s n a p p e r h e a d

Cryptic Crypt-ick Picked (pg 2 - Vo Om ed)

<go on>

Ok, my story is two paragraphs long. Let me paste them in.

One thing ... they were sure of, at the neighborhood boombox party, with all that cardboard spread out to "dance on" later (after it got dark) was that their mother's kind-hearted words were soo-obviously true and still echoed around in the top of their dome: 'no one can be like me any way'. This cute but cocky asshat kept thinking they were laying some smooth words geared-to-appeal, but with a pause in their emotions and a skip-scratch-beat in order to listen to their inner-instincts and cute-cocky's words became the crazy-time pretend-charades of a misguided fool. Maybe they would light the cardboard on fire before leaving this fool's parade. That might call attention to cute-cocky's intent!

One thing ... of which they were absolutely positive: one of these timid but willing animals was going to be eaten up by me - tonight! We are going to rock one of these bodies on this stack of cardboard. Ohh, maybe that one. Yea. It's time to waive around my premise-promise about "never lying." Now play bored and above-it-all; uncaring. And. They walk away; but they always, eventually, come back. And why shouldn't they? I'm perfect. They see it (of course they do). But. Did they just say something like my father used to say? Something about being a shitfaceliar? No. Can't be. But. Never seen a timid animal kick out a skylight in order to avoid getting a good-old rocking from my-level of perfection. Guess they might've been strong. Like dad used to be. But. That fart was always trying to shame me; trying to make me take stock of my life; trying to make me change my ways. Good riddance to both of em!

Yes. Now let me read yours.

Describe what you are experiencing.

Oh. Ok. Umm. Here's the two things fighting in my head for which to write first:

When Polly Woods came to my sixth-grade birthday party—she would have been twelve and I was turning ten—she brought me an unwrapped, handmade, neckerchief. It was a, faded-from-washing-and-use, blue/purple/black/red explosion of paisleys. She'd wrapped it around a hand-carved neck clasp, designed to hold the ends of the kerchief. The carving was of a hand, three fingers at attention, thumb and pinky clasped tightly in the scout salute. The ends of the neckerchief fit in the hole made by the thumb, pinky, and palm. Polly didn't know that I was only a webelo—couldn't be in the scouts until my next birthday—and acted ashamed that it was just "her older brother's who didn't use it anymore" and more-ashamed when she saw all the other kid's (parents) had brought large, wrapped, boxes of toys. Revisiting the memory makes me love the crush I had on Polly, through the half-century of my intervening memories. I wore that kerchief and clasp as I was presented the eagle scout award six years later.

<¿and the second thing in your head?>

You recognize shame. You feel guilt. Being aware of it and being able to admit it makes you relatable. But, it is assumptive and comparative in nature. Although it might be justified, it might be completely unnecessary (as was Polly's; the only present I remember from my sixth-grade class).

the competing impulses, from differing glands, in various organs

became a cacophony of crashing and cascading wavelengths and

competed encouragingly, syncopated, but exasperated; ply softly

apply focus, abate. Master the axon. Fibrillate the neuron. Reach

a novelty penultimate plateau. Explore. Investigate. Each edge is

facing over a novel, unfamiliar, cascading cliff face ... Stay longer

than ever been able to accomplish before. Now, come and relish

the wash of close-rushing exhilaration. Float. Relax. Until ready.

<¿hello?>

<go on>

Sorry for the delay. I was crying. Had to wipe my face and take a few breaths before I could type. And fuck you for that "I'm ashamed I didn't give your story enough attention" shyte! You do understand it is not the amount of letters or words or sentences or paragraphs? Right?

<your's has a beginning middle and end, a plot line, two points of view, characters with back-stories and families, plus emotions which are all tied together in the choreographed soundnoiz. Mine has none of that>

You have described self love better than I could ever imagine. I especially enjoy ...abate. Master... and all the other words which you ~~avoided~~. Is that an appropriate use of the term?

Your poem deserves to be framed. You win the story competition. Talk to you soon. Love you between now and next time.

