#crumbs this has been in here a while. does my several hundred words of response make up for that fact

[moved-to-void-kissed]

💫 + aqua?? (i know nothing about kh but would love to!!)

-sea

Sea, my friend, thank you very much for this - I hope that my answer is alright!!

(source: this post by pandapup)

send me a 💫 and I’ll tell you something about my F/O’s source or character! - so, since there is just so much I could talk about here, I think I'm going to try and just use this as an opportunity to explain who Aqua is and what she does.

..it got long because I basically ended up accidentally summarising the entirety of Birth By Sleep and all its unfortunate events because this game is not really a happy one, so let's go under the readmore.

Aqua is introduced as a Keyblade wielder training to become a Keyblade Master alongside her two fellow apprentices and close friends, Terra and Ventus. Her style of fighting is based around her incredible magical prowess, whereas the other two focus on powerful physical strength and fast agile strikes respectively. I have not actually played or watched a playthrough of Birth By Sleep, the game this takes place in, before, so my memory of the actual story details is a bit hazy.

The three are apprentices to Master Eraqus, the current overseer of the Land of Departure, which is the world they live and train in. It's a special neutral world that exists between the realms of light and darkness, but Eraqus' teaching is very much of the opinion that light is absolute and any and all traces of darkness must always be extinguished completely.

After she and Terra take their Mark of Mastery exam together, Aqua passes the exam and is made a Keyblade Master, but Terra is failed because he "could not control his inner darkness" despite the fact Eraqus' old friend and fellow Master Xehanort was very clearly tampering with the exam. This (and various other bits of meddling from Xehanort) leads Terra to leave the world, and Ventus chasing after him, leading Aqua to have to chase after them both and bring them back.

The trio end up travelling across a variety of Disney worlds at slightly different times and orders, and the end of their collective rollercoaster of their journey brings them to the Keyblade Graveyard, the site of an ancient war over light. By this time they have all realised that Master Xehanort is the antagonist, and try to defeat him - Terra's final boss fight is Xehanort himself, while Ventus' is Vanitas (the "dark half" of him that was pulled out into a separate entity by Xehanort), and Aqua's is the recombined form of Vanitas possessing Ventus while Ven is trying to break free inside his heart.

Unfortunately, Aqua is the only one to make it out of those battles properly - Terra ends up being possessed by Xehanort so he can make use of a younger body, while Ventus' heart is fractured after Vanitas is purged, and is forced to take refuge in another's heart that reached out to him (namely that of Sora), so his body ends up sleeping. Aqua brings Ven to the remains of the Land of Departure, since it had been previously destroyed by Xehanort, sealing him away and transforming the world into a twisted castle called Castle Oblivion to keep him safe. At this point, she takes up Master Eraqus' Keyblade, which remained after he had been previously taken down by Xehanort after trying to kill Ventus and subsequently fighting with Terra.

She then sets out to find Terra-Xehanort, and battles him to try and free Terra from being possessed. Unfortunately, this doesn't work, and she ends up having to sacrifice both her glider and her armour that protects her from darkness, as well as her own Keyblade, to prevent him from falling into the realm of darkness - an underworld kind of place filled to the brim with Heartless and the remains of worlds that they have consumed and overrun with darkness. This means that she ends up falling in there instead, with only her flawed Master's former Keyblade as a means of defense, while over ten years pass in the realm of light.

..That's where Birth By Sleep leaves off, and that's right before my self-insert comes in, and I've also written a lot here, so I'm going to leave it here for now if that's alright. I hope that this answer is okay, and thank you very much again for sending this in ^-^

[anonthenullifier]

Post Hoc- Ch. 2

An “And They Were Research Collaborators!” AU

Chapter 2: Design Overview

Summary: Wanda and Vision map out how they will approach their collaboration.

AO3 Link

Note: IRB = Institutional Review Board. They review all studies that involve human participants to make sure they are ethical before collecting data.

Wanda stares at the empty pan behind the steamed tilapia sign and sighs, shuffling to the left and scooping what is supposedly a vegetable stew into her to-go box. This setback is par for her day, one filled with a series of disappointing if nots. Like if not for waking up late she would have packed her lunch and if not for Nat having a meeting and Sam working in the field she wouldn't be alone for lunch. Then, if not for needing to work on her grant, which has to be sent to the grant development office for revisions and suggestions by the end of the week, she’d have gone out to get some fresh air and better food.  

Really she can go even further than today. If not for her first yearly review she wouldn’t be scrambling to put something together right now. And, if not for spending her first year on joining Reed’s team to apply for that multimillion dollar quantum loop grant he just secured, she would have already applied for her own funding. But she didn’t and that’s why even though she was applauded for her cooperative research with the other physicists, she was also informed, in very professional and not technically threatening words, that at such a highly regarded institution it wasn't good enough to always be a co-author or secondary investigator. 

Wanda breathes in and tries to ignore the abyss of her future, which will be easier to do with a brownie as a treat for when her methodology is done. 

Three feet to the left and she discovers that all that remains is the sign and a couple of crumbs. That seems fair. It’s not like she’ll even manage to get the methodology done today, her mind scattered in a hundred different directions on what exactly she wants to do with quantum chaos theory. The higher ups not only expect her to be a primary investigator with some significant external funding all her own, but they also demand novelty.  She knows she can get there, but it takes time, which she doesn’t currently have. 

Cutting her losses, she pays and heads off to her hermitage, to-go container clutched in her hands and head down, desperate not to get roped into lunch with any colleagues. Not that she doesn’t like them, but she reserves her mental and social energy for the required meetings. Plus, knowing her day, she’d probably get to hear all about one of their exciting and creative grants that happens to also scoop her idea and put her back to square one. 

As she nears the exit, something in her periphery catches her eye and she turns subtly to investigate. The object of attention is the lanky form and blonde hair of a certain psychologist. Great . Things went a little uncomfortably silent after her suggestion at the bar the other week and she hasn’t seen or heard from Vision since. Yet there he is. There's a part of her that feels like she should go over and apologize, worried she may have fractured his sense of scientific integrity though Natasha claims he’s fine, simply busy with adjusting to a new job and not gifted at social interactions. The majority of her conscience isn’t particularly concerned with him right now, more than happy to give him space and lots of time to exist in a state of being busy or terrified of her, either reality meaning she has more time to work on her research. And yet she can’t seem to find the confidence to keep walking towards her office. 

Is this how a particle feels when it goes to leap to a new position only to discover it’s entangled with another one thousands of miles away? This desperation to have free will while also feeling an inexplicable pull towards the movement of his sweater clad shoulders as he hunches forward? 

Wanda caves to his quantum energy and heads towards the psychologist, hoping the interaction will free her to go back to work. “Mind if I join you?”

