Fears Trapped Inside

All my fears trapped inside. Yes. That is who how what where when I feel . . . Fall has come to Soybean Island. A quick and quiet fall quickly descending into winter. Winter is the long season here on this quicklime quixotic quagmire island nation. Winter is the true season, the time that best represents what this place is and, oddly enough, I think I am looking forward to it. That anticipation of bleak light and frozen temps and discomfort is puzzling and it is something I shall have to speculate about within my own mind . . . But now, some obligatory photos (to please The Apparatus):

Fall. Autumn. The Middle Season before The Season of Death. Yes. Just look at the pretty yellow leaves fallen in a circle beneath the tree. Leaves soon to turn brown and mushy and skeletal and to then vanish into the great unknown hellcloud of the unknown.

That was in ARK RK Park near my shabby Apparatus-Approved Apartment in Soybean Island City.

But I also ventured out of town, taking a TV to a newly routed section of The Homesteads where, it was rumored, a woods had been opened up for the shy public of Soybean Island, a place--again rumored--where the Rutabaga River roams free, or as free as anything could be in this repressive little stinkhole.

So yes, I went. And, as usual, I found myself alone. But here is my evidence that this currently unnamed spot does indeed exist:

How they love their grassy-mowed trails on Soybean Island!

But, more:

Yes! Actual semi-stands of trees! Trees in their near-naked glory of deathlike dormancy!

I was delighted--but there was better to come:

A hard trail and some trapped water.

But then, further along . . .

A riverlike river?

Why, yes--more or less a riverish section of the Rutabaga River!

I was astounded and pleased and depressed as always. Still, even in the falling Fall this was quite the discovery, almost as if some remnant of humanity existed in this remnant of nature here on this remnant island.

How good. How good. Among the how everlasting bad.


And then there is the necessary and unfortunate, or unfortunate necessary, return:

The return back to the reality of the unreal world. This ghoulish land I refuse to call home because it is not my home. Is not! Can not! Shall never be, shall always be not:

Soybean Island City revealing its true nature.
Soybean island City showing off yet another spy tower of the gargoyle-ian state run by The Apparatus:

Yes. Back. Again. Still. Sigh. And look!

A touch of snow to welcome and remind and foretell what is to come. Yes. To say: "You are trapped. You are inside. Your fears are your commander!"

Yes.

All my fears trapped inside:

Yours too?


That is all I have to report.
Nineteenfiftyseven over and out and Goodbye from Soybean Island.

What Next?

Indeed.

Whatever is going on here, upon this desolate isle full of insidious pleasantries?

It is an unexplainable existence.

As pointless as these very words I write and that you who do not exist or know that I exist do not read.

A nondescript existence.

That can only make one posit: Why? Why? Why?

I feel I am entering a dark hole. Down down down into the realm of . . . Of what? Of Why? Of How and Where and Journalism 101?

I do not know. Yet I must post my hopeful complaints--or must I?

What else could be next if I did not?

Would I be nothing more than a piece of thin printed fabric on the physical sphere of existence?

Maybe yes? Maybe no? What next? What now? What then?

I have nothing more to report.

Is this a report?


Goodbye from Soybean island,

#1957

Lowly Lying Low

I have been more than hesitant to post anything these last few--or more--weeks. I do so out of fear and apathy. It is quite difficult to maintain hope and to direct my defiance of the regime that rules Soybean Island when I have no true autonomy, when I have no effective weapons besides this meager and insane discourse across the electronic internets . . .

I am but an invisible bird in a white cage who can only sing off-key inaudible notes . . .

Or perhaps an invisible fish who sends out pointless fish bubbles to the surface, a surface of emptiness and carelessness and uselessness and other nesses . . .

A weary invisible Prisoner-King whose forced-abdication forces him to sit--invisibly--upon a warty throne in the streets of visible despair . . .

Among the clutter and broken bric-a-brac appliances of his back-broken non-empire . . .

Yes . . .

To the devastated palace of lost imaginings and procrastinated frozen dreams and desiccated doorways that lead to cages . . .

Cages
Cages
Cages

And empty rooms with small smelly meals out of blurred cans of tin . . .

So that you realize you are nothing more than an unfurled shellless snail on the littered salted sidewalk of life!

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957

Surfaces

At times I can barely stand it.

My blackhearted hatred for this place, for my situation within this place, tries to overwhelm me. I do not possess the words--nay, there are not enough words, proper words--to convey how much I despise my current existence.

Detestation. Disgust. Antipathy. Contempt. Bitterness. Loathing, revulsion, abhorrence, repulsion and repugnance. The venomous malignant spleen of my hatred for this odious place, this execratory life here, cannot be captured by mere words. Or by mere images.

I exist on a plane of surfaces.

Certainly there is a factor of loneliness. That is, I have made and can make no acquaintances upon this island. Oh, it's not that I am not allowed to do so (I think) it is that any acquaintance, let alone actual friendship, would be predicated upon a lie. I could never reveal who I really am, could never explain why and how and what I am doing in this place.

Any relationship would only be upon the surface.

So, I have no one to whom or which to express my deep soul-crushing outrage. This seething pestilential loathing. This Quelle Horreur--affreux palpitant de la haine--that is my daily life.

I can only talk to you, my impossible reader, follower, viewer, blogee. You who can not talk back to me. You who does not exist. So, essentially, I reserve my hatred for myself.

It is this life on the surface that makes the word "Escape" so sweet to my inner ears. How could I not dream of leaving this land of tripe and rotting loveless rutabagas, of corn-eared exoskeletons and scattered soybean husks? This vegetative life?

Longing and lonliness. I do sometimes allow myself to wonder about people I knew. People from my past. And those places. About who I was and who I could be. Yet, these are defeating thoughts, ones that lead to anger and despair. An airy and un-physical violence that serves nothing except to further the self-pitying anguish that can rise like a whale from my gullet. A baleine from the bile.

So as advice to you, dear non-existant, do not go up those steps:

Or down the crazy hall:

Into the dark:

Where your heart is only a blank sconce in the firmament of Soybean Island:

Do not go.



#1957