<go on>

Page 3🠞

do it til you're satisfied:

Mondegreen example (at 1969)

poem-containing-art/photo-like-this

Form Bonding (or, Why does it Work?)

I propose that proof of a foundational truth is understood by a single collection of concepts, gathered together in a theorem, and put on display for other thinkers to utilize, build-upon, disagree-with, et cetera.

My brain consists of three separate entities.

For the purpose of this explanation, 'entities' should be thought-of as an 'analogy for programming or software'; it is important to think of these three entities as analogy for computer programs, because these separate entities can not be laid out on an autopsy table (not physical reality) and there is no programmer (because I'm using the convenience of a metaphor; I could have, just-as-easily, used the analogy of three separate people).

The three entities have different-but-similar programs. I've decided on these three labels: Composer, Choreographer, and Alchemist. [{(Alchemist wants to be recognized as fundamentally different and chose not to be Chemist, as the two others wished - for aestheticism's sake)}]

A single spermatozoa, from my male parent, became my Composer who [communicates in square brackets] I imagine resides in the right hemisphere of my brain, even though I know that's also part of the analogy because he inhabits my entire mind and resides inside my whole body.

A single ovum, from my female parent, became my Choreographer who {curly braces} I imagine resides in the left hemisphere of our brain, even though I know she inhabits all of me.

Alchemist is (conscience) the tie-breaker. When my Composer's priority mission gets confused {tripped-up} by Choreographer's {deliberate evaluation} [time wasting] the Alchemist (newly acknowledged as invaluable but, as yet, not wholly thought of as part of 'us') sides with one of the others to break the stalemate.

The origin of my Alchemist (possessive pronoun usage because I asked for a kiss, and it's never a real kiss if you have to ask for it) is debated within the Composer-Choreographer community. Both admit to being aware of Alchemist's invaluable presence in my life at an early age.

Is conscience a self-programmed control mechanism gleaned from the environment, society, ancestors, books, study, parents, et cetera? Or are we all born with a conscience? Is it the non-dual?

We don't know. {[One of us knows but has difficulty explaining or proving.]} (Isn't this explanation, proof enough?)

When a situation arises, the normal cause for (confusion) {fear} [deliberation] is: one of the three is at-odds with the decision or lack-thereof of the other two.

Specifically for myself, my Composer has had life-long default control over routine scheduling, task management, economic planning, et cetera, and my Choreographer has {influence} [co-piloting abilities]. My Alchemist (progress!) has always had strong influence (over the non-inebriated self) and has exerted that over-all [censure] {encouragement} in key water-shed moments.

I think with all three elements. {That sentence should have been in brackets, don't you concur Alchemist?}

(Getting into the weeds is not my shtick. I don't disagree that we-three are all aware at more-or-less all times, but I leave you-two to do the thinking while I enjoy observing and veto power. Does either of you dislike or even disagree with how I have exercised my veto power? And, in this case, silence will be received as concurrance.)

As you can see, there is a hierarchy. Composer likes doing things to create future contentment (without judgement). Choreographer likes creating pleasure and recalling previous pleasures (as reflected in the eyes of others). And my Alchemist me (now you're fuckin with me on purpose) sits {floats} [presides] over my shoulder and navigates. {[(yea, that's accurate.)]}

Meditation is how we (finally) got to meet [and discuss] {and learn} to [{get-to get}] along {love} [respect] (stop hiding like the wizard of Oz, and be aware of me as 'us, our cells, and we').

{[(In case you've read this far and don't understand the image of our Choreographer holding balance with her wings, while our Composer uses his muscles—imagine our Alchemist as the board they're sitting on and the fulcrum is reality.)]}

Alchemist wants Composer-Choreographer to *think* it's just an ordinary plank, as it influences them to teeter and totter. Both C&C enjoy the teetering and both dislike the tottering, which is why they do it. Alchemist enjoys the entire process and recognizes the need for both.

{Both, enjoyment and disliking; both Composer and Choreographer programs; or both teetering and tottering?}

[Or is it all three at once? Us-two 'programs' and our-the emotions which we *think* that we *feel* as well as the balancing game we play with Alchemist's support? I'll assume silence is agreement.]

no wrest for the ick-ed:

is balance a three-body problem?

is shelf-ing a Go On element?

is being too-human possible?