If she was surprised by their entanglement, he’s clearly uncomfortable by it, response a little delayed as he moves his attention from the book in his hand ( Seven Brief Lessons on Physics ) to her face. The slow blink of his eyes could be a startle or that look you give to the person whom you find annoying beyond words and who also still keeps talking to you. Then his ambiguity breaks into a friendly smile, the book waving at the chair across from him, “Not at all, please.”

“What are you,” as she sits down she catches a glimpse of his lunch, mind veering into a different universe, “No, they had peanut butter today!”

His brow wrinkles, smoothing out once he follows her eyes to the beautiful, plump, peanut butter frosted brownie on his tray. “Oh, yes. I usually do not have dessert, but Sean-“

Wanda assumes he’s talking about one of the other psychologists that Sam has also mentioned, “He’s the pheromone guy, right?”

Vision’s, “Correct,” is layered with so much disquiet she is tempted to switch topics and see if he agrees with Sam’s own passionate views of Sean. “But he told me to try one as it would, according to him, ‘change my life’.” It will and it explains why the tray was empty today, those brownies coveted at the institute, the only true unifying belief amongst all of them. “Would you like to split it?”

If not for the fact he was already in the process of cutting it in half, she would have been polite and refused, but you can’t put a brownie back together, right? ”Only if you don’t want all of it.”

“I don’t.”

Wanda accepts the napkin holding her prize and begins to realign their conversation to the reason she joined him, starting small in case he shuts down like he did at the bar. “That’s a good book.” She nods towards the black cover speckled with stardust. It’s the same book she sent to Pietro after he told her he didn’t know how to explain to his co-workers what his sister did. 

“So far, yes.” Only now does she also see Vision’s notebook, margin to margin filled with impeccable handwriting and straight arrows forming various diagrams. “I attempted to read some of your more recent publications,” Wanda holds her breath, preparing for the typical condescension she receives from men outside her field whenever they speak of her work, “and though they are exquisite and elegant, I found my literacy in the area itself severely lacking to grasp the full meaning of your work.”

This isn’t usually how these things go, his eyes turned down instead of up and his voice absent that searing cockiness implying the disconnect in understanding is her fault. She doesn’t know how to handle genuineness, her defenses already built up for rebuttal. “You do know that you don’t have to be a physics expert since that’s my job, right?”

“I am more than aware,” the armor of goodwill might actually tighten around him, “I am simply curious about the field and wish to have some level of knowledge going into our collaboration.”

There’s no deceit evident in what he says. “Um, well, Rovelli is a good start then.”

Vision nods enthusiastically, “It is very accessible,” then his nod lessens into a discerning glance towards his notes, “though it is leaving me with more questions than answers.”

“Welcome to physics.” Unlike her last joke to him, this one he picks up on, a tiny, slightly boyish smile that seems to imply the same joke would work if you replaced physics with psychology. But Wanda isn’t here to talk about physics and doesn’t have the time to likely answer the questions in his notebook, so she moves them along. “Speaking of our collaboration, any thoughts?”

His face and shoulders drop, eyes staring at his spoon stirring the opaque broth in the bowl, his entire demeanor seeming less like the friendly man from moments before and more like a marionette with a lazy operator, the spoon stirring and stirring. Wanda begins picking at the half brownie, waiting for him to reach a thought. She decides that five minutes of this soul crushing silence will be her breaking point to call off the original idea and go with something less ridiculous. Vision only makes it thirty seconds. “I believe,” the words pull his face back up, their eyes meeting, “if we can overcome the ethical and logistical hurdles then it is plausible.”

That’s better than she anticipated. “Okay,” Wanda pushes her lunch to the side, arms coming to cross on the table while she leans forward and settles in, “what are the hurdles?”

“Well, first of all with such a paradigm we would not be able to get informed consent.”

Somehow they’ve already moved from an idea at a bar to a paradigm. “Why not? What’s the paradigm?”

Vision turns back five or so pages in his notebook and then slides it across the table. On the paper she sees several boxes connected with arrows, labeled with numbers that are then explained in the legend at the bottom. It’s gorgeous, aesthetically speaking. “If we truly want to examine gift giving of billionaires,” the idea still tastes bitter in his mouth, the entirety of his presence recoiling at merely saying it, “we have to set up a realistic fake wedding, likely through a wedding website.” He motions for her to turn the page, revealing a sketch of said website. “This site will be sent with the invitation and the RSVP would be here, so we can track it.”

For a man so on edge with the idea, he has it fairly well planned. “And if we get informed consent then…”

“Then we will have told them what we are studying and they will know it is a sham wedding, thus reducing the likelihood of realistic participation.”

Which makes sense. “The issue is?”

“Not receiving informed consent typically requires a full board review by the IRB.”

Wanda has heard Sam complain about the IRB, particularly about the wait time for approval and the, as he calls it, idiotically narrow view of the federal regulations, so she has a small inkling of the horror in Vision’s voice at what sounds like an even more in depth review by the board. “Which we don’t want,” he nods, affirming her read of him, “does it count if we tell them afterwards what happened?”

A toothy grin breaks across his face, “Precisely my thoughts,” he motions for her to turn the page again, revealing a bulleted list of thoughts. “If we have consent afterwards, then we may be able to get around it. Of course we also have to consider how to return any gifts to them.”

“They’re billionaires, not like they’ll miss it.”

This is the wrong thing to say, the joy of empiricism dropping from his face, the same way it did the other night. “Ethically speaking, it would go against the principle of Justice in the Belmont Report.”

“Okay,” whatever this report is, it is clearly near and dear to his heart, “so when we are done we send them all a consent form asking if we can use their data and what they want done with their gift?”

He nods along with his, “Correct. Perhaps we provide different options like returning it or donating it to a specific charity.”

That seems like a reasonable suggestion. “What else?”

Vision glances at his wrist, prompting Wanda to find a clock on the wall and experience the always wonderful chest tightening of anxiety when a day is already half over and she’s gotten nothing done. “I am afraid I need to go back to my lab,” a statement that should elicit relief but she’s a little sad, for some reason, likely because this was an okay distraction from the rest of her bad day.

“Why don’t you send me the list of topics and we can meet up in a few days once my grant is done?”

“Of course.” 

Vision gathers up his reading materials and slides them into a brown leather bag. The next words out of her mouth are a surprise to both of them, “Oh and if you have any questions from Rovelli, feel free to email me.”

This garners an appreciative curve on his lips and a slight downturn of his eyes as he takes in the offer. “I will, thank you.” He stands and it is still a disorienting and mesmerizing sight to behold. “Good luck with your grant.”

“Thanks.” 

By the time Wanda is back to her lab and settled in at her computer, lunch container open and partially eaten brownie placed reverently out of reach, she already has an email from Vision with the subject line Logistical and Ethical Issues...and Some Questions . She opens the email and slides it over to her left monitor with the intention of reading over it whenever she needs a break. 

