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

Thumbs Up

Here I am. Here I am. Still breathing within the confines of Soybean Island. I remain a prisoner who has not committed a crime, who has been charged with no offense, who cannot face his accusers because he has not been accused of anything and who cannot confront his captors because they remain faceless and hidden within their corporate-controlled walls. I am "free" to wander, to eat and drink and even think, as long as I obey the code of silence and passivity they have placed upon me . . . Well, at least I was not hauled off to Stalag Ranville after illicitly visiting Stalag Ranville.

At least I have--so far--kept this modicum of independence, despite my transgression.

Is it a rainbow at the end of the trail? With a Pot-O'-Gold for lucky me?

Hardly. I'd be lucky if it was only an optical illusion in a shop window.

There still remains to be a green light--

--beckoning me to the true freedom that I crave. No. No such luck for me. I remain only tied to Soybean Island City with its bland and moribund culture and its obedient and complicit populace. Its despicable and duplicitous illusion of domestic pleasantries.

I am still here:

An un-person

in an un-person land

searching ugly doorways

and cracks in the surface

only to remain baffled, puzzled, obscure and opaque

in this contained space of detritus

with no view from the window of my soul.


Wow.


Yes. The Apparatus rules and controls my life, so much so that I still dare not reveal even the true architecture of their home office:

(Even this much sends cold tendril-like chills down my spine; like a half-frozen demonic octopus placing its authoritarian and suctioncuppy fish-fleshy octopus arm along your bare back in the middle of a night's sleep whilst you dreamt of sunshine and clover and lambs . . . Yes. Like that.)

Alas.

What else can I say?

What else can I show you?

Snails?

Snails and Flowery Flowers?

There. Have it. The Apparatus will be quite happy that that is all you want: Snails and Flowers.

They will give it a big thumbs up.

Don't believe me? Why just look at the statuary in downtown Soybean Island City:

Thumbs Up!

(Well, Thumb Up, if you want to be technical.)

Yes. To live or to die. Thumbs up or thumbs down. But knowing Soybean Island and its opposite-thinking ways, an upward opposable appendage no doubt means to let them die.


Until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#OneNineFiveSeven