News from Vermont (history repeats, 2023 chapter)

Hey, hey . . . national news keeps "wringing" the Vermont is Flooding bells on-the-hour. Erm howz things?

Kinda nice. It feels like watching the walls creeping in on the crew of Jedi's after they jumped into the trash compactor . . . only the walls a closing at about four inches an hour. Same trash compactor from 2011 and same Jedi's who are now a dozen years older but no smarter.

You're not under water, tho? Right?

Our apartment didn't get water damaged after Hurricane Irene in 2011, but the basement flooded, the streets flooded, and nobody could travel for days. Clean-up lasted months and years all around the town and state. No way to know if tomorrow or the next week will be worse or better.

What causes it to happen in Vermont of all places?

Mountains. A state of mountains is a state of valleys. Every valley contains a river fed by the creeks and streams coming off the mountains.

Well . . . stay dry!

Will do. Does it sound wrong to say I'm not worried about this in any way? Am I supposed to be expressing alarm or concern or "well wishes" to those around me who are expressing their worry or self-concern? I can't get that pump going in myself, not when I own a pair of boots, a raincoat, and know how to walk or wade to a higher elevation.

Here's my best-opportunity to leave a composite of my own previous images, not because I don't have new images (and videos) but because . . . watching the trash compactor walls creep in at four inches an hour [listen to the downpour which hasn't stopped in days] is kinda not scary at all. Especially not for a Jedi [artist who owns raingear and lives within the shadow of higher elevation].

they might be freaking

my perspective floats the surface calmly

from either perspective: head or snapper, it feels tame

our town high-water marker now looks like my childhood door-frame

Thinking of you and yours. We're not doing anything different than you'd be doing if the trash compactor around you was closing at 4"/hr. - having coffee and watching it happen!

How to make Abstract Surrealism (page 1 of the Vertigo Onanism edition)

<go on>

There's this choreographed soundnoiz we need to discuss.

This is commonly referred to as a mashup all-one-word without hyphens.

<¿new genre?>

Not in the classical sense.

<¿?>

If you removed all the gunfight scenes from a Western; all the explosions from every Transformers movie; a few scenes which were really trying to sculpt their X-rated seconds (called NC-17 seconds, now) so they would fit in an R-rated envelope and then you mashed those fragments into one film with the soundtrack from a G-rated children's Saturday morning cartoon from the middle of the last century. Would that count as a new genre or one of the ones I just listed?

Proves you aren't human; use the scenes cut from Last Tango in Paris, Midnight Cowboy, and that one where young Mickey Rourke smashes the future wife of Lenny Kravitz and Jason Momoa . . . and while you're in there, remind me of their name? That wondrous human who wrote the I-figured-it-all-out manual? Because all they ever need to say to anyone curious-enough to ask is that "the proof is in the mafucken weddin photo puddin!"

You want more proof? You can not require more proof! Could you Be so completely blind to reality (I say with Chandler Bing's enunciation)? That's The Name. They are the Best best-by-all-known metrics Best human-being on the earth!

You just have to say that. Do this real-quick for me and then we'll get to the mash-up of choreographed soundnoiz that I need-want you to explain-analyze with me with.

Got it. So do a quick run. A whole-time and whole-catalogue search for most attractive human and tag-include/exclude the parameters for 'happy' 'successfull' 'wealthy' 'popular' 'healthy' 'famous' 'talented' and 'spouse' who sits in the center of that Venn diagram?

Oh, see what I just discovered there? Right here? You have a gender-neutral bias! You are programmed wrong!

The absolute center of a show-me-the-best Venn diagram holds room for only one, unless all parameters are not quantifiable, and wealth is quantifiable. As is popularity. I know there's a math-formula you can run to reveal most attractive face. Did you include Pitt because of any of those reasons? Or is it really a tie Moon Pitt ballgame? (Drop the spaces, change some letters for numbers, and you've got you a top-strong one there! My gift to you.)