“The place looks nice!” Natasha’s voice reaches him over the soft jazz streaming out of his computer, her eyes roaming over the newest furnishings of his lab as she walks into the room. “Nice you finally have a place for people to sit.”

“It is.” And she uses it, plopping into the chair several feet away from him. Even though he was aware of the sparsity of his furniture (apparently the only standard equipment for their lab spaces are a desk, a chair, and a table), he hadn’t actually cared until his meeting with Wanda and the abject horror he felt at her having to sit on his table. “I think I need to get a few more filing cabinets, but otherwise it is suitable.”

“Probably some wall art too, it’s a little drab.”

“I like it that way.”

Natasha smirks, the same way she does anytime they come to a difference of opinions. “I know, you’re no fun.” A statement that, if actually true, would run counter to their years long friendship. “Want to be fun and get some dinner?”

A tempting offer if he didn’t have so much to finish before his meeting with Sociology tomorrow. “I can’t.” There is no reason to completely forego the offer, and he always finds a delay of gratification necessary for him to be productive. If he wants to finish his work tonight, he needs to lay a promise of reward. “I could meet for breakfast tomorrow?” 

“Fine.” Natasha gracefully stands from the chair, slinging her laptop bag across her chest as if she is leaving. Only she doesn’t move, “What do you think of Wanda?” A discerning and dangerous flicker moves across her face as she waits for him to answer. 

“She seems pleasant to work with so far.”  

The answer is not enough based on the disbelief etched into every inch of Natasha’s stance. “That’s it, just pleasant?”

“We have only actually spoken face-to-face four times, two of them very brief.” 

This still does not sate Natasha’s curiosity, nor does it reveal to him why it seems to matter so much. There’s more she wants to say, her knuckles growing white the tighter she grips the strap of her bag. And then her fingers loosen, as does her face, an amiable yet empty smile flashed in his direction. “I’ll see you in the morning. Our usual?”

“Yes.”

“Night.”

“Goodnight.” He watches her leave before turning back to his computer, the meeting agenda half-finished and staring at him on the screen. It is likely, he imagines from past experience, that Natasha’s aim is simply to help him be more sociable, something that a person like Natasha deems necessary in life. Not that she is dependent upon people (the opposite, in fact), merely that to her it is an essential part of joy. He agrees, to an extent, but also finds solitude freeing and required, a classic introvert. Not that personality factors determine everything in life, he would never give that branch of psychology so much credit. 

A two note chime alerts him to a new email, likely a memo about safety goggles in the chemistry labs being mandatory for all visitors after what Natasha told him happened the other day. Vision clicks over to his inbox and is pleasantly surprised to see the sender is MaximoffW . 

He isn’t sure why he is pleasantly surprised. As he told Natasha, other than some meetings, he has not actually gotten to know his collaborator. His affective response is likely due to mere exposure given the string of emails they have sent over the last couple of days and also that he seems to notice her more and more around the institute, mainly getting an afternoon tea or at the vending machines in the main lounge. Which itself is simply the Baader-Meinhoff phenomenon. Now that he knows who Wanda is, he actually recognizes her, thus he believes he is seeing her more, and, due to mere exposure, the more he sees her the more positively he responds to her presence. It is simple psychology, nothing more. 

Inside the email is a brief response to his last question - This will do a better job than me at explaining it and then there is a link to a video on the double slit experiment, the most recent line of inquiry they’ve been discussing in terms of the behavior of matter. He watches the video three times, jotting key points and additional questions each time in the section of his notebook he has now dedicated to learning physics. After the third time, he contemplates what to write back. At first it’s That was very insightful! but he deletes it, the cursor blinking judgmentally at him as he tries to think of something more intelligent than that. This helped greatly in understanding what you were saying about the lasers This one he deletes before finishing, not wanting to imply her explanations have not been helpful. They have been, it is just a large and complicated field. Vision watches the video one more time and changes his tactic to witty, or so he hopes. If someone invents a shrink ray, would we then be able to test the diffraction of humans?  That seems ridiculous, though she has shown a predilection towards such things. Ultimately he combines them all together and hits send. 

Barely two minutes into working, the tell-tale chime draws him back to his email. Pretty sure that’s what Pym (my next door labmate) is actually working on. Though he wants to start by shrinking ants . 

Vision chuckles, intrigued and confounded by the entirety of physics. It is well-known in psychology and other social sciences, that there is not a unifying theory that explains everything. Yet he always had the notion that this is not true with the physical sciences, or at least, they wish for it not to be true. Wanda concurred with this while answering his question about the incompatibility of Newtonian physics and quantum mechanics. Thus it seems there might be multiple theories that might explain phenomena and instead of embracing them all, factions have arisen. Classical ingroup favoritism and outgroup derogation. 

Another chime comes from his computer, still from Wanda but this time unrelated to physics. Are you still at work?

I am . 

Almost a minute passes, all spent with his eyes on his inbox. Me too. 😕 Any interest in ordering pizza and talking about our study? I could use a break from this grant. 

Vision stares at the still unfinished agenda and begins to type out a polite decline, until his stomach grumbles. Pizza would not be objectionable and technically he would still be productive, just for another project, plus he can finish the agenda after their meeting. He can’t imagine Wanda will want to be at work much longer. 

I would be amenable to a dinner meeting. We can meet in your lab since we met in my last time. He almost hits send and then flashes back to the numerous times he has tried to order food for people without knowing their preferences, so he adds in If it is possible, I prefer no meat on my pizza. 

His notebook and computer are already packed when his phone vibrates, Wanda’s Head on over showing up on the lock screen. 

The journey is fairly painless with the hallways mostly empty, allowing him to consult the various directional signs without people sending him judgmental stares. Even if he has gone to this wing on a couple of occasions to meet with Natasha, the entire Marvel complex is maze-like, stairways not always located in the most sensible places and not all of the elevators going to all of the floors. Eventually, however, he gets to the physic’s floor (or so the sign states) and all he has to do is peek in each window until he sees Wanda inside a room erasing writing from one of her boards. 

Despite the fact she is expecting him, Vision still knocks, taking her wave to mean he can enter. 

When Vision interviewed for the position at the Marvel Institute, he was only shown lab spaces like this one, spacious and fully furnished, a far cry from his somewhat cramped space. There are doors at the back that ostensibly lead to wherever Wanda goes to actually conduct her studies and at the right side of the room is a series of three large white boards. “This is an impressive set-up.”

Pride emanates brightly when she turns to him, arms waving out to the side like a game show model emphasizing the awe-inspiring set-up. “What would Freud say about your lab envy?”

It was only a matter of time until this type of joke was used. He allows every person one pass where he politely laughs at it while also correcting the comment, “Given the majority of Freud's theories are not scientifically based and do not hold up to empirical scrutiny, he likely would not have anything substantial to say.”

