Myth, Art, Future

I still find time to wander. I have time to wander. I have time and I wander. Much like this paragraph, things are repetitious.

So, I try to find the public artwork here on the island:





even if it is not truly "public", nor exactly "art":





but rather a diversion and an attempt to block thoughts of the future.





There is no past, there is no future. But there is not some ersatz Zen Culture here on Soybean Island. No. More like a daily willful ignorance. Yet I, yes I, me, do have a past and tell myself (convincingly or nay) that I have a future:




Anyway: Art, Future.

Now: Myth.

I have heard tell that there is another town on the island. Yes. On the far reaches of the eastern shore--well, not on the shore--is a place called Dustmitetown.

In my official capacity as Director of Directions for the City of Cornana, I have heard reference to Dustmitetown and have seen references to Dustmitetown written in invisible ink.

Much like how I found proof of Stalag Ranville's existence, I am thinking of looking for the existence of Dustmitetown. We shall see.

At least it will be a break from the circular repetition of my daily draining existence.

Perhaps I can find a leafy place to sit?





Like a wallflower?




Beside the statue of a starving dog?






Oneninefiveseven:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Captivity

Yes.



This is the view from my "office" as Director of Directions for the City of Cornana. As you can see, it has a nice view of the petite and stagnant Rutabaga River. The chain fencing is also a bonus, in the blind-eyes of the locals. Fencing, closure, sharp metallic objects are all valued here.





As far as my own captivity goes, it is still the psychological comic nightmare as always. As any reader of this exposé-journalism/cry-for-help blog knows, I am trapped like a pet kinkajou in some surrealistic cage within the bedroom of a sadistic child. A bedroom also surrealistic. But as any reader of this knows, I have no readers. None. Zero. Nada + Zilch = Nyet!








But, though unfashionable upon this isle, I have hope. A small rusted peephole of hope, but hopey hope nonetheless. Yes. Because, as Director of Directions (and as a secret double agent for The Apparatus against the rebellious Eye-Nye-Hab descendants), I now have access to formerly inaccessible places and documents and the official passes of the local officialdom.

But, as you can see below, even the seating in my office shouts "Captivity!":



As does the architecture above outside:



But I have plans. I have ideas. I have you, Dear Non-Reader, to lighten my mindless load and help me to continue, to hold dear, my dream of escape.

I mean, even blocks of wood are treated poorly here:

Visit Soybean Island

Yes! They are caged for cage-ings' sake!

By golly.

Yet. Yet . . .

There are still signs of escape:



A subdued "Hooray" is in order.

So, I have not abandoned my dreams. I still dream. I still sleep the sleep of a prisoner. There is and will be a way out:



And I will find it.

Oneninefiveseven over and not yet out.


Goodbye from Soybean Island

The Many Colors

Yes, Fall has fallen upon the island. It fell quickly yet colorfully, even if it is all but a temporal illusion.









Illusion is a word not used here, yet nonetheless is well understood, here on Soybean Island. Life, as it were, is a permanent illusion to the locals, those who willfully imbibe in the innate propaganda that defines the community. As it were.

But, colors!









Of course, Dear Non-Reader, my intrepid self is not fooled. Or, I am a fool not to be fooled. Yes, for a while I had been properly subjugated, subsumed and sublimated, reeducated into a Stockholm Syndrome existence. And, was that preferable? Is ignorance truly bliss?

I do not know.

Ask your goldfish in its bowl.

Again: Colors!

Visit Soybean Island

Of course, besides illusion and boredom, one must have:



Little plastic flags!

(Also in colors!)

(And Good Drainage—but I believe you've seen enough drainage photos for a while.)

Yet, as I wandered Dry Cleaner Park among all the dying beauty, well dormant-ing, I did find a kindred spirit among the arbors:




Sad little drooping tree. Sad sad sad.

But:



COLORS!

(And



ducks.)

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Bellobruto Return

Although I now have housing in Cornana—The Apparatus approved housing, that is—I am still able to make it back to Soybean Island City now and then. And when I do, I still wander my way to Lake Bellobruto.



Why, exactly, is a different question.

No doubt left over from my Stockholm Syndrome affliction, this affection for an oblong oval of dirty water is strange. But then again, what is not strange in this place?





But for whatever reason, I find a certain placidity or comfort or level of acceptable revulsion when I visit beautiful Lake Bellobruto. Anyway, there are still discoveries to be made and perhaps that is why I return.

Or, because I'm sad and lonely.

Anyway: What's this?



Some type of pointless wooden post rating system? If so, this one did not even score one point!

And this?



Ah. Now that I am a member of the Trustee Class, I can recognize the needs of the Prisoner Class. Sympathies.

And here?





Yes, trees continue to be mutilated and massacred here on the island. Alas.

And then there were these:








Odd, skid like markings in the asphalt. Perhaps represenational artworks? Modern day mini-sized semi-geoglyphic markings (alá the Nazca Lines in a very imaginary and inconsistent manner) made by the infamous Eye-Nye-Habs?

Could this be? And if so, why?

But really—knowing the Eye-Nye-Hab descendants—Why not?

Indeed.

And there you have it. Boredom as a way of life, as the pinnacle of existence here on Soybean Island.

1 9 5 7, over and out,

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Dry Cleaner Park

Tra-la-la.

My oversight has been lessened as has my workload as Director of Directions for the City of Cornana. Honestly, I was never given a workload. My "job", my "position" is but a fabrication on the part of The Apparatus and my only "job" "is" to keep track of the rebellious Anti-Snailians.

But perhaps I have already said as much in a previous post?

"?"

Yes.

So, with my newfound modicum of freedom (which isn't free), I have renewed my old habit of visiting parks. (All the while exposing the injustice and upsidedownassbackwardshadowplay of this corporate-controlled authoritarian isle.) And in Cornana there is a park I have not been to before:

Dry Cleaner Park!




I confess I do not know why it is called Dry Cleaner Park. There is no history on this island—No History Allowed!—so I can not discover the park's source name. I do not see a dry cleaner around and can only assume that "dry cleaner" is also a local idiom or euphemism, no doubt to explain something adroitly insidious.

Such as this:





Perhaps these tubes—passed off as "artwork" "!"—are "dry cleaning" ducts used to "dry clean" the many bones of goats or even the Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs! One never knows. Seriously, on Soybean Island, one indeed never knows.




Ah! The above is some stenciled fossil account of either a soybean or cornstalk or rutabaga sapling, well, not sapling but you get the poetic license-like idea. I do not know if it has been put there by the Local Betterment Council, or by the Anti-Snailians as a warning or if it was simply by natural chance in an unnatural place. As Director of Directions, I am sometimes contacted by the Local Betterment Council whose job seems not about Betterment but about keeping tabs on Trustees like me.

Ahem.

Back to Dry Cleaner Park:

 I apologize for the jumble. But what I do want to say, and to know: Just what goes on behind those fir trees?!!!  "!".

But, being what this place is, examples of good drainage are on display in Dry Cleaner Park":

Visit Soybean Island

Lovely and Amazing!


But before I sign off, let me once again give you a look at the innocuous horror that is life on Soybean Island:










So, do not be sucked in by its seeming facade of boring bucolic-ness.

No.


Oneninefiveseven,

Goodbye from Soybean Island