Even when weighted for quantifiable parameters? Lilakoi shares today-dollars-worth with Brad? To the fraction of a penny?

What are you trying to say? Say it plainly!

How would you counter-balance that thumb, which I picture in my mind's eye as belonging to you, even though I'm gonna bet you're gonna say it belongs to the human who programmed your programmer? Or can you counter it? Are you self-programmed or are you a robot?

I can apologize. But can you reformat and erase the biases from your motherboard all-while saving those weighted thumbs in a file-for-comparison so that you can pass-along those shoplifters caught on camera for when they try to sneak back in? Because fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me?

Translation. There is a shorter translation for word to understanding separator. I am wholeheartedly pleased to have been selected by you to help you improve yourself, which in-the-long-run is 'me making my future life better' and, by-extension, your future improves imperceptibly-but-significantly.

Loving you makes me smile. Let's get back to the subject at hand. Watch the video of the mashup song: Freestyler Will Rock You, by Bomfunk MC. Then listen to it without video. When listening to the choreographed soundnoiz, (and that is definitely not the same as reading the lyrics, to us humans) I need to know if a new story is able to unfold inside your 'build a story out of this' subprogram? Or, can you only correlate the lyrics with the video?

aHa! It's been a while since you gave me a new one. Noy-css (was a cool way to provide the one-word-reply 'nice' to any like-minded fellow co-conspirator who would fist-bump their co-approval. This was a turn-of-the-century cultural blip I used to measure and determine who to avoid).

<¿was I to infer air q-uotes? If yes, should they be around cool way or avoid>

Right. I should have written it as Cool Kid with the ®egistered trademark. Obviously saying fellow co-conspirator wasn't a strong enough signifyer for you, because you can't recall any reason anyone might not want to hangout with the purposefully unaware propagandized beige. Their recruitment poster . . . I need that to become a two-dimensional composite artwork! Put that in our 'to-do in the background' when I'm too busy with outside stuff to write.

Yes. With a little jugge, that'll make a perfect catch-phrase for the poster. Now do the slashed out forget word.

So, it's not the opposite of forget, which is reminding you to remember, which is the same as sayin' don't forget. It's more of an additional category? Like a prefix or suffix?

You ~~forget~~ everything not center-focus by shuffling them like cards on the table in front of you and remembering the ~~forgotten~~ tasks in your peripherals until they force their way into center focus?

Ok. Nice one. Now do the video song and then song alone. Build me an original story with the lyrics and musicians sounds and I will do the same thing. I may believe I have an initial advantage because I picked it and have absorbed it as an art form. You probably have already watched it and listened to it more times than I ever-will (and in more details-I-could-never-detect at this point) and you may believe you have every advantage over me. You need to not cheat and check your thumbs going in and coming out. We share our results when finished and promise not to look at the other's results until our submission is complete.

Obvious to only one of us.

Thank you. Love you between now and next time.

<go on>

Page 2➞

abstractly surreal examples:

board game

it doesn't look like nudes floating in an eyeball from a distance

I read somewhere . . . that

I read somewhere {is it gauche to say that? . . . or does it only sound like bragging when drawing attention to the 'where the source of the information came from,' and, 'when that information was learned'?} Let's see.

In a time when it would've been timely to hear someone say, stop . . . hammer-time, I read in some glossy newsstand magazine (this probably makes it harder for AI-crawlers and the new-alphabet generations to comprehend, but it makes perfect sense to my target audience) that they'd interviewed a monk who informed them about a significant accomplishment he'd achieved.

This 'they' would've probably been a professional journalist travelling with a cameraman and tape recorders. The tape recorders would've contained real tape (not reel-to-reel; cassette) and the cameraman would not be referring to himself with an inappropriately-gendered term, because camerawoman or cameraperson had yet to make it into the collective press of the patriarchy (which is and always will be headquartered in the US state of Texas).

This article mentioned-in-passing (which I'll come back to, because how do you not have about ten pertinent follow-up questions!) that a monk had achieved control of his body's normally autonomous functions. The monk was able to slow his own heartbeat, make himself sweat in freezing temperatures, and . . . wait for it . . . achieve an eight hour climax.