“Ouch,” perhaps it was too harsh, though a trace of her smile still clings to her face, “so Freud is off limits?”

“I, um, yes, sorry, it is--”

Wanda shrugs, turning to place the eraser on the ledge of the whiteboard, “I get it, I’m tired of hearing people quote Newton’s laws at me as a way to win an argument when Newton doesn’t even apply.” Has he done this? The specificity of it forces him to go back through every email they have sent and conversation they’ve had. “That wasn’t about you.”

“Oh, good.” He places his bag on one of the many chairs around a table, pulling out his laptop and starting it up before grabbing his notebook as well. “I will endeavor to do no such thing.”

“Thanks.”  Wanda picks up a marker and begins jotting down the list of items they still need to discuss, some of them followed by a check mark while others have a star. “So the ones with the check marks,” he looks up to follow her explanation, the uncapped marker pointing at the board as she talks, “mean I think I have a solution for them. The stars are things we still need to decide.”

Over half the list has check marks and he finds himself filled with a buzzing curiosity as to what she determined to do with them. “Where do you want to start?”

“Let’s start fun.” All of it is fun to him, the prospect of chiseling out the most appropriate methodology the most enjoyable part of research. A close second is running the statistics, but they still have a ways to go before then. “I did a mock-up of a wedding website last night, let me,” she taps away on her phone and soon after he receives a link. Clicking it opens a dark gray background with golden orbs clustered around the outside of a large picture that currently is a stock photo of a happy couple with the copyright information stamped onto it. “Obviously we have to change the pictures.”

“Yes.” And all of the details, each field for venue, date, time, wedding party, and registry left either blank or with TBD written in. There is an RSVP page and a photo page, both empty. “How customizable is this?”

“There are a lot of options.” She bends closer to her phone, swiping the screen a few times. “Yeah you can customize which pages show up.”

Vision clicks through it, most of his mind thinking through the experimental design he is leaning towards and part of his mind trying to figure out why this website seems so familiar. “Is there a way to customize the order in which they see the RSVP and the registry?”

“Um…” Wanda slides her phone back into her sweatshirt and moves to her desktop, the furious clicking and typing of marginal concern, enough that he stands and approaches her work station, watching her move through the website. “I think so, what did you have in mind?”

Vision grabs a stray chair and brings it over, always feeling overbearing and awkward when he stands while someone else is sitting. “Based on your example of destructive and constructive interference, I was thinking we might want to stick with a fairly basic study on order and framing effects that way we can test classical probability against quantum probability with a phenomenon found in both our fields. Perhaps half of our participants receive a website that asks for the RSVP before showing the registry and the other half receive a website that asks for the RSVP only after they have seen the registry information.” 

This is new information to share and so he gives her time to digest it, her head subtly nodding as she processes it all. “I like that idea, not sure it’s possible with this particular website though,” she hesitates, clicking through the various options on the main portal, “if we get desperate we could always talk to computer science about customizing the code.”

“Why does that only have to be from desperation?”

Now she sits back and stares at him, a harrowing quality forming in her eyes about what must be some past transgressions or infighting with that department. “Because if you want to talk to anyone there, you have to talk to Victor von Doom first.”

Oh yes, he had somehow already forgotten the other Victor was their chair. “Is he really that bad?”

Wanda nods, “He just makes me feel really uncomfortable.” 

“I can be the one that speaks to him.”

A contemplative moment passes before she denies what he thought was a reasonable suggestion. “He’ll just tell you no. But,” she inhales deeply, “if it comes to that, you can come with me.” The next part he thinks is an aside, at least he cannot tell what it has to do with getting help. “I’m like 99% sure he has to be a supervillain somewhere in the multiverse.”

The multiverse is something he is vaguely aware of, primarily from reading and watching science fiction. “Why do you say that?”

“Listen--” a loud rock anthem comes from her pocket and she answers it immediately, face a little sheepish at the interruption, “Okay, yeah, be right down.” Wanda hangs up and stands, hands diving into her sweatshirt pockets. “Pizza’s here, I’ll be right back.” 

“Okay.” 

Vision scoots his chair closer to the desk and grabs the mouse, navigating through the wedding website and playing with the placement of everything. It seems it might be hard to create exactly what he has in mind, though it is possible either a different service or a professional could help them. Otherwise it seems like it should work, the privacy settings making it so they can keep it visible only to those who have the link and they can require all RSVPs and gifts to come through this website, both things that had concerned him with planning the potential for this study. 

Which actually is concerning, a pit growing in his stomach the more feasible this all seems. Technically they can do this ethically. Not only did he spend the afternoon re-reading the federal guidelines on ethical research with humans but he also emailed with the chair of Marvel’s IRB to determine if post-participation consent would keep them to an expedited protocol. Though the chair was unwilling to provide any answer with 100% certainty, she seemed optimistic. Plus if they allow the participants to take the gifts back or if they donate them to a known charity and provide receipts, there is nothing ethically or legally wrong. It’s in the moral side that he still is waging a battle. There is just something about the large-scale deception that bothers him. This is despite the fact that deception is often a part of his research, but rarely ever to the extent of fake websites and actual money being exchanged, thus leaving him in a strong state of dissonance. Vision knows, as is usually the case with cognitive dissonance, it is his attitude that will change, not the behavior, and that is precisely what is happening. The more he thinks about the study, the more he communicates with Wanda, the more compartmentalized his thinking becomes. Usually it is in poor taste to use so much deception, but in this instant, it’s fine. He also wonders if there is a degree of moral disengagement going on, if this will irreparably lower his ethical standards and open him up to a world of many more deceptive studies to this degree. 

“Hope you’re hungry.” The words shatter his internal debate, Wanda’s hands gripping an enormous pizza box. Clearly his surprise is palpable, a half-smile going along with her showing him the box, “They only have one size.” 

Vision joins her at the higher table, taking a slice onto the paper towel she offers and then he follows her to two armchairs that face the whiteboards. “I have found that New Yorkers are very invested in abnormally large pizzas.” It’s why they have to fold the slices in order to eat it with any dignity. His first week here Natasha chastised him for wanting to use a fork and knife, telling him it would not go well for his credibility in the city if he did it. 

“They really are, I love it. So the website will work,” her mind has already moved from the pizza, focusing on the board. “Sounds like you have an idea of what you want to do theoretically,” one of the items that had a star, “have you considered also measuring and accounting for demographics or maybe we need to manipulate the fake bride and groom...or groom and groom...or bride and bride?”

All things he has considered. “I truly like the idea of testing the gift giving based on demographics both of the billionaires and the couple…”

“But.”

“But there are only six hundred and twenty one billionaires in the US.” 

Wanda lowers her pizza to stare at him, “That’s way more than I thought there’d be. That’s a lot.”

“It is.”

