Dull Lights, Dull City

Ladies and Gentlemen and Humanoids of all stripes, I present to you, Soybean Island City at night:

Isn't it stunning! Beautiful! Exciting! Like Paris and Rome and Tokyo and Oklahoma City all wrapped into one hotdog bun of thrills!

Who could not love such a place?

Who, I ask?

. . . other than the majority of the population on earth including the dead and the yet to be born and animals and insects and microbes and fungus and gastropods and viruses and inanimate objects . . .

. . .

Let's look in a couple of shop windows, shall we? Faire du leche-vitrines:

Wow!

Just Wow!

I mean, Wow!

And maybe Bow-Wow!

What is that in the last photo?

Is it a sighting of Soybean Island's equivalent of the Loch Ness Monster?

Is it a blurred Little-Bigfoot?

Have I captured a para-normal spirit haunting the haunted realm of this non-city city in this land that is all para-normal so that true para-normal activity here in Soybean Island City would constitute actual normal activity if this were, indeed, an actual and normal and normally active place?

Is it? Have I? Will I?

Never mind, I don't recall what it was I was even asking . . .

Back to the blurred dull lights of this blurred boring town:

Look all you want, but I will have to fine you:

I do not know how much this is in relation to the American Dollar or the Chinese Yuan or the European Euro or even the Zloty. (Nor the Nakfa or Birr, for that matter.)

I have no money. Am disallowed to own or carry any money. I am a prisoner (but not a criminal) and must rely on direct donations or hand outs or what I can find in my almost daily rummaging . . .


Anyway, what would a night in the big blurred boring dull dumbfounding dimwit city be without a look at this:

Well--I'm afraid I can't answer that. It wasn't a true question anyway.


But, how about this?!:

Yes! The Red Eyed Tower of The Apparatus running at full power in the powerful snow-powdered night, 24/7/365/including-Leap-Year !

How about that?

Ah, the madness builds and builds within me. I must grab my shopping cart and hit the day-lit streets and fulfill my obligation as An Object of Curiosity.

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

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

#1957

Geese Only (Not Dreaded Robins)

During a break in the snowy-icy-sub-zero rampages of winter, I took a very cold walk along the non-lake of Park Leftover Park.

Why?

I have no idea . . .

Nonetheless, what I did see at first frightened me quite a bit:

What I feared most (besides the midnight knock from The Apparatus) was that the robins had returned from whatever evil place they depart to during the long Soybean Island winter.

But no--theese were but geese. Yes, many geese gathered together to be gandered at, yes, gander at the ganders in these gorgeous yet gruesome depictions. Please. But be relieved that they are not photos of robins--yes those sickly slick little pigeon-sized winged vermin with their steely blank eyes and quick reptile-like movement. Little spying machine birds who come in great numbers to flock in the still frosty-dewed grass and stare about, trot stop stare, stop trot stare, with beady camera eyes in their bulby mechanical heads whilst dining on slimy cold worms . . . Ugh!

Yes.

Only geese.

And the ice sheets of the non-lake of which Park Leftover Park is built around in a very boring manner:

Such icy non-beauty!

Ici? Quelle horreur, oui, je suis ici!

Makes one want to take a polar bear plunge and never surface!


How I despise this rotten place . . . May I live to escape it. I must live to escape it. I will live to escape it.

I think.

Hope.

Despair.



Oneninefiveseven over and out until next time if there is a next time:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Winter Continues

Ugh. I feel I have lost my talent for observation. Feel that I am being drawn deep into the mind boggling vortex that is Soybean Island in winter. That is my mind in winter.

It is true that this is my, well, preferred, season here in captivity. Only because it best represents the reprehensible of this town and island and community. This forced existence. But even I am suspect and susceptible to the inherent decrepit foibles of a long cold miserable winter in this non-idyllic dung hole.

Yes. Even I lose my sense of humor and otherness and I become but one more rutabaga-eating fool within the confines of white snow upon the conscious connected whiteout of the individual.

This is an impossible land. I am an impossible impostor in the impossible land. An Object of Abject Curiosity . . .

I am but a dormant tree, leafless and holding only dead air and powdered snow:

And it sickens me . . .


Sorry to report--Oneninefiveseven over and out

and

. . .

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Le Interrogation

Wow. That was quite frightening. How I unilaterally hate this despise this place and now even more so (if that is even possibly possible) after being called in by The Apparatus to their interrogation center.

This was not their hideous headquarters in the hideous heart of Soybean island, but rather their holding center--near Set. Abattoir de Chevres Pre de la Mer--for all we prisoners class individuals. I had not been to this place in almost exactly three years--that is--when I was first swept up and spirited away to Soybean Island on Valentines Day in 2012. Yes. Valentines Day! Yes. Three years!

