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