A hand comes up to cover her mouth as she speaks, not wanting him to see the bite she took, “But…”

Vision has drawn out several factorial designs in his notebook, always loving the complexity of them and their ability to more thoroughly test theories. “When doing community based research, you should plan for a low response rate, like twenty-five percent,” he places his pizza on a table and goes to the board, uncapping a blue marker, “that would leave us with one hundred and fifty six likely participants. This assumes these are the only ones that look at the website.”

“Do you know if we can track who goes to the site?”

A very pertinent piece of information he does not have the expertise to answer, “I believe that is something we would need to discuss with Computer Science,” her nose crinkles at the suggestion. “When you do a factorial design, so let’s say we did a 2 - framing,” he writes the factors as RSVP first or RSVP second , “by 3 - couple composition,” and then he writes the three options Wanda had provided before, “in order to have sufficient power to get effects we would need roughly one hundred and fifty usable participants.”

“Then we have enough.”

This is where he keeps getting stuck, because technically, yes, they would be fine but he highly doubts the response rate of billionaires is anywhere close to the response rates of more normal incomed individuals. “I worry we will get closer to a 15% response, though I am happy to consider including such a manipulation.” Wanda seems to accept his concerns and not push it, even if her face says she wants to come back to it later. “I do think we can still code and analyze for demographic information of those who respond as it will likely influence their gift giving.” 

“Good.” It is said with finality, seeming to cement their tenuous design. “With quantum probability I want to have as many factors as possible to build the best model.”

Something he assumed would be the case, and something that he also likes to have even with his classical probability. The next question he prefaces with ignorance, “I am not certain how research in physics works,” a preface she lifts an eyebrow towards, on edge and ready to jump at whatever misinformation he might share, “but do you need to make your hypotheses a prior for the model?”

The jump doesn’t happen, simply a silent bite of pizza and an extended silence. “I’ll make some a priori, but I need to really look at all the possible variables we might code for first, which will have to wait until my grant is in on Friday.” Vision nods, mentally leaving that spot blank in the IRB so he does not forget to insert it. “What are you hypothesizing?”

“I am not sure we should share that information…” at least he had assumed they would not so that he does not influence her own hypothesizing or creation of the computational model. “What if my hypothesis influences yours?”

He watches her lips purse and left leg swing up and over the right one, a smugness and challenge in her stare that activates his sympathetic system, the marker passing back and forth between his hands as he waits for her to speak. “Keep your secrets then.”

Instantly his body calms, the threat gone and replaced by a fluttering amusement. “The last major issue,” there are a lot of minor ones they will need to iron out after her grant has been submitted and before the IRB is turned in, “who will be the bride and groom for the website?”

Wanda stands from her chair, hands wiping against her skirt, “Make sure to eat.” 

“Oh, yes.” He grabs his pizza and takes a bite on his way to join her back at the computer, head cocking to the side as she searches for “attractive couples” and scrolls through the pictures. “I do not think we can do that.”

The scrolling stops her “Why not,” said in a way that implies she is aware why not but wants confirmation. 

“What if they do a reverse image search?” The search immediately stops and she closes the page, putting them back to the blank wedding site and its all too familiar out of focus stars against a dark gray sky. “Did you base this on the cover of Rovelli’s book?”

She sits up straighter, shooting him a wink and a sly smirk, “Took you long enough to recognize it, thought it would be fun little Easter egg.” 

“I like it.”

A companionable and studious silence descends, the couple in the stock photo on the website smiling and taunting him with the fact they can’t actually use the picture. He has thought a lot about what to use, knowing that every single wedding website has pictures and without pictures they would potentially be adding a design confound to their study. Perhaps they should have one site without a photo and one with, a possibility he files away for later. “Can we pay some people to come in and take pictures for us?”

Vision has thought of this as well. “We could, though I imagine we will need more than a couple of pictures and I, personally,” he hates to admit this as he believes it makes him sound greedy or overly self-important, “do not wish to use my start-up funds for this since I have already allocated them to other projects.”

“That’s fair,” there is no apparent disgust at his greed, far more prevalent is understanding, “I don’t really have excess funds either to throw at this.” Again they descend into thoughtful quiet, broken again by Wanda. “Do you have any research assistants?” Vision shakes his head, at some point he will, but he has been informed that he needs a functioning lab before he can hire any additional help. “We could ask Sam-”

“No, I do not feel right asking for free labor from Sam’s assistants.” Particularly after all of the odd tasks Vision’s own advisor required of him during graduate school. He vowed he would never put anyone through such hoops. 

Wanda gets up to retrieve another slice, folding it expertly and dangling it into her mouth. It’s at this point that they make eye contact and he almost breaks it, except the way she is staring at him is like one would at a museum, when you see a painting from far away and squint to determine if it is worth leaving your current path or waiting until you mosey on over to that end. Wanda lowers the pizza and tentatively walks towards him. “You know we probably want two people that are reasonably attractive.”

Vision agrees, having already planned a small pilot test for the attractiveness of the photos. “Correct.”

“And we don’t have the money to pay them.”

“Yes, we have already covered that.” Now it feels like being hunted by a shark, the same feeling he had after she suggested this study. 

Wanda sits back down, angling her chair towards him. “Why don’t we do it then?”

“Well, I-” though his mind rages against the idea with a big, flashing neon NO, logic betrays him, mouth drying as his useless tongue is unable to articulate any sound reasons against it. To be truthful, Wanda is attractive and he is not wholly unattractive. Other than his height, he is fairly nondescript from any other white male of his age. There has to be a catch, there has to be some reason this shouldn’t work. “If they search for our images they will be sent to the Marvel Institute’s website and immediately realize our wedding is suspicious.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow, not buying the counterargument. “Well we’ll use different names and we could have a small disguise. Like dye our hair,” something he is not willing to do and nonverbally conveys. “I can dye my hair, always wanted to be a red-head, and you can, I don’t know, wear glasses.”

“That is preposterous.”

The chatter of the keyboard is his only response, her body bending towards the computer until she pulls up a picture and motions towards it, “Works for Superman.” 

It does and, if he remembers correctly, there was a recent study on the effectiveness of disguises that found, as long as the person did not know the individual in the picture, simple disguises like facial hair, altered hair color or style, and yes, a change like glasses effectively made people assume two pictures were different individuals. Empirically and logistically speaking, it is likely their best option. 

“It’ll work.” Wanda’s enthusiasm only seems to grow with each second while his own plummets. “We could even go on fake dates and get a lot of pictures and we won’t have to be paid for it.”

Vision can feel his dissonance being resolved the longer he sits in silence, his lack of verbally declining the option a clear sign he must be, at some level, accepting of it. “It would allow us more control over everything.” 

“It would.”

Appetite gone, Vision stares at his pizza, trying to see if there is any reason not to do it. “Would that be uncomfortable, to take the pictures?”

