Bellobruto In Winter

Yes. I have come back to the Lake:

Lake Bellobruto, that is:

In all its inglorious non-glory.

Yes, not only is winter a disappointment, what with its sunshine and mild temperatures and forgiving lack of cruelty, but I am a disappointment as well, as I have succumbed to a walk around this disturbingly banal body of water.

At least it had some ice:

And some sticks trapped in ice:





And this:




Some type of ice hammer . . .

Ah, but I digress, or depress.

What worries me is that I turn to this non-lake lake, this pedestrian pond, to walk its circumference and cogitate upon my fate, or lack of fate. And I do this with a peck of admiration for what I see. This is what now frightens me. It's as if I have become inured to this place, this island, these people, this prison and its invisible all-seeing overlords. Egad! I am like a yokel. I come here and am pacified.

If only it were truly winter--mean, frozen, hard, sanitary in its blind rigid iciness. Then I would not be walking, be out and about to a place like Lake Bellobruto . . . Yet, since I was, I did take a few more photos:





Nice. Circular. Almost cold.

And then there were the birds:




These were crows. Crows who stood upon the ice and poked little holes into it with their beaks. Then they got out fishing poles and worms and coolers with bad American beer and listened to American football playoffs as they fished, warming their wings in their crotches now and then.

Ah.

Other birds:

















Well, the same birds gathered around an ice hole. Standing around dumbfounded by life here on Lake Bellobruto much like the local denizens are dumbfounded by life here on Soybean Island . . . Or, at least like me.


These dirty and controlled waters brought, no took, me back to my sailing days. Yes. Days (and nights) of vast freedom upon vast waters, full of wind and worries about wind and worrying tides and depths and food and fresh water and pirates and, well, many worries about weather and leaks and ripped sails and de-mastings--but they were carefree days. Yes. Carefree. And one was always looking for the Green Flash. That mythical whomp of color at sunset when the earth made its turn toward night and the ocean's surface and the very sky would explode into a great green laser-treasure of verdant light . . . Except for the fact that it never did. Ever.

But, lo and behold, what did I see in this measly and mealy little tub of water?

This:














Soybean Island's Green Flash!

Wow.

Wow and Wondrous!

Moving on . . .


I also saw this: Or, these:



Murdered tree.




Evidence of a bad winter--sprout growing upon the face of a murdered tree.





A spy silo--full of the remains of murdered trees, no doubt.



Well.


What else?


?


This:






And there you have it.

Lake Bellobruto in Winter.






Goodbye from Soybean Island

Wither Winter Weather

Certainly I wish I had something more profound--or even entertaining--to write about other than the weather. Other than the winter. However I will say, about winter, this:

How disappointing.







Where, I ask, are my deep snows?

My bleak gray skies?

Where are my sub zeros? My sterile frozen black-iced nights and days? The calcite snows and stolid-iced walks?


Yes, there has been some snow:





Yet, it was but a small amount and did not last a day or two, let alone six months or more.


Here are some shots from Ark Ark Park:















Bleak? But of course, this is Soybean Island. Bleakness is par for the course and of course golf courses are but a symptom of its bleakness. I am, of course of course, never allowed to get near a golf course, if the powers-that-be can help it. Not that I'd want to be--a powers-that-be or near a golf course.

But it is not the correct bleak. Not the black hopeless heavy iron stone cloud bleak of desperation, a desperation where hope is finally let go of and buried and forgotten, not to be thought about again (at least until May) so that you are relieved of even a slim hope for hopefulness and thus can delve deep deep deep into your own blackness and insanity and become the independent-minded, single-minded, no-minded fool you already knew you were, lost lost lost in the obsidian-cold climate of your own soul with not a care in the world!

Ahhhhh . . .


But, no. Not so far. Only a small snow and some salaciously grey days and temporary low temps that do not even reach the teens, let alone zeros, let alone the desired well-below-zero.

Argh . . .











Oh yes:

The New Year is here.

Solar calendar and solstice and all that.

Whoopie . . .

And, I am still here
In the New Year
sans beer
or cerveza
unable to live in the guacamole of my mind


Oneninefiveseven:

Adios, Arrivederci, Au Revoir, Do Widzenia, et al, from Soybean Island