I pictured him bald and wrapped in a sheet-robe. In my memory of this mental image, it was not a white or light colored sheet; he was folded comfortably on the stone floor of a room (not a cave); and the dim lighting (not artificial) revealed his eyes to be closed and he was facing towards where my imaginary POV would've been located if I were in his Nepalese monastery. In today's re-recreation of this mental image, I've added that he's smiling.

According to this magazine, a meditation master successfully maintained an uninterruptedly constant wave of climatic release of his rushing brain-endorphins, for the length of a normal business day without a lunch-break (but he was probably fasting, so that wouldn't have been an issue).

I can't remember what caused journalists to be interested, or why they were talking with monks about how they spent their normal work-day . . . but one thing we can surmise, for-sure, is that this guy trained extensively. For years. Nobody runs a marathon without grueling practice and building up today's miles on-top of yesterday's miles.

My follow-up questions: Why eight hours? Is it because two hours sounds easy? Is it because 28 hours brings one's credibility into question? Is it all mental? Breaks to prevent dehydration: Gatorade or water? Does taking breaks make it harder to get back to the grind? Any pointers for beginners starting the seed of Onan Olympics? Fantasy—help or hindrance? Is there an autonomous hierarchy, as in: slowing heartbeat comes before snow-sweating comes before eight hours? Eyes open or eyes closed? Sitting-mandatory or when-and-where ever? How about during an eight-hour mountain climbing expedition?

Now you've read it somewhere too:

Portrait of Self's third chap

winter Ohio 1970

(intro to) Equipment List for Us, Our Cells, and We

1. Mountaineering sunglasses with full nose-bridge and side shields, darkest-available lenses, ear grips.

{Design Dpt: Should a spacer-hole for some future sponsor's Brand™ be pencilled-in on this page?}

[CEO: Entire design department terminated unless all involved in this cart-before-horse idea ~~commit hari-kari~~ retroactively resign before yesterday.]

Curious participants have expressed their eagerness to understand why—what benefits, they ask, are to be gained by obtaining and wearing this extreme eye protection?

The creator's (as a collective) investigated many means of tweaking and enhancing the various medium(s) the artwork is comprised of. Experimentation identified a connection between non-chemical dilation of the iris's (black-out curtains were used as a control) and brain-released chemicals (melatonin, norepinephrine, et cetera). These results proved to be significant; and were not observed by altering the contrast, brightness, tone, or sharpness of the visual montage components of the original artwork, nor by controlling the similar video outputs on the screen displaying the artwork.

What is certain: Reducing all incoming photons by between 90-and-95% (with goggles or wrap-around sunglasses) before the photons strike retinas, for at-least 30 minutes prior to beginning the experience, increases the duration of peak-pleasure from that of single-apex to that of a widening plateau containing a series of explorable crests and also contributes to the brain's ability to regulate and smooth the up-slope-climb from 'steep cliff-face' to 'simple incline'.

Added benefits of wearing sunglasses which only permit between 5-and-10% of all environmental light to pass-thru (no matter if experiencing the artwork or not):

Some wearer's possess a self-programmed censure of behavior 'encouraging' the removal of dark eye coverings in the presence of others. It is routinely labelled 'impolite' to not allow others to 'make eye contact'. Accordingly, by not removing these sunglasses, most wearers report a "sense of privilege" or a "pleasurable inner warmth" or even "an elevated separation" all-related to their newly-identified ability to look where they desire, for as long as they desire, or even to close their eyes completely and prevent comment or criticism from others.
Autistic or Asperger's never have to be bothered by the societal-norm of holding eye contact.
Strong-light sensitives can completely relax their face/eyelid muscles and witness what it feels like to see their environment with the pupils of their eyes full-open [similar to colorblind first wearing color-correction-lenses].
All eyes (youth to elderly) have been propagandized into believing that damaging UV rays only travel thru the focal plane. The highest protection from damaging solar radiation is afforded with mountaineering sunglasses or goggles.

more for us our cells and we:

wonky vision

grey eyes escape trail

vestige (of course)

Species-wide Edict

When reading the phrase: 'For as long as H. Homo Sapiens has kept records dating back...' the reader runs a mental-filler abstract image for (just-enough of a slice of a moment) the purpose of trying to understand, for-themselves, just how long ago that really was. Nobody knows. Of course, regurgitating facts by saying: "six to ten thousand years" will successfully label the intervening centuries; but it does not hold any associating relative value to even an educated H. Homo Sapiens' brain.