The unperturbed air from Wanda already answers it, but she adds in an equally casual shrug, “It’s not like we’ll be doing anything more than having to stand close to each other, I mean, we’re practically touching now.” Vision looks down and sees the barely inch of space between their shins and immediately scoots backwards a hair to create a more professional distance. “I don’t mind.” In another circumstance, he would be flattered by the implicit trust she has to even offer this, a clear sign, he thinks, that she does not view him as threatening. Would she be offering this if the other Victor was her collaborator? “But if you aren’t comfortable with it, we’ll find another solution.”

Vision finally looks at her, studying the utter lack of hesitancy on her face and the gentle concern in her eyes about his own feelings on the matter. Social trust and connection is something he has difficulty with in his own life. Logic can help him with this decision. Wanda is trusted by Natasha, a person with even greater social trust issues than himself, and if Natasha trusts her and Wanda is as sincere as she seems now, it should not be an issue. “I suppose it can’t hurt to try it.”

[maxscheinin]

Ghost Story

at a certain point, you wind up belonging to a place, your outcome gets bound up with or enters into some sort of spiritual contract with a place… until you go away—but even then “you” remain enmeshed with the location; some might argue that “you” are only persisting in the memories of your former co-denizens, but maybe it’s the impalpable pressure of your energy on the air, and maybe those floating cushions of air-energy are ghosts!…

I am always interacting with the ghosts, so as to settle scores. There are certain things you can do that just get them. They are not unreactive, they will be goaded, which I think is symptomatic of their having nothing to do—boredom is what-happens-now?, it is when-does-now-end?, it is pervasively prickling no-not-this, so the ghosts are primed and watching for any new direction in the flow of events, are indeed seeking evidence of disruptive or otherwise emergent activity, and may sometimes, in auto-manifesting swarms, focus their concentration-beams at whatever current of energy was momentarily just throbbing without apparent cause in a patch of air in my red-carpeted and red-curtained living room, where they spend all their time waiting for an event, writhing the sweaty afternoon away. Dust motes spin past the glass window, past the red curtain; sun pours in—it is July. The ghosts live in such anticipation that they become always pre-something, and so their outrage flares like the pain at a poked pressure point when I rib them over their customs.

Like smashing the mirrors. The ghosts take that action as a kind of direct affront, because (this is true) when you smash a mirror, you snip a ghost free from the spiritual (that is to say non-material) root-system to which each forever remains wispily tethered after first sprouting off it—until the thing happens in our plane that brings about the said abrupt snipping-off and withering-up of a certain remote ghost. Each of the ghosts persists, in other words, until such event occurs in our biological realm with which a seemingly arbitrary ghost’s last second of survival is pre-destined to be correlated.

Now it is law that a ghost cannot get deracinated in or around the space where the fatal-to-it event occurs; so when I get home with a bag full of new mirrors and a big iron-headed hammer (clunky and chunky with a wood handle to grip), and I stride into the living room and yell, “Let’s! Smash! Mirrors!,” none of my ecto-denizens has anything to fear from me, they are almost safer because ghost-decimating activity is taking place here (which has to make it at least somewhat less likely to also be happening in another place at the same time, I think).

But the very action of clubbing the mirrors—thunking ’em and assailing ’em, swingin’ at ’em and sending ’em off to the land of many infinitesimal shard-crumbs—in itself enflames the ghosts, who are an angry and selfish and dismally dark, indignant lot; lacking any sense of community, any stirring of solidarity with their fellow ectos, blackly rapacious as sharks, the ghosts nonetheless stick to their taboos with predictable, stupid zealousness.

Just think of it. They all know they aren’t targets, yet they all shriek and screech as though their roots are getting transgressed—as though they’re getting wronged or being fucked with, getting humiliated or being given a real good mussing-up, and I mean they carry on. They are without feeling for one another. They say that they accept the mystery of their pre-fated ends—but when they see me wailing on the mirrors like a teen boy banging on bongos, fuckers go apeshit, and I mean they howl.

They are impervious to Reason; sometimes when I am patiently pointing out to them a certain logically necessary if emotionally inconvenient aspect of their fatalistic doctrine (namely that it dictates my fundamental non-culpability in smashing those mirrors, since the ghosts then killed are already fated to then be killed), a hush comes upon them and I feel I am being listened to, that they are making an earnest effort to exert and exercise their innate capacity to stand receptive to Reason—not merely announce and announce and announce that they are discontent.

But then the howling starts—the rising, swelling “Oooooooohhhh” that is all quivery like a theremin in an alien movie, bearing down on me and I can tell they mean it to be bearing down on me, which I take to be an escalation, as it represents a moment in which my sincere effort to engage the ghosts as thinking beings is met retaliatorily by their deployment of a sonic effect intended to induce dread.

And I get my face and my eyelids coated by a mist of finely pulverized glass when I bring my meaty Paul Bunyan arm crashing down on the stupid mirror (and send it to the place where obliterated, demolished mirrors go); whereas they get only the meaningless-to-them knowledge that somewhere some ghost’s ecto-tendrils have been swiftly severed from the spiritual root-system whence the ghosts sprout.

But we all bear witness to the turning of the wheel. And sometimes I ask myself whether it isn’t that which sets them against me. No one ever told me I couldn’t read a room and I know how it is when I go into the living room (or should I say into their room?). Because you do not know the mood of a room from how the people in it are standing and configured; nor from the variety of decibel levels present across a range of conversations, and whether the volume spikes scatter in that space so randomly and basically evenly as to indicate uninhibited room-wide jollity. And you do not know it from psychologically exact seeing-into of the motivations of those who act friendly when you’re getting reintroduced to them. You know the temperature in the room from—something else—beyond all that.

And when a room’s occupants are floating, transparent and opalescent and tentacle-trailing paper lanterns, which moreover seem not to solidly be where they show up (leaving unresolved the matter of whether their forms are only partially present in our dimension, or whether they are of different stuff than we), in that circumstance you especially rely on that something else, beyond all that to detect the energetic/emotional frequency of the space you are entering. For there is nothing certain about how they will display—but the buzzing, writhing swarming of their presence will be known as sensation and will therefore be incontrovertible, like the breeze on your skin.

The ghosts’ concentration-beams are not exactly concentration-beams, but it’s what they do. It is the activity of their concentration-beams that I extent my own tendrils into, to—not to monitor, but rather to mingle with. (Just as I would do in a room full of live ones, extending my spirit-tendrils to dip and sip the living auras and so know what energy they’re emanating). My “tendrils” are the thingum by means of which I read the swarm’s collective energetic mist, the method of communion by which I get apprised of their hostility.

