Snailtown

The University of Soybean island has its own town. A campus town affectionately known as Snailtown.

Yes.

Snailtown.

It's real name is Academic Economic Zone One (AEZ1).

There is a Academic Economic Zone Two (AEZ2), which I will attempt to venture to at some point (though it is very risky for me to do so). But for now, let's just visit Snailtown:

The place--Snailtown--is often quite animated, with young adults walking and striding and scooting about. I have no idea why. But, at least it offers some activity to the usual dour fare of Soybean Island City and Cornana, not to mention the rather cloistered self-protective atmosphere of Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer. (Stalag Ranville is a place of its own peculiar distinction of which I know nothing and hope to know nothing--except to reveal its insidious ways somehow, some day.)

As one might expect, Snailtown has its shops and restaurants and watering holes for the young:

The middle photo I believe is the Fighting Snail Inn, a much beloved dive of storied importance for the students and alumni alike.

To be honest, I do not quite understand how the university operates. It is, perhaps, an elaborate sham. A Potemkin Institution of Higher Learning, one could say. And I just did.
 . . .

As mentioned before, the student body consists of all sorts of bodies from many nationalities. (Yet no extraterrestrials, to my knowledge.) However the dominate ethnic and cultural factors appear to be Northern European and North Asian. Though on the surface all of Soybean Island and its architecture, language, pseudo-government and habits are mostly American--United Statesian--in manner and persuasion, there is an undercurrent of many other cultures here.

I'm uncertain as to what the writing says on the window. Perhaps: Free Smells. Or: Gourmet Subs. But, really, I have no clue.

Fler bilder:

Invigorating!

Of course, just like within the University, in AEZ1 I stand out in the young crowd. Though, I suppose, this is what I am supposed to do in my "profession" as An Object of Curiosity.

Look!:

Oh. Wait. Nevermind . . .


All this economic activity on such a hermetic and smallish island does make one wonder. My guess is that--among the regular folk, among the lower Elite--the money changes hands in a largely circle-jerk fashion (excuse the metaphor) and is really quite pointless. But, once again, I have little true idea of how this works. The elite of the Elite and the politburo types of The Apparatus are the ones making the real wealth. I know not who--that is, a direct individual, if there is one--runs this misbegotten and forlorn island.

Anyway. The facade must be kept and the citizens--even we prisoner-types--must carry on.

Alas.


More bilders of Snailtown to spill:

This latter one looks very The Apparatus-ish, if I do dare to say.


And that's it:

The campus town of The University of Soybean Island

Snailtown

Academic Economic Zone One

AEZ1

There you have it.

I still have AEZ2 to show you. Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer. Stalag Ranville (if possible). And who knows what else I may unearth on this secretive terrain.

My work is never done.

Until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean island,

                                                       #1957

Lake Bellobrutto

Fresh water on the island appears to be plentiful. Sure, there is ample rain and snow, but--to my understanding--there are also spring-fed lakes which drain into what becomes the Rutabaga River. (More on the Rutabaga River in the future, I'm sure.) One of the most popular spots featuring fresh water on the whole island of Soybean Island is Lake Bellobrutto.

Charming!

The concept of fresh water is, perhaps, arguable here as contaminants abound in the tilled fields all over the island. But what's a little fertilizer and pesticide and hormones and genetically modified organic materials in your drinking water? In your recreational use water? In your shower heads and toilets? Nothing, of course . . .

I'm sorry. Lake Bellobrutto:

Stunning!

Lake Bellobrutto, as mentioned, is a popular destination for the locals, especially the denizens of Soybean Island City (SIC). In the summer--especially, particularly, almost exclusively--they come to sit or fish or canoe or swim or sit. Personally, the attraction of the place escapes me.

Nonetheless, I did come out to walk the path around its shores. The lake is not a large lake and, to many standards, would not even qualify as a lake. But here, on Soybean Island, where a creek is a river, and a town is a city and willful ignorance is success, Lake Bellobrutto is a lake indeed! So I strolled its banks on a near-pleasant day.

Scenic!

I did see evidence of the river as I ambled:

What a pretty bridge--almost Japanese in its simplicity and delicacy!


The Rutabaga River maybe fills this lake, as I do not believe it is a spring-fed one. The river itself dies out in Soybean Island City, just east of downtown, where it is sucked below surface to provide the water of which the islanders survive on--drinking, bathing, dishwashing, lawn watering. You also see quite a bit of fresh water--soft water--used for irrigation for the soybeans, corn and rutabagas.

