The War On Trees: Lagniappe

This is an addendum.

An Update.

Postscript.

Add-on, extra, feature, bug, run-on and on and on . . .

But for those of you who still refuse to believe that The War On Trees is real, I can only offer you this:




(Or these, as the case may be.)
























There.

I held back these photos due to their shocking and brutal nature. Yet, as a crazed and professional investigative journalist (and prisoner), I felt it my duty to reveal them. I like it no better than you Dear Non-Reader, who is no one--or only me. But such is Soybean Island.




And: Goodbye from Soybean Island

The War On Trees: Epilogue

So now you know about Abused Woods Park. The information and images have been broadcast out into the world. To be seen. Dissembled. Consumed. Ignored. Nothing done.

Alas.

But there is more, was more. And I want to finish this report by showing more. A somewhat strange more. For within the crowded and captive trees--unhappy trees, hopeless trees--were little signboards. Signs with upbeat, pretend information upon them. Pretend pictures of things and events and creatures that, in reality, have nothing to do with Abused Woods Park.

What am I talking about? (Always a good question.)

This:






















That is what I'm talking (writing, really) about!


Yes, the need for the facade of normality, for false-purpose, be it education or art-appreciation or even economic necessity, The Apparatus (and Soybean Island itself) work hard to keep up appearances and supply that propagandic need which serves and exists wholly unto themselves.

Look:















Yes. Animals. Birds in particular. Yet, they are but photos of birds. Inside the "park", within the silently screaming woods, no such animals exist. (Except perhaps that last creature, which I believe to be a mosquito larvae.)

And of course, there must also be the possibility for disaster. The need for fear. The warning of flames:





The Apparatus must always keep you on your toes. The World is a dangerous place and one should not look too far beyond one's nose. Keep your mind on tacos and good drainage and the new flavor of hop-infused beer.

And rutabagas. Never forget the rutabagas.


And I have one final image (well, final is always a questionable term where I am concerned) to show you, Dear Mythic Reader.

Take a gander at this!:





My my. I could only see this from afar and used my special zoomiest lens to capture the image. An image that in normal days (nay, there are no normal days on Soybean Island) would be hidden by the cover of trees. Yes, trees. Trees enforced with forced labor to hide the nefarious works of the Tree Executioners who labor day and night to extinguish these noble plantish creatures.

Because the above, I believe and trust my own intuition, is a construct of the elaborate chutes and sawtooth blades used to dissemble the trees into "useful" parts. To make the death of trees into something that can be Monetized. Optimized. Compartmentalized.

Such is the World.


And that ends this long-form look at The War On Trees.


Goodbye from Soybean Island

The War On Trees: Part Three

Onward we go, Dear Non-Reader, Hypothetical Reader, Mythical Reader. On to the next selective section of this long look at Abused Woods Park.

And perhaps, if we are lucky, a conclusive statement about the whole ordeal.

Yes.

Now, within this monstrous park are the many non-monstrous trees. All gathered together in one shape or form or abusivity. But there are, as one would expect or at least suspect in a place like Soybean Island run by The Apparatus, there are also manmade items to be seen and contemplated upon:




Indeed. A bench. A bench made of wood. So that one could sit under the living trees upon a dead tree object and view the damage made to trees:




Below: another wooden bench.




Wow . . . A sad wow.



And of course, how could there not be more rusty rustic drainage?




Yes, a hearty drainage for sure!


Plastic ribbons and pointless posts?

But of course:











A post and a ribbon together?





Or is that just a splash of blue for art's sake?

No use in over thinking it.

No.

But let's see what else has been tossed into the mix of these trees gathered into this single-use space, this camp, this relocation center:





Steps. Steps to a tree. The better to reach up and kill it?






Unwanted detritus:




The slag heap of what cannot be consumed: let the prisoner trees have it!





Another sad wow . . .


But here I show you now what perhaps best represents my final conclusion of what Abused Woods Park really is and why it is a case study on this island's War On Trees:








Yes! Caged trees! Bound trees! Metal posts and wire fences put there to control and impede and undo the liberty of trees!

Because Abused Woods park is indeed a camp. A Concentration Camp for Trees!

How sad and inglorious and insignificant and incomparable compared to other such camps yet also one of astounding cruelty and craziness.

Right here on Soybean Island, humped upon the back of Cornana the Capital City!


Amazing. Amazing. And not very refreshing.

No.


Well, that concludes Part Three of Three Parts. But stay tuned, Mythic Reader. Stay tuned.



Oneninefiveseven over and out, yet not yet done--



Goodbye from Soybean Island

The War On Trees: Intermission

I think that you, like me, need a short break. A breather. A moment to ourselves in order to digest what I have posted so far about Abused Woods Park.

Or, maybe you'd like to look at a few more-artful photos in between the onslaught of sad and horrifying pictures that my long-form journalistic professionalism demands that I show you, Dear Non-Reader, before we move on to Part Three.

Well, either way, here they are:


































Yes.

Indeedy.

Even in or among or with or despite of a place like Abused Woods Park, one can find a certain malcontent beauty to the world. Yes, even a prisoner likes to hear a bird song, even a psychiatrist enjoys a comic book, the bureaucrat a Sloppy Joe, the politician a prostitute. Yes, even the executioner sits down for a beer.

Or some such . . .

Okay. That's it for a break. I shall return to the next chapter of this overexposure of how the trees live (and die) upon Soybean Island. Very soon.


Goodbye from Soybean Island

The War On Trees: Part Two

Ah, Dear Non-Reader, you may be asking yourself--"Yes, I see what you see, but where is the evidence of systemic harm that would entail the use of a word like war?" Or, you may not be.

Nonetheless, in Part Two of my Up Close and Personally Impersonal look at Abused Woods Park and The War On Trees, I will answer that hypothetical question to you, my Hypothetical Reader:











Yes.

Hopefully we can put that to rest and to bed and all agree that The Apparatus is running some kind of horrific camp here that shows a violent bias against trees. (And wood in general.)

I don't quite yet want to reveal my conclusion about Abused Woods Park. Not quite yet. But it won't be quite long before I do--no doubt in Part Three--as any journalist of long-form reporting knows, I need to string you along before I get to my actual point on the whole matter.


Anyway, more:











Ravaged and ruined and forced labored!









All true. All too true. All tree true too!

Need yet more evidence?

Evidently so:





Feast your eyes on that!

A mutilated section of tree left blithely out in the open, surrounded by sawdust. Sawdust which is akin to blood to a tree.

More:




Indeed. Sawdust pooled yellow and golden upon the littered earth with the thin sticks of a former life almost hemming it in in a gruesome artistic display of wanton death.


And this is fresh!

Fresh, I tell you!

But lest you think this has not been going on for quite some time, I will show you my next photo as proof that this as old as the slaughter and elimination of goats upon Soybean Island.


Look:






I'm sorry to have to post the above picture, but this is what real journalists do. Yes.



Okay. That is enough. I have yet more to show, to reveal, to expose and inform.


And I shall . . .



Oneninefiveseven, over and out:

Goodbye from Soybean Island