The top photo--yes, I surreptitiously kept taking photos--is something new. Either an attempt at artwork--representing portuguese man-o-wars, I gather--or some form of elaborate listening device disguised as portuguese man-o-war artwork. Whatever it was it proved rather unnerving.

Now, The Apparatus didn't directly come and invite me to this netherworld within the netherworld of the island itself, rather I was summoned. They summon me through the mail. That is, as part of the prisoner class, I receive no mail, except when The Apparatus wants to contact me, to tell me or suggest to me or to order me to do some thing or another--they usually contact me in the form of adverts, which can be confusing.... Anyway, I was told to come here:

This despicable and airy spot where a member of the secret police approached me from behind and told me to sit and told me not to turn around and told me to shut up. At least I think that's what happened.

I did what I think I was told.

They were rather concerned about my wanderings. They were concerned that something could happen to me. They--he, really, though perhaps it was a husky she, as I never turned around to view my interrogator--were worried for me, for my well-being, what with my going out to the Homesteads, what with my venture north to Stalag Ranville last summer (They knew!!!!). Yes, he, she, they said: We wouldn't want anything to happen to you.

(Of course not--I represent money in their pockets as long as I am alive. As to who or whom is paying for my illegal retention on this illegal isle, I do not know!)

But listening to their vague and threatening concern for me gave me the willies and certainly had the effect of shrinking my photographic tableau . . .

Yes. I was no more than a blurry white dot upon the terrazzo of life. But a speck of sphagnum. A spot of pigeon poop. A circle of trivial nothingness that will be wiped clean in the morning by some underpaid unnamed ignored worker . . . I was that, or rather, this:

Ah. Such is not life.

But as far as The Apparatus went--Look!

At least they had a flower:

And, evidently, a wine bar:

Wow.

Wouldn't it be nice to be a member of The Apparatus?

No.

It would not.

That is all there is to report. Oneninefiveseven over and out.

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Still Winter, Winter Still

Ah but it has been one year since I began this blog. This message-in-a-bottle plea for help. This psychological grab-bag to help stave off my eminent-imminent mental decline.

And what better way to "celebrate" (and I place the word "celebrate" in quotes because I mean that in the most mean-spiritedly ironically opposite way possible: "celebrate") than with pictures.

Photos of another hard and frigid, menacing and mendacious winter here upon the island.

Look:

And what does it mean to still be rendered, renditioned, incarcerated, kept and controlled here one jahr later? To still be here and for it to still be winter and for all life to be stillborn, still-lifed, distilled, stilted, silenced secreted suppurated stalled stunted stagnated stopped spotted unsupported stilled still still still . . .

Well, what do you think?

It means nothing; it means everything.

Yet, I must go on. I must continue to send out this beacon, this cri du coeur, this hopeful hopeless missive into the electronic ether of the free world!

(Hah! Free World? Is there really such a thing? Did not the world become unfree with the advent of knowledge, the first inklings of civilization, of both morality and law, guilt and rule? Or, is it the other way around? Does freedom come with law and order, with institutions and representation for all within a society? Hah! I cannot answer such questions on such a cold and heartless day, in such a cold and heartless "society" as Soybean Island!)

Even after one year, there is no more to report.

Oneninefiveseven, over and out:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

The Evil Red Eyes of Soybean Island City

I was out at night in the city. If, that is, you can actually call Soybean Island City a city. Nonetheless, I was out and then I was up inside one of the buildings and then I was looking out upon the winter lights and non-lights and such.

Yes.

I do not wish to name the building I was within because I do not wish to be thrown into the gulag known as Stalag Ranville.

Ah, such a lovely sight of this city of no-lights.

But what else did I see?

Why, I saw this--or these, as the case may be:

Can you see it?

I asked, can you see it? !
Or, see them? !

Yes. I am referring to the twin eyes--or twin eye, as the case may be. Those evil red lights set high in the darkness. Those evil red rat eyes that are the work of The Apparatus. Their all seeing rodential scanners upon their all listening towers right here in the heart of this heartless town. Up there for all to see and all to be warned and all to obey because that is the wish of The Apparatus. !

Alas and woe is me, are we, are, ultimately all.



Okay. Here are two more nightspot photos, sans les yeux rouges, sin los ojos rojos, just so that you are no longer frightened, so that you can return to your safe and mundane lives and your mordant thoughts about breakfast and sports and the lives of TV stars. Here. For you. Have it: !

Goodbye from Soybean Island