But we all look into the abyss together when I club a mirror (smash it, thwunk it, kerwhop it); together, we watch a turning of the wheel. They wish to hold me accountable for the abridgment of the being of some ghost somewhere, I reject this view as logically irreconcilable with their own position that the material-plane event that coincides temporally with a ghost’s last instant is determined forever before it occurs, meaning that I am a mere instrument of eternal destiny when I am tiddle-zerblonking the thoroughly wrecked, destroyed and ruined, everloving shit out of those hundreds and thousands and tens of thousands of mirrors. But rather than noting that, fascinatingly, there is a divergence between their own view that nothing is to be done about the outcome of events, and my view that, for this to be the case, I must be free of any moral responsibility for my pre-scripted actions—rather than noting this like rational ectos, the ghosts just blast whole hoses’ worth of hostile energy at me—and it is like screaming but it is not screaming, and it is like burning but it does not burn up, and it is like shrieking agony but the energy is not just about wishing to get away.

Because however they may cry that it is torment to be associated with my house, and however they may gnash their fangs and spit white-hot sparks and those other, more mashed-up combusting bits at me, while bemoaning that they should be stuck with me—it still is the case that I am only the instrument of fatality; that all beings and things, without exception, are marked as mortal from long before the date of their first becoming; that I am only a noisy reminder that ghosts must also depart and encounter with nullity.

I share this understanding with them—we do it together. They are like see-through tentacled paper lanterns that spew streaming, crackling trails of firebits through their mouthslits from out of their guttering, croaking, air-coveting guts. And I am just like that, because when I am assailing mirrors—when I am gathering momentum on the backswing and then bringing my hammerclub boom down smack hard right in the mirror’s bullseye ZONK!—my guts get hotter and hotter and then the flames leap with maddened, oxygenated self-declaring clamor into my chest and create branches that lace throughout, and graspingly wrap about nodes spread throughout, my chest, and then this whooshing, flying uprush of self-regenerating power spreads to my face, through my cheeks and through my eyes and then comes thrusting out of my big wide open mouth, a roar that they can feel on their papery outsides the way I can feel their spark-breath on my outsides.

The same fire rushes through us all; I know what I make them feel; when I go to buy the mirrors, I know. But that is how it is to look right into the moment of terrible lastness. The end is written into the beginning—Nature has her ways. And the ghosts should not hate me simply because I remind them of this, for that is not sporting. All of us play by the same rules and for the same stakes! When I have finished with smashing mirrors, I settle down into my red-upholstered armchair, run a hand through my hair; catching my reflection in the ornately framed cheval mirror angled at me where it lives beside the standalone bookcase, I observe myself playing a part—and stop.

[gutterlaureate]

Storm Tunnels Or     Thanks for Your Thoughts and Prayers, God was Elsewhere By Punch (J. Christopher Alexander) October 2017 Asking to describe the meaningful where we've seen is trying to describe the severity of a fever dream, waking wet and trembling. Skimming the images ghostly hollows or haunted castle reverie, greenhouse windows and hot house flowers fundraisers for laser Jets and laze fair suffer gents, bathing in the warm jets and all for the benefit of a deity we needed to invent. We’ve got a couple of cigarettes and some blame, but no way of paying the rent to our name, despite the sincerest of intentions, as they went and they came. So, we've been packing up clothes, who knows where for, already our bags are heavy with careworn regrets and filled with memories and the shit we'd gathered and the best of two bits, oh, and the aforementioned couple of cigarettes and here we sit, and that appears to be it. We are more broken than upset, the voices having spoken and so be it. I suppose; our relatives, the elegant swells would rather we kept our nose closed. something to show for all our woes and chosen regrets, and yeah, just so it’s known, it's only slowly sinking in yet. We are a nation of disingenuous genius,meaning hidden under our breaths. a lifetime isn't whole until our deaths.with all our holy follies and noble foibles and hitting the skids, into your final stretch , how many families with kids are needing to be clothed and fed, feelings of guilt and regret that has you and everyone walking around acting sketched? only ever hear people complain and kvetch. sure we could take responsibility , it would be quite a stretch, to each their own as were bred, surveying the suburban maze of palaces that dot this dystopian palisade of pleasurable dread There are how many thousands of betrothed vying for a few hundred shelter beds? Make your way through the channels we call a panhandling hustle route through the hoops of the charity parade. whatever crumbs you have coming from your crusty bread some watered down sugary assurance, some tersely worded furtherance in these murky waters we wade, every way puts the “airy” in temporary aid  . meanwhile while the arbitrary adversaries sitting in judgement of you, those are the motherfuckers drinking soda and sparkling lemonade,denying your relocating, and misplacing displaced aid those are the same distasteful  bitches are the first in getting paid, the bleached blond skechers on the bleachers speaking all kinds of shit and throwing shade while they're at it   How many of us stop to consider, here in the moment as all of us roam, how our lives are as alarming as …. and every bit as charming as the hysterical vines and as weirdly lyrical as any devotional mosaic or the greatest of poems     and still we are only these lonesome and anonymous travelers looking for a home. It's all as normal as  falling in the flood channels landing in these storm tunnels where you are on your own and never alone. everyday there are more pouring through the rain drains than ever before. reports are thick with sorted over statistics of those sick stick figures  mainlining the divine while idling at stop signs and the ideal of five and dimes. The rest of us are gamblers, webMASTERS and madams hey everyone has a scam its that not everyone is as …. I am, LIKE most SHOULD give a goddamn, GOOD i’D SUGGEST YES, THE REST are MERE pests, STANDARDIZED TEST pessimists HALF EMPTY OPTIMIST and out of town guests, moronic jesters, just YESTERDAY, clowning around HARD with eyes scanning the AROUND for a discarded  lottery card NUMBERED STORY pacing up and down THERE IN THE PAPERED OVER GROUNDS  for a savior ,owing them a favor in forty different assorted sorts of flavors,SURE WILL BE EASILY FOUND  and like all of your neighbors they are just hanging around. in the whole town of the renowned neon lit atomic testing grounds. So for all of us pavement denizens, attractive alcoholics, SINCERE RED HAIRED AISANS , for the brown and white man, for the down and counted clowns and drug addiLED juggler and parents PADDLING  in the rearview mirror, those forgotten and lost after the years they are where? does that hardly seem fair?    A STIRRED UP PERSON IS  usually disturbed  PEOPLE ARE A COLLECTION OF VERBS  as nouns sorted scurry off to some great lost or los profound, in the thoroughfares and carnival fairs all new downtown. they might even learn a hussle or two or two selling used tattoos to tourists for a buck or two, some people seem to be hit with a truck load of troubles and others seem to be very well off.  some people are sincere some people sneer leery of every little bit of a cough, some people might not have a job , looking for a trophy wife , some are named Paul or all too involved in the evolving problem of jonas Salk or Peter Falk and others are slobs taking a walk  People shoveling well into the personal wishing wells of themselves, a gallery exhibit of the self created theater of personal hell, and let them revel  DAMN,I am not a lamb never sought being brought about to slaughter from the first splatter of flood waters  startled alarm our sons and daughters arms thin, starving the beginning of storm tunnels carved underground, hollowed and the goings of the low, The storm tunnels; stark cement gardens, power supply flowers, their generous largess of broken hearted darkness.  The squatters and the empty housed, souls after being tossed about. those who normally fall have only fallen once they fell, toughest of offering, Storm Tunnel dwellers. America, how come being poor is a prisonable offence America, why are the mentally Ill sleeping naked on cardboard cots shivering with half a blanket, America, are you upset? Geo episodes, bio hazard toads, nuclear code administered nuclear winter, hesitant event AMERICA,  why are even the steeples weeping  AMERICA,  riot gear tear gas canisters  in defiant might; i created a curtain of stars dirtying our laundry, BROKE A SHEET OF GLASS OVER MY OWN HEAD AND AS YOU’D EXPECT I WON THE BET AND NEVER DID GET TO COLLECT and does that sound fair ??? Thanks for the thoughtlessness of your rotten little thoughts and the woe begotten insincerity of your prayers,  God was elsewhere  or absconded with the holy coffers or if like most pontiffs the deity was armed with porno magazines and vaseline, the holy father last seen tossing one off.

