Life In The Land of Non-Existence

Or is it Anti-Existence?

I am a ghost, I suppose. I am seen and heard and facial-recognitioned, yet I also do not exist.

I am a street dog.

A street dog in streets like these:





My disrupted life blockaded from meaningful interaction and purpose.

I live in a cone of silence and despair.

No. Not a cone, but many cones:




Cones, barriers, orangey-stripy things that impinge my freedom and visually impair--no, imply--the utter vacuousness of this society. This dreary landscape of dreariness, so much so that even the use of vocabulary is repetitive and dreary.

A lexicon of mush.

A single orange ball that is not the sun:



Fenced sunlight.


Complain complain complain

It is both an occupation and a hazard.


I would hazard to guess that I need a jolt:




Some refined electroshock therapy that does not exist here

or there

or anywhere.

No, I can only rely upon myself to save myself.

And I'm not that reliable . . .


Look at this landscape:








What subtle non-beauty.

Simply sublime in its abject stupidity.

Simply simple.

How could one not be enchanted by this--not.


I have previously compared myself to the poor and much maligned trees that grow here on this wicked island:





Right now they are such bare creatures. Forlorn. Sad and tragic in their emptiness under an empty sky amongst the empty landscape.

Empty Empty sat on a wall . . .

I feel much akin with them.


I must warn and apologize for the next photos. This is a trigger warning for those of you who have use for such things or, simply, have triggers. Or ticks. Bedbugs . . . What you are about to see is not pretty, but I feel that some level of journalistic integrity forces me to post them.

Here they are:







Pathos. Empathy. Horror. Arboreal tragedy.

Yes. I witnessed this with my own eyeballs.

It is a tree--nay, a portion of a tree--reaching out and crying out for its fallen comrade!

Or perhaps the action of a child-tree, desperately flailing in inconsolable grief over the death of its murdered parent log!

Or is it a confused and hapless branch trying to find its own lopped-off head?!

The Horror. The Horror.


The War On Trees continues upon this cultivated uncultured isle.


I apologize once again for showing the above photos, but you in the outside world need to know what goes on in this inside-out world.



This is all I have to report at this time.

It is all I can report.

There is no more.


Oneninefiveseven:


Goodbye from Soybean Island

An Abstract

Strange developments here upon this strange isle.

I have been contacted by the Anti-Snailians once again, that is, by the descendants of the Eye-Nye-Hab Ancients who used to live and die upon this island until they pretty much only died . . . Anyway:





What they told me is that I should be ready for action soon.

Now, by "soon" I do not know if that means within the hour or within my lifetime. For the Anti-Snailians, time is different than it is to the average Snailian (Soybean Islander), just as it is different to me--of the Prisoner Class.




I am also uncertain what they mean by "ready for action". Or, even by "ready", let alone what "action" they may propose.

Well, I can guess what action: Revolution!

But how and even more how they will attempt to accomplish this is beyond me. Will it be protest? Violence? Subterfuge? A strongly worded letter? Or, so far, their usual route which is obscure graffiti . . . If they are counting on the likes of me for success, well, good luck.





I do not feel a particular kinship with these people, though I do prefer them to The Apparatus. What it is they expect of me remains opaque at best. I do not quite trust their plans, if not their intentions.

Really, I remain in utter isolation--a creature devoting itself to existence and time-killed--surviving by feasting upon the fruits and alliances within the realm of my own mind. My only true companion is you, Dear Non-Reader. Only to you do I confess my lowly life and dreary thoughts and trivial experiences. I confess to you, Dear Non-Reader.

And you do not confess to me.






So it goes. Or does not go.

Yet, I will confess this: by associating with the Anti-Snailians and by having an intimate knowledge of The Apparatus and life upon this rotten isle, I may be able to work it to my advantage. Because that is all I seek, at this moment in my life: my advantage. Which, not even loosely, translates into: My escape!


#1957 over and out.

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Good Drainage Fever

Yes, I was wandering in Park Leftover Park a while back and couldn't help from admiring the drainage:




No, there's nothing quite like a series of drainage photos to brighten the faces and lift the hearts of the local populace:




I, for one, have yet to catch Good Drainage Fever, but believe that I at least have some understanding of it and the joy it brings:




In a free world, or I should say, if Soybean Island was a free world, no doubt there would be Nice Drainage T-shirts and Good Drainage outlet stores and Fab Drainage candidates in local elections.

Alas (or thank goodness), there is nothing of the sort. There are only nice views of nice drainage that must be visited in person:




And enjoyed thusly:




Yes. Park Leftover Park: A fine place to view drainage. With the advent of Spring comes Good Drainage Fever, an affliction that captures the hearts of the locals, young and old alike.




Adios, Drainage Aficionados!


#1957 over and out--

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Some Recent Sightings

March. Thoughts of Spring. Despicable Spring. The end of cold, snow, ice: how sad. But, alas, what can one do? I am not Superman (to make an American reference), I cannot spin the earth backwards or travel to Arctic climes or to South America where winter is on the rise. (Perhaps I am in South America and I have my calendar wrong? I do not know if this may not be true or not, or yes.) I am not even the proverbial Clark Kent. My parents did not name me Clark or Kent, I can assure you. I am, for all practical purposes, now only Oneninefiveseven.

Sorry. Anyway. Here are some of my recent sightings while doing my job as An Object of Curiosity:




I do not know what the above is, exactly. But it had a rather UFO-ish quality to it. So, it makes for a good sighting. I spied it in a shop window--a shop, like all shops--where I am not allowed to enter, let alone shop. Not that I'd want to shop. Not that I have the means to shop. But, simply, I would not be allowed, am not allowed, to enter such shops.

Moving on . . .



This was taken at night. I am allowed out into the night--so far, at least. I am uncertain what this is as well--some attempt at squiggly-ness. A physical doodle set out among the common banal trash-heap that is Soybean Island City. Or, perhaps, a Yellow Ghost with His Hands Up? I do not know. And would not care, except that it is my job to find such careless things.

Mas:




Shadows and Light; Light and Shadows: a Chiaroscuro.

A chiaroscuro of what, is another question. It makes little difference, to me in my daily existence, and even less to you--Dear Non-reader--in yours. But, it can be seen, it can be photographed, it can be posted, it can be ignored. Therefore, it exists.

Meer:

Here are some very odd items I discovered in an old part of town--







I have no to little conception what these (I assume) artworks are doing on Soybean Island. To the locals, they must be fantastical creatures in mythical settings. There is no knowledge of animals beyond snails, toads, deer, fox, goats, cows, horses, dogs, cats, mice, hamsters, ants, bees, roaches and a smattering of common birds here on the island. Exoticism is a squirrel.

So, I find this very curious. Yet, not curious enough to say anything more.


Perissotero:

And finally, a plastic plant--





Thank you and Goodnight.


Goodbye from Soybean Island