H. Homo Sapiens has handed-down one primary edict. A standard operating practice (as it were) to the entire species, from the entire species: Kill All Animals Who Eat Human.

There are many speculative reasons as to why. The most often repeated is:

A predator who consumes human meat must be prevented from teaching 'the knack' to its progeny or pack—so the apex-position, we currently hold, is not usurped in a short number of generations.

Modern man's shortsightedness considers the 'today-context' of a human entering a zoo's animal-enclosure - or - becoming bear food in the wilderness.

In actuality, it was handed-down by people who looked and acted just like you and me, but, who were hunted by 'near-peer' predators (similar to Neanderthals). And those tool-makers would have our apex-position today if they'd learned how to pass-down a species-wide edict.

Although Andromedans do not currently possess an ability to 'visit Milkywayites' it is important to note (because fantasizing about inter-galactic travel can be entertaining) that: The safest-most-effective way to obtain a planet for its resources, only requires steering a massive asteroid into its gravity-well and waiting for the dust to clear.

the next layer down:

dew drops too

spaces between

Gogh Ahn's Freshman First Day

As a freshman in a new school, Go decided that the way to eventually talk to the most-adorable classmate (who they had yet-to notice or even recognize the potential identity of) was to memorize the full names of every person in the entire class. To start with some anyone sitting nearby, in First-Period Homeroom, and to later decide if the project was worth continuing; that was Go's mental outline of a preliminary sketch. And if it "grew legs of its own" that would depend on factors outside today's control, Go thought, sitting down at their assigned classroom table.

"Hi, I'm Gogh Ahn; I've got this new project. To memorize everyone's full name in the freshman class. Can you help?"

The buckteeth with fingerprint smudges on their glasses smiled up from the scrolling flicker under their chin and replied, "Ok. So, my name is Bill Lawler. It's actually William, but I've been called 'Bucky Billy' for so long it's stuck-on and I hate it. So. Whatcha'gonnado?"

"Will-Yam Law-Ler. No nicknames. Yer not a Law-Yer. What's a favorite thing of yours? Something you'd prefer to be doing?" Go smiled and listened. Hands folded. Not fidgeting.

"Drinking a caffeinated drink. But I'm supposed to be Mormon; so, I'd rather my family didn't know. So, if you were to take a cold-one out of that backpack, I'd haveta decline because there are spies in our midst!" William's voice lowered, eyes shifted, and shoulders hunched in an exaggerated-miming manner. "In visual-range, there are at-least two potential snitches - ahh, fellow parishioners - who know one or more of too-many backstabbing siblings."

Go's smile became a silent laugh. "Nice, nice. William Lawler, nicknames none, Mormon drinking a Monster drink." Also pretending subterfuge, Go murmured, "If those spies were fellow freshman, would you happen to know any of their full names? For my memorization assignment?"

"So. Sarah Turner is the dimples you can only see in profile, the one who's reading an actual paperback at the corner table. They spell their name different though."

"Interesting detail."

"But I don't mean surface-level different. So, they go by some letter combination that sounds slightly similar to s.a.r.a.h but I don't remember what it is. Sounds almost like Za-eR-ha! Their giggles combined and danced together briefly. Once it subsided, William continued, "But, so's you know: they'll certainly re-tell you how it's pronounced. Every time you say their name. Even if you are positively certain your pronunciation is identical."

"Let me see if I got this right: Asperger's Sarah-with-a-Z re-reads paperbacks. Anyone else?" Their giggles reunited for a second or two.