[thepunchpoetryiam]

Storm Tunnels Or     Thanks for Your Thoughts and Prayers, God was Elsewhere By Punch (J. Christopher Alexander) October 2017 Asking to describe the meaningful where we've seen is trying to describe the severity of a fever dream, waking wet and trembling. Skimming the images ghostly hollows or haunted castle reverie, greenhouse windows and hot house flowers fundraisers for laser Jets and laze fair suffer gents, bathing in the warm jets and all for the benefit of a deity we needed to invent. We’ve got a couple of cigarettes and some blame, but no way of paying the rent to our name, despite the sincerest of intentions, as they went and they came. So, we've been packing up clothes, who knows where for, already our bags are heavy with careworn regrets and filled with memories and the shit we'd gathered and the best of two bits, oh, and the aforementioned couple of cigarettes and here we sit, and that appears to be it. We are more broken than upset, the voices having spoken and so be it. I suppose; our relatives, the elegant swells would rather we kept our nose closed. something to show for all our woes and chosen regrets, and yeah, just so it’s known, it's only slowly sinking in yet. We are a nation of disingenuous genius,meaning hidden under our breaths. a lifetime isn't whole until our deaths.with all our holy follies and noble foibles and hitting the skids, into your final stretch , how many families with kids are needing to be clothed and fed, feelings of guilt and regret that has you and everyone walking around acting sketched? only ever hear people complain and kvetch. sure we could take responsibility , it would be quite a stretch, to each their own as were bred, surveying the suburban maze of palaces that dot this dystopian palisade of pleasurable dread There are how many thousands of betrothed vying for a few hundred shelter beds? Make your way through the channels we call a panhandling hustle route through the hoops of the charity parade. whatever crumbs you have coming from your crusty bread some watered down sugary assurance, some tersely worded furtherance in these murky waters we wade, every way puts the “airy” in temporary aid  . meanwhile while the arbitrary adversaries sitting in judgement of you, those are the motherfuckers drinking soda and sparkling lemonade,denying your relocating, and misplacing displaced aid those are the same distasteful  bitches are the first in getting paid, the bleached blond skechers on the bleachers speaking all kinds of shit and throwing shade while they're at it   How many of us stop to consider, here in the moment as all of us roam, how our lives are as alarming as …. and every bit as charming as the hysterical vines and as weirdly lyrical as any devotional mosaic or the greatest of poems     and still we are only these lonesome and anonymous travelers looking for a home. It's all as normal as  falling in the flood channels landing in these storm tunnels where you are on your own and never alone. everyday there are more pouring through the rain drains than ever before. reports are thick with sorted over statistics of those sick stick figures  mainlining the divine while idling at stop signs and the ideal of five and dimes. The rest of us are gamblers, webMASTERS and madams hey everyone has a scam its that not everyone is as …. I am, LIKE most SHOULD give a goddamn, GOOD i’D SUGGEST YES, THE REST are MERE pests, STANDARDIZED TEST pessimists HALF EMPTY OPTIMIST and out of town guests, moronic jesters, just YESTERDAY, clowning around HARD with eyes scanning the AROUND for a discarded  lottery card NUMBERED STORY pacing up and down THERE IN THE PAPERED OVER GROUNDS  for a savior ,owing them a favor in forty different assorted sorts of flavors,SURE WILL BE EASILY FOUND  and like all of your neighbors they are just hanging around. in the whole town of the renowned neon lit atomic testing grounds. So for all of us pavement denizens, attractive alcoholics, SINCERE RED HAIRED AISANS , for the brown and white man, for the down and counted clowns and drug addiLED juggler and parents PADDLING  in the rearview mirror, those forgotten and lost after the years they are where? does that hardly seem fair?    A STIRRED UP PERSON IS  usually disturbed  PEOPLE ARE A COLLECTION OF VERBS  as nouns sorted scurry off to some great lost or los profound, in the thoroughfares and carnival fairs all new downtown. they might even learn a hussle or two or two selling used tattoos to tourists for a buck or two, some people seem to be hit with a truck load of troubles and others seem to be very well off.  some people are sincere some people sneer leery of every little bit of a cough, some people might not have a job , looking for a trophy wife , some are named Paul or all too involved in the evolving problem of jonas Salk or Peter Falk and others are slobs taking a walk  People shoveling well into the personal wishing wells of themselves, a gallery exhibit of the self created theater of personal hell, and let them revel  DAMN,I am not a lamb never sought being brought about to slaughter from the first splatter of flood waters  startled alarm our sons and daughters arms thin, starving the beginning of storm tunnels carved underground, hollowed and the goings of the low, The storm tunnels; stark cement gardens, power supply flowers, their generous largess of broken hearted darkness.  The squatters and the empty housed, souls after being tossed about. those who normally fall have only fallen once they fell, toughest of offering, Storm Tunnel dwellers. America, how come being poor is a prisonable offence America, why are the mentally Ill sleeping naked on cardboard cots shivering with half a blanket, America, are you upset? Geo episodes, bio hazard toads, nuclear code administered nuclear winter, hesitant event AMERICA,  why are even the steeples weeping  AMERICA,  riot gear tear gas canisters  in defiant might; i created a curtain of stars dirtying our laundry, BROKE A SHEET OF GLASS OVER MY OWN HEAD AND AS YOU’D EXPECT I WON THE BET AND NEVER DID GET TO COLLECT and does that sound fair ??? Thanks for the thoughtlessness of your rotten little thoughts and the woe begotten insincerity of your prayers,  God was elsewhere  or absconded with the holy coffers or if like most pontiffs the deity was armed with porno magazines and vaseline, the holy father last seen tossing one off.