Rocking The Gulag

Well. I have been absent, as you, Dear Mythical Reader, should be aware.

And where have I been?

In jail.

That's where.





Well, not quite jail. But rather as a "guest" of The Apparatus in one of their temporal gulags.




It seems they had gotten wind of my collusion with the Descendants of The Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs (The Anti-Snailians) and they asked me just that,







No, point blank, not bank: "Are you in collusion with the Despicable Eye-Nye Rebels?" (Their terminology, not mine.)


And when I denied it, when I pled ignorance (an easy thing for me to do), they placed me in a yard, in an outdoor holding cell much like what these photos depict:




(Take note of the black vultures that arrived daily to the gulag-work-camp-holding-cell!)




(Also note the Orange Cones of Madness in the background--those ubiquitous items that islanders are so fond of!)






This compound was named--for completely inexplicable reasons to me--Boots's Garden.







It was not a garden and their were no boots to be had. I was barefoot the majority of the time, from dusk to dawn and dawn to dusk.





But what was there were rocks. Yes, rocks.

Not just any rocks, but caged rocks. Yes, rocks in cages:











I was put in charge of watching the caged rocks, sun-up to sundown, to ascertain that none of the rocks had escaped.

Of course they could not, just as I could not.

Those poor rocks . . .




And, yes, at least I am not as old as that rock--I think.


When I was finally released, back to my life of poverty, wandering the streets and eating a bland diet, I was told that "should" I come across any of the Despicable Eye-Nye Rebels, that I should report back to The Apparatus.

I promised that I would.

So, it seems, I have become a double agent.

Though my true agency is only towards myself and my escape from Soybean Island.



That is all I have to report at this time--at great danger to myself, I must remind you.

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Confusing Times

I live in confusing times. If you can call this a life. If you can even these years, months, days, hours, seconds here "time".

No. It is a psychodrama without the drama.





My existence is confusing in that, well, in that I am confused.

My goal--which I keep close to me, which allows me to hang precariously on to my sanity in this place--is to escape.




Escape where is easy to say: away from here.

But is that enough to sustain me?

No.

Which is why I write this expose' about this confusing place.




Yes. I am obliged to go about my job as An Object of Curiosity while at the same time secretly doing my job as an agent for the Descendants of the Eye-Nye-Habs (The Anti-Snailians) while living in an atmosphere of fear, boredom and unproductively. (While also harboring my own compartmental plans to be rid of this isle.)

Alas.





This is not something so easily brushed off.




No. It is a psychedelic life without the benefits of psychotropics.




And I often become confused as to my purpose and and and . . .




Well. I am lost once again.


But I shall bravely muster onward, fighting (like a snail) against the tide of this tideless place: Soybean Island.





The End


Goodbye from Soybean Island

The War On Trees: Lagniappe

This is an addendum.

An Update.

Postscript.

Add-on, extra, feature, bug, run-on and on and on . . .

But for those of you who still refuse to believe that The War On Trees is real, I can only offer you this:




(Or these, as the case may be.)
























There.

I held back these photos due to their shocking and brutal nature. Yet, as a crazed and professional investigative journalist (and prisoner), I felt it my duty to reveal them. I like it no better than you Dear Non-Reader, who is no one--or only me. But such is Soybean Island.




And: Goodbye from Soybean Island

The War On Trees: Epilogue

So now you know about Abused Woods Park. The information and images have been broadcast out into the world. To be seen. Dissembled. Consumed. Ignored. Nothing done.

Alas.

But there is more, was more. And I want to finish this report by showing more. A somewhat strange more. For within the crowded and captive trees--unhappy trees, hopeless trees--were little signboards. Signs with upbeat, pretend information upon them. Pretend pictures of things and events and creatures that, in reality, have nothing to do with Abused Woods Park.

What am I talking about? (Always a good question.)

This:






















That is what I'm talking (writing, really) about!


Yes, the need for the facade of normality, for false-purpose, be it education or art-appreciation or even economic necessity, The Apparatus (and Soybean Island itself) work hard to keep up appearances and supply that propagandic need which serves and exists wholly unto themselves.

Look:















Yes. Animals. Birds in particular. Yet, they are but photos of birds. Inside the "park", within the silently screaming woods, no such animals exist. (Except perhaps that last creature, which I believe to be a mosquito larvae.)

And of course, there must also be the possibility for disaster. The need for fear. The warning of flames:





The Apparatus must always keep you on your toes. The World is a dangerous place and one should not look too far beyond one's nose. Keep your mind on tacos and good drainage and the new flavor of hop-infused beer.

And rutabagas. Never forget the rutabagas.


And I have one final image (well, final is always a questionable term where I am concerned) to show you, Dear Mythic Reader.

Take a gander at this!:





My my. I could only see this from afar and used my special zoomiest lens to capture the image. An image that in normal days (nay, there are no normal days on Soybean Island) would be hidden by the cover of trees. Yes, trees. Trees enforced with forced labor to hide the nefarious works of the Tree Executioners who labor day and night to extinguish these noble plantish creatures.

Because the above, I believe and trust my own intuition, is a construct of the elaborate chutes and sawtooth blades used to dissemble the trees into "useful" parts. To make the death of trees into something that can be Monetized. Optimized. Compartmentalized.

Such is the World.


And that ends this long-form look at The War On Trees.


Goodbye from Soybean Island

The War On Trees: Part Three

Onward we go, Dear Non-Reader, Hypothetical Reader, Mythical Reader. On to the next selective section of this long look at Abused Woods Park.

And perhaps, if we are lucky, a conclusive statement about the whole ordeal.

Yes.

Now, within this monstrous park are the many non-monstrous trees. All gathered together in one shape or form or abusivity. But there are, as one would expect or at least suspect in a place like Soybean Island run by The Apparatus, there are also manmade items to be seen and contemplated upon:




Indeed. A bench. A bench made of wood. So that one could sit under the living trees upon a dead tree object and view the damage made to trees:




Below: another wooden bench.




Wow . . . A sad wow.



And of course, how could there not be more rusty rustic drainage?




Yes, a hearty drainage for sure!


Plastic ribbons and pointless posts?

But of course:











A post and a ribbon together?





Or is that just a splash of blue for art's sake?

No use in over thinking it.

No.

But let's see what else has been tossed into the mix of these trees gathered into this single-use space, this camp, this relocation center:





Steps. Steps to a tree. The better to reach up and kill it?






Unwanted detritus:




The slag heap of what cannot be consumed: let the prisoner trees have it!





Another sad wow . . .


But here I show you now what perhaps best represents my final conclusion of what Abused Woods Park really is and why it is a case study on this island's War On Trees:








Yes! Caged trees! Bound trees! Metal posts and wire fences put there to control and impede and undo the liberty of trees!

Because Abused Woods park is indeed a camp. A Concentration Camp for Trees!

How sad and inglorious and insignificant and incomparable compared to other such camps yet also one of astounding cruelty and craziness.

Right here on Soybean Island, humped upon the back of Cornana the Capital City!


Amazing. Amazing. And not very refreshing.

No.


Well, that concludes Part Three of Three Parts. But stay tuned, Mythic Reader. Stay tuned.



Oneninefiveseven over and out, yet not yet done--



Goodbye from Soybean Island