Wither Winter Weather

Certainly I wish I had something more profound--or even entertaining--to write about other than the weather. Other than the winter. However I will say, about winter, this:

How disappointing.







Where, I ask, are my deep snows?

My bleak gray skies?

Where are my sub zeros? My sterile frozen black-iced nights and days? The calcite snows and stolid-iced walks?


Yes, there has been some snow:





Yet, it was but a small amount and did not last a day or two, let alone six months or more.


Here are some shots from Ark Ark Park:















Bleak? But of course, this is Soybean Island. Bleakness is par for the course and of course golf courses are but a symptom of its bleakness. I am, of course of course, never allowed to get near a golf course, if the powers-that-be can help it. Not that I'd want to be--a powers-that-be or near a golf course.

But it is not the correct bleak. Not the black hopeless heavy iron stone cloud bleak of desperation, a desperation where hope is finally let go of and buried and forgotten, not to be thought about again (at least until May) so that you are relieved of even a slim hope for hopefulness and thus can delve deep deep deep into your own blackness and insanity and become the independent-minded, single-minded, no-minded fool you already knew you were, lost lost lost in the obsidian-cold climate of your own soul with not a care in the world!

Ahhhhh . . .


But, no. Not so far. Only a small snow and some salaciously grey days and temporary low temps that do not even reach the teens, let alone zeros, let alone the desired well-below-zero.

Argh . . .











Oh yes:

The New Year is here.

Solar calendar and solstice and all that.

Whoopie . . .

And, I am still here
In the New Year
sans beer
or cerveza
unable to live in the guacamole of my mind


Oneninefiveseven:

Adios, Arrivederci, Au Revoir, Do Widzenia, et al, from Soybean Island

Art in the Heart of Cornana

So I continue with my march through the dubious artwork set out in nominally public space here on this island. I do so due to a lack of anything else to do and by mandate that I be An Object of Curiosity (by order of The Apparatus) and that I continue with the charade of my life (by order of the Anti-Snailian radicals, the Eye-Nye-Hab descendants).

I really should not use the term heart when writing about any town or section or region of this island. No, I would not connote that organ most associated with willpower, devotion, fortitude and love with anything on or in this dastardly land. I'd say Soybean Island is more of a lower-intestine kind of place . . . But what's a lonely prisoner to do?


Art!







Animals appear to be a theme among the works in Cornana.








Yes, all of these items and the following are from Cornana, the ostensible capital of Soybean island.

The artwork of this unfine city appears much more benign than the works displayed in Soybean Island City, which is the true hub of horrific life on the island.

Anyway:

Art!








Like me, it is obvious that these subjects have not had a decent meal in quite some time. Years perhaps. Like me . . . But they are still racing off somewhere, perhaps to a garbage bin, or to their deaths. One does not know.

Here's some interesting stuff:






Well. Maybe not that interesting. But at least there is some cold sunlight throwing cold shadows upon these cold works.

And then there was this! Or, rather, these!



Wow. And more Wow. Wowwowwow.

I don't think I need to say more than that, except maybe one more wowwow.

Though I do wish I could read the scrollwork of the first entry--a rather dyslexic piece.


Okay. Time to finish this post up. So, for my final entry into this pointless exercise, I offer this:





A blank. A work of blank. Meditations of Blank in Wood.

Nice. Nice. No wow, but nice. My favorite.

Unless you consider this. I promise it is the final entry. A lagniappe, if you will.



Rather circular in its illogic.

That's it.

I think I am done with my study of artwork here, at least until Spring. I must savor the cold dark heartless winter first.

Oneninefiveseven--Goodbye from Soybean Island

Clowns, Snails, and Perhaps A Toad

May I introduce the Elite of The Elites who run Soybean Island:

















Hah. Who would know if these are the actual Elite of the Elites . . . I certainly would not.

Though it could be this:



Though most likely--in all reality, which is a large sum of reality--it is not.


No, winter is now upon us. Upon me. Upon this wretched little island. And once again, my own sanity is in question.

Yes.

Reality? Sanity?

One may ask if I am sane. I would not blame you. Has this island driven me so? Or was I not sane to begin with?

It is okay to ask such questions. Fine and dandy. But if you too were brought here despite your wishes, against your will, and lived here, breathing the agricultural and incarcerated atmosphere, here, then I hypothesize that you too would question your own sanity. And the sanity of all who live here. And reality, to boot.

Speaking of boots--here is a snail:



Soybean Island Snail. Fighting Snail. Transcendental Snail.

