to see these in the middle of the night.

No.

Nor did I really care to see these:







Yes, these great malefic tub-like structures holding who knows what? The bones of goats or cattle, or of humans? Of the Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs or Prisoners-Who-Do-Not-Obey, Who-Do-Not-Succumb to the will of their overlords? Or perhaps the husks of corn and soybeans, the rotten cores of rutabagas? Or maybe they store the great filth and trash of wealthy nations who want to outsource their filth and trash and excrement to such a place as Soybean Island, just as they outsource their unwanted citizens and non-citizens, their poor and mentally ill and politically-opposed, and are willing to pay the itinerant Corporate Masters, the Corporate Slumlords who control this secret island in the middle of a secret sea?

?

I know not.

Do you, Dear Mythical Non-Reader?


Oneninefiveseven, over and out:

Until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Detention Park

It had been a while, so I decided to take my investigative reporting skills down to the town of Ste. Abattoir de Chevres Pres de la Mer.

I have never spent much time in the little burg because there is not much to see--no real artwork, no real centralized downtown, few parks and--to the best of my empirical knowledge--no real people.

Yet what I did find this time was a park--Detention Park, to be specific.

But what I also found--or deduced--was quite shocking and almost devastating to me.

But, let's start with the park, shall we?



Yes, the ever-popular chain link fencing was omnipresent throughout the otherwise boring flat greenery of this park.




But as you see, it is fencing with a view:








Amazing!

Yes, a park-goer may sit within the fencing in order to view and admire the fencing, to contemplate what fencing means and to appreciate the non-artisan low-skilled handiwork of the fencing itself. The feel of being fenced in no doubt brings great comfort to Soybean Islanders.

Yes.

I could attempt to go on and explain this phenomena, but, why?

It is what it is and shall ever be here on Soybean Island.

Here are a few other fascinating tidbits from Detention Park in Ste. Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer:





And:




(Note the cold metallic look to the above items displayed within the park--that reassuring dehumanization and materialisticism; and of course the final above photo with its metal bars--again a symbol of control and capture and protection/incarceration, a reactionary jumble of emotions the locals understand greater than I, except that they don't.)

(Yes.)


But, that was all well and bad enough, but then I began to get an uneasy feeling as I continued my stroll through the park. As I saw and chronicled these trapped young trees:









(Journalism at its best!)

Yes, seeing such trees as the one documented above brought back some familiar feelings--some deep-seated and blocked emotions/memories/non-fictions that made my skin crawl like ants on a rutabaga.

I had the deja-vu-ish feeling that I had been here before. In fact, the feeling of feeling like my feelings had been crushed only a few years ago in a place eerily and simulacrum-ly similar to this very place.

And then as I saw what I next saw, it all became surreally real and my mind flooded with repressed/suppressed/stifled memories. Memories of when I first arrived on Soybean Island, now more than four years ago.

This is what I saw:










Yes, this rather innocuous reddish-blonde-bricked building with few windows was somewhere I had been before. Somewhere where I had been brought to and detained. I do believe it is where they bring the renditioned prisoners--those men and women (like me, yes, me) who for political or social or mysterious reasons have been swept up from their home countries in the dead of night, drugged, housed and then drugged again and put on black flights to black sites such as Soybean Island!

I was in that building!

It was there that I was incarcerated and brainwashed and "rehabilitated" "re-educated" and eventually "released" to be a member of the prisoner tribe who secretly "coexist" with the local population, that is those born to this criminal environment yet who know or purposefully do-not-know any better!

And then I saw this, these devastating structures:







"The Greens", I suddenly recalled their names. Yes. I was placed in "The Greens"--those narrow hot/cold chambers of correctiveness--more than once for lack of compliance, for refusing to become what The Apparatus wanted me to become! It is in such buildings that "the beatings shall continue until morale improves" and whatnot.

Yes.

One must be beaten down and subjugated and told and told and told until one becomes one of the masses and not one who questions what those massive masses truly are. Yes.

I was there. I remember. And I continue to fight, to roll my Sisyphean mental/emotional boulder of non-compliance up hill after hill (and running from it downhill, I should add)! Yessity-Yes!


Ah. I must relax. I must not fall prey to my own overwrought wrought-iron-trapped existence. I have to control my emotions. Re-suppress these memories and continue on in my career as An Object of Curiosity, yes continue, while all the while whiling my way towards freedom/escape/individuality. It shall come. It shall come . . .

Yes.



Oneninefiveseven over and out--Goodbye from Soybean Island

The Dust Merchants

I do not get out much into The Homesteads these days. I am closely watched by The Apparatus and The Anti-Snailians, so one must be discreet.

But I was out there, oh, say, months ago, to see what one will always see out there which is, out there,  the corn and soybean and rutabaga fields. Though what they really deal in is dust:



Certainly, crops are grown and harvested and sold (to whom I know not). But the most tangible output is the dust:



And after the Dust is harvested and put in their Dust Cribs and milled to a fine dusty powder and then moved again to be weighed and priced at the Dust Elevators, the Dust Merchants swoop in.



Men in suits and hats and with corncob pipes in their fine milky teeth who bid on the dust and talk about dust and then purchase the dust and have the dust hauled to their Dust Mercantiles where another set of men come to evaluate and re-purchase said dust.



These are the Corporate Salesmen who will jack up the marked-up price for the dust and ship it to wherever and whoever requires or believe they require this fine Soybean Island Dust.

And then the fields will begin to look like this:



Greenery in perfect rows and neatness that make the denizens and The Apparatus happy. . . . Until late fall, when once again it will be time to harvest another crop of dust before winter sets in.



Goodbye from Soybean Island

Spring Neglected

I have been remiss.

I have not posted my usual Obligatory Seasonal Report; that is, I forgot about Spring.

What with my dark and sad report about The War on trees, my incarceration by The Apparatus and the general diaspora of island life here, I never got around to such a post.

Until now, it seems. And as they say (and by they I mean not me, except of course, for this following exception), better late than never.

So, here are the belated photos I took to document Spring's arrival to Soybean Island:











Wow. Pretty, in a miserable way . . . Yes. What with the sunshine and warm temperatures and extended daylight, it is all quite depressing.

Nonetheless, I offer more:










Do not let the bright colors and blossomy-daffodilish landscape fool you. Do not let it obscure the constant and continual beating-down of one's efforts to not give in to the false "happiness" of this place. Conformity is a must for even a nominal existence on this island and I see it everyday--those who have given up and given in and have given themselves over to the drone behavior that is expected--that is exacted--upon the peoples of this island.

Flowers are but a facade.

Blossoms bull....

Anyway:











Last winter was a huge disappointment. There were few days that were below zero, few nights that were dark and cold and delightfully disheartening. So little snow, only a paltry covering of ice. Ah, I don't even want to think of it.

Now that I am a double agent, I have doubled-down on my plans to escape this island. I don't know how (I mean, if I knew how I would already be gone and you would not be reading this; I would not bother to write this) but I will see what magical manipulations I can conjure out of the agricultural and chemically laden dust to produce the outcome I most cherish.

Yes.

I will.


Oneninefiveseven, over and out and . . .

Goodbye from Soybean Island