As in my walk in the Woods, I saw more evidence of the clearing of unwanted vegetation, of trees that might spoil the view of these visually-restorative waters:

What views!


For being an island, you don't see much evidence of seafood--fruits de mer, poissons de l'ocean--in the stores or, to the best of my limited knowledge, in the restaurants. I do not know why this is. Then again, I have never seen the local ocean or coast, let alone any ports or bays or fishing fleets. It is likely that any catch is immediately packaged up and sent out to other nations for great profit. It is likely that this great profit goes directly into the pockets of the elite of The Elite, or, even more likely, to The Apparatus. There is, however, one freshwater fish available:

Yummy!



But I did enjoy my walk and enjoyed viewing the small yet comforting surface water. Though, as always on Soybean Island, there were moments of disturbing discoveries:

The above, to my untrained eye, looks like some ancient torture device. One that, again to my untrained eye, looks like it is still quite capable of lopping off human appendages.

And here is the prerequisite tower belonging to the ever-watchful eye of you know who.


But the day should not be spoiled with prospects of death and surveillance. No. There's so much more to life on this ile de l'exil . . . Look!

                                                    Visit Soybean Island

Such artisans!

I did make one true discovery, on a pathless path just off from the lake. Here I took note of some strange markings . . . Graffiti is not unheard of on the island, though it is rather rare. It usually does not last long and, almost always--(really, always always, I should say)--it is not of any significance. But for some reason I thought that maybe--just maybe--this stuff had an ulterior meaning than just the local simulated-hoodlums expressing their sophomoric need to put their sign upon structure or nature or themselves (not unlike a dog needing to put its signature upon a post).

Are these signs of protest or dissent? If so, I would be amazed. Pleased. Gobsmacked!

Of course, no doubt it is nothing but my yearning imagination. Yet, could there be some form of opposition to the powers-that-be on Soybean Island? I have not heard of such a thing--well, I have heard the mythos of such a thing, always couched in terms of humor and foolishment and impossibility--but one can always hold out some type of hope . . . Though the overthrow of The Apparatus--a dream, I know--would bring about who knows what in replacement. Yet, would I join such a struggle? . . . I don't know, to be honest. Really all I want is to get off this devil's island. All I long for is escape, not necessarily justice.

I want to be a free man. An individual man.

I want to never walk the shores of Lake Bellobrutto again.


And therefore, however, moreover, furthermore, in conclusion and anyway--until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

                        #1957

Some Scenes From A Small Island

Which way does one go?

Out into the wastelands:

Or into the wastes of Soybean Island City:

?

My options are quite limited here on this poor little island. (And I do not mean poor in an economic sense.) They are also limited by my pariah status, my prisoner and exile status. The longer I am here, the crazier I become.

Really, the only thing that allows me to keep my sanity, allows me to retain the memory of who I really am, is this blog. This attempt to reach someone in the outside world. Anyone. Even a computer-using mynah bird would suffice at this point.

But, again, country or city?

(The above is "country", in case one is fooled by the bleak similarities. The following is "city".)

Life here is a tolerated intolerable. I think the long winter--something I have not, had not, been used to for almost two decades--is what brought me to my proverbial knees. Lately the sun has shown. Small greenery peeks their greenery heads above the grim soils. My lips sometimes feel moist. This helps. As does the therapy and pipe-dream-aspirations of these postings--just knowing that they, possibly, are going out into the world like a beacon, like the dying light of a star which may not reach a human eye for a hundred years, a millennium, a millennium of millenniums, knowing of this remote and foolish possibility lets me carry onward.

So . . .

Land of dirt and dust and desiccated plant detritus, with its frightening processing machinery:

?

Or the city, with its concrete and soul-draining propensities:

?

I chose the city:

'Twas the easier choice, out of the trifling, nugatory, bijou choices that avail me.

The above appears to be some attempt at artwork. I do not know what it represents, depicts, resembles. Merged cannonballs? An iron maiden dressmaker's dummy? Or a Venus de Soybean Island City?

Let's move on:

This is the Mysterious Building; it is in the heart of downtown. I'm not certain I should photograph it. I trust that it belongs to The Apparatus, erected for their ever-expanding needs.

I cannot end this post with such a--potentially--nefarious image. With such sadness.

Let's look further. Let us smile in the face of adversity, among such calamity and desperation. Such overwhelming odds against a happy outcome:

Look! A painted flower! . . . Well . . . A painted weed!

Look again! A Gift Shop Snail!

How lovely . . .

In conclusion, until next time, if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

                                                         #1957