Are here is a workshop rendition of said snail(s):



A second rendition:




Art!


And speaking of snails fashioned out of hardware, here is a toad:




Hah! And they call me insane!

Yes, yes. Are there really Snailians and Eye-Nye-Habs and Elites and Prisoners and The Apparatus? Do you--dear non-reader--doubt any of it? Does it matter? Should it matter, if you are living in the free world and have a roof over your head and food in your cabinets and can rely on a modicum of justice? Hmm? And will I run out of question marks?

Well, this is where I am. All questions are but moot points. I am a moot point--one of billions of points in a sea of moots.

And winter is just beginning . . .


Goodbye from Soybean Island

Signs of Ennui On The Island Of Boredom

Ah. What to say, what to do, how to transcribe the utter hatred and dissatisfaction and routine routine routine boring routine of life here on Soybean Island . . . This Island, this Kingdom, this Domain and Realm of Intransigent Listless Lethargic Monotonous Lassitudenal Doldrumable boring Tedium.

Yes.

If only I could escape this place. If only I had never been captured in the dark of night and drugged, dragged and beaten, forced to come here . . .

to live in this regulated and ignorance-groomed authoritarian land/society/agrarian-prison-camp where all life . . .

is an unauthorized verisimilitude of real life, free life, a life worth examining and thus living . . .

life a vehicle that should not be unattended or at least not attended by the invisible masters of this putrid agricultural-based golfing-insurance-salesman-corporate-controlled anal wasteland . . .

(Oh. The above seems to be an international sign saying: Nudists Sit Here)

No. No, I will not succumb. I will wallow in the appropriate and self-prescribed amount of self pity while all the time planning for my grand escape. I will do the bidding of the Eye-Nye-Hab Revolutionaries while at the same time mollify The Apparatus who control my world until my time comes.

Yes.

I shall.

I will feel better--someday.

Oneninefiveseven over and out and, as always:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Obligatory Seasonal Report

Fall has fallen upon this fubar land. Yes, my fellows, the fields are now fallow and trees are festooned with fall colors before the leaves follow one another to the fair earth (or concrete) and fade, fade, fade . . . Fes. It is almost funny how fast fall falls on this facetious place of facades and fallacies and outright freakish lies. Yes. Fes. Funny indeed, like fake fallopian tubes twisted into forgone conclusions with future false fingers-of-fate forever directing the directions of the people sheeple steeple feeble weebles who will fall down. Fah fah fah . . .

Visit Soybean Island

My how pretty . . .

Please excuse the opening ramble. The babble. I think it is because winter is coming. Yes, it is only Autumn, but before you can look at your torn and sodden and sole-less shoes, winter will blow in with its frozen air and engulfing white snows and the pleasant sterility of subzero temperatures.

How I look forward to winter. The cold dead heart of winter. It is my favorite season here on Soybean Island. It is the season when I go quite insane . . .

Anyway, Fall:

Yes, it is not all bright yellows and oranges and reds and purples and squirrels hiding nuts. No. It is also browns and blacks and grey skies and dying dying dying and squirrels hiding nuts.

Yes.

It is skeletal trees and dreaded robins on their way out and teasing temperatures and the continual raking raking raking of the earth. It is when the indentured workers of The Homesteads harvest their dust to sell to the dust merchants who sell to the dust venture capitalists and make their money which turns into dust within their dusty vaults. Dust to dust to Soybean Island, as they say here. They being not me.

Anyway. More:

Yes. It's the season when the University of Soybean Island Fighting Snails spring (no, fall) into action. What action that is, exactly, eludes me. Yes the Fighting Snails (or, if you prefer, more poetically, the Transcendental Snails) are out there fighting on the fields kicking balls and blowing snot and who knows what. I certainly do not. And who do they have to compete against but each other--one group of ignorant prisoner-students against another group of deceived prisoner-students . . . Anyway, I've gone off topic.

How about some Fall vegetables?:

My how I would love to sink my rotting teeth into such vitamin-rich roots and pods. Yes. I salivate just looking at them and that is all I can do but look at them unless I find their moldy and withered cousins in a trash bin.

Ah, but I should not complain.

After all, I am now a secret agent working for the Eye-Nye-Habs against the race of Snailians who took this ugly land away from their ancestors. Yes. I must be careful what I say, but I continue to go about my business, waiting for instructions from the Habs and their revolutionary revolution plans. So that is why I post such banal information--information which directly correlates and connects and portrays the banality of this actual place!

Well. That's it. Until next time, if there is a next time--Goodbye from Soybean Island

#1957