The Un-Nitty Gritty of Soybean Island City

I have not posted in a while. Forgive me. Though I cannot forgive myself: each time I do not post is but a failure in the lottery-like-chance I have in communicating with the Free World and thusly escaping this island of the damned.

Ah.

But I must say I am always fearful that The Apparatus will find me out, so I must be duly careful in how often I communicate. And how boldly.

BOLDLY?
Or deftly?

Judge for yourself . . .

Anyway and whatever and so on and forth and forthwith--here is a post concerning the not so bland and potentially-attractive side of the big city on Soybean Island. Yes, a bit of the gritty underbelly of SIC (Soybean Island City):

Yet, what does one expect from a Prisoners Island? Wine and roses and bunnies? . . . Well, they do have those here. But that is not what concerns us for this misbegotten posting. That last photo--the barred window--is very familiar to me. It could be my window if I am ever discovered by The Apparatus.

Onward:

Yes!

And while I can show you the plant waste, what I cannot and dare not depict is the human waste upon this island, within this city. To be honest, as of now I cannot discern the difference between the relatively happy local population and that of the captured prisoner class (like myself). Complacency and blind acceptance of authority looks a lot like the frightened existence and despondence of those who know better. (Look no further than North Korea if you believe me not.)

Let us continue:

As much as I dislike revealing such images of machinery and control, I believe it is important for me to document what this place is like and--to the best of my limited ability--what is going on here. What is left of my freedom--perhaps what is left of my life--is on the line here. Yet, I most soldier on:

The desire to display bent posts and sticks with orange ribbons is almost as strong as the seeming need to display dead plants here in Soybean Island City.

Attention:

Stairway to Heaven?

Hardly.

Stairway to Deathtrap is more likely . . .

But, even I cannot leave you with such disillusioning images. I must at least offer a glimmer of what The Apparatus would prefer you to see, here on their hidden island. So, without further ado:

I suppose those look like bunnies to the untrained eye, but I believe they are long-eared snails--a subspecies of the Soybean Island Snail (aka: Bean Snail, Transcendental Snail, Fighting Snail).

So. There you have it. Of course, there is no you, is there? There is no hopeful English-reading soul out there who can view this blog and can act upon the shocking information I have revealed and documented and sprung forth into the Internets World, is there? . . . Alas. There is no you. There is only me.

So, to me, until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957

City, Country, Soybean Summer

Ah. Summer has finally arrived on the island . . . One Nine Five Seven here, reporting for reporting duties.

And while the beginning of summer is evident out in The Homesteads:

The city--Soybean Island City, to be exactly exact--shows evermore signs of depressing control and repression among the warm temps and sunshine:

Yes. Though the local denizens, secure in their ignorance, in their false sense of freedom and free will, are quite happy with the advent of summer, they choose to ignore what can readily be seen right in front of their myopic faces.

Whatever do I mean?

Take a look:

Sandbags. Ugly fencing. Bare bones urbanity . . . And look at that last photo: Fencing trapped within fencing. That in itself sums up the mindset of Soybean Island and The Apparatus.

What? You'd like more proof?

Here:

What do you see? Why it's fencing-like tables and chairs behind fencing-like fencing, that's what. You may eat outdoors but you must be fenced in--prisonerishlike--and be controlled. Yes. It isn't even very subtle, is it . . . This is how I live, day in and out, with only an illusory illusion of free will. Yes.

Even the local statuary has an abstract fence-like, prisonerishlike look to it:

Wow. Just, Wow!


Meanwhile, out in The Homesteads, things are much greener and much opener:

But do not be fooled. Despite the blooming of the soybean fields and corn fields and rutabaga fields, it is still all the same. Nada Nada Nada.

More Nada:

Yes yes yes, in the middle photo you can spy a communication tower belonging to The Apparatus. (Shiver shiver shiver!)

And so, the final Nadas of this post . . .

City Nada:

Country Nada:

And thus, in the spirit of this spiritless nothingness, I say--

Until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957

Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer

Well. I suppose it has been long enough, that is, enough time has passed since my last post--a truncated one initially concerned about Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer--and since The Apparatus did not come knocking on my door in the middle of the night I feel elusively comfortable enough to post a real look at that dubiously well-heeled little town south of Soybean island City.

Here, in all its infamous glory, is Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer:

Quite the boring place--am I right or am I right?

Here is what constitutes downtown for the little town:

If you think this looks a lot like a country club--that is, an American version--and is as green as a golf course, then BINGO! You would be correct . . .

Of course, the name of the town is quite odd. It is also convoluted enough that I don't even care to repeat it that often in this post. But suffice it to say that--to the best of my understanding--the island that is Soybean Island at one time was overrun by goats. They were more numerous than the people, that is, the aboriginals who inhabited this forbidding jot of land in the ocean (an ocean, I once again remind you, that I have never seen, am unable to see, am forbidden to see as a member of the Prisoner Class, the Exile Class, the Renditioned Class of the Disappeared), a tribe of people who have disappeared much like the goats . . .

The goats were slaughtered here--or rather, there--in Ste Abattoir des Chevers Pres de la Mer. Perhaps the natives were slaughtered as well? Yes. Perhaps indeed . . .

So, we are left with the grandeur of what it is now--and I mean that in a very deprecating way:

To paraphrase a deceased American writer: "There is no there there" there.

And an English writer:

"More please":

My. How pleasant.

And pleasanter still?:

I have no idea.

Look!

                                                 See the Snails!

                                                       Smell the Flowers!
                                                     Visit Soybean Island



Ah. Such a tapestry of beauty and function and mowed grass and plants and mollusky gastropods and middling existence! What more can be seen in such a place as Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer?

This, I guess:

And even here, here is a tree who has misbehaved and put in shackles:

But we will have none of that. No. Let's look at this pointless repetitious and roundabout photo:

There. Now I feel better. And I have no plans to return to Ste Abattoir des Cheveres Pres de la Mer.

That is all I have to report. So, until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957