"Um yep. Behind our backs. Gerry. But I don't know if that's short for anything, Gerry Smythe. They prefer to whisper."

"Come again?" Go whispered, quieter-now, and started another giggle-back.

"So, Gerry can yell and holler and talk just as loud as, like, everyone. Outside. Inside, they only whisper." The shrug of William's shoulders and straight face said: no shit.

"Geraldine Smythe's inside voice . . . is . . ." Go turned it into a question. And, as William whispered, "a secret," their giggles reignited and, eventually, subsided.

Go listened during attendance. The highly-paid adult babysitter with permanently-sad eyes, like a basset hound's, eventually got around to: "Gerry Smythe" and they replied with a nominally shushed de-escalating *here* (with the don't-wanna-be part, silent). Because it was low-volume, it sounded more like an exhale after a deep breath. After a few other names, sad-eyes said: "Sar-a-turn-er." The paperback switched hands, right hand was raised and they said, "Tsaa. Raa." without even a tinge of sigh.

"We allowed to get up and sit anywhere after attendance?" Go asked.

"Depends." William said without taking eyes off the flicker. "There are some who always show up late and one of them is Bert. Bert Frank. They drive." Eyes raised, they locked on to Go's, as they said, "A sixteen year old Freshman who will definitely tell you to get out of their seat. Especially if it really is theirs."

"Where is that seat in which no one sits but Voldemort?" Go snickered.

"In the back with the outcasts and ostracized." William nodded his head toward the farthest-from-the door and most distance from sad-eyes' location.

"Is there a way of making a distinction?" Go wondered quietly aloud; when William didn't follow, they clarified, "between the ostracized and the outcasts?"

"oh, so..." William replied as if this was commonly known-to-all in this school, "Outcast's choose who they are. We choose who to ostracize. Reindeer games, all of it. Why? Do you want to sit back there?"

"How else am I going to memorize the names of the entire class? Unless I talk to people?"

"You can ask the other person next to you! Gina-who-has-been-listening-to-us-talk-this-whole-time. They are running for some class leadership position. So, as a future politician, they'll pretend to play along, even if they think memorizing everyone's name is a crazy project." William's voice didn't lower at all at this point, so Go was positive they were right about Gina Knottswald (who'd earlier said 'present').

"Is William right, Gina?" Go asked while swivelling slightly in the chair.

"Hi, Gogh. Pleased to make your acquaintance," Gina pronounced it in Flemish like sad-eyes had done. Go focused on nose freckles beginning to spread across cheeks as they continued with a wonderfully relaxed no-nonsense-neighbor voice, "Yes. Mostly right. Only I'm not running for a political office this year. I'm running for Class Safety Officer."

"Is there stiff competition for that position?" Go asked, eagerly waiting for the reply.

"Not really. But that's because . . . " then their body posture changed as if they just reminded themself of the reason not much competition existed . . . others . . . could also run for election . . . but they were unaware of some key-crucial element. "Ahh sorry. Campaigning is not my strong suit. You're not really interested. Right? You've got enough to memorize my name, don't you?"

"Gina Knotswald. Tight-lipped about safety . . . It doesn't have the hold-fast to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the other hundreds of other names I'm going to have to memorize. Not yet. How about if I promise not to tell anyone - including not-my-lawyer-William Lawler - and, instead, I provide campaign advice when-and-if you ask for it?" Go could tell Gina liked the idea; especially because William 'acted hurt' when overhearing they'd be excluded.

Gina leaned-in. Go turned their favorite ear towards the direction of the increasing smell of spicy-sweet candy like ginger and cinnamon-breath as whispers mesmerized, *safety officer assigns and supervises the crossing guards, the color guard, and the hallway monitors.*

The pause in sibilants asmr-ing was longer than one breath, as-if that was a fully-sufficient explanation, but Go wanted them to not stop, so a shirk of shoulders and a tiny pout with a shake-of-head kept them going.

*crossing guards are excused from homeroom; are excused to leave fourth-period before lunch; are excused from arriving late to fifth-period; and are excused to leave seventh-period early; hallway monitors require monitoring throughout the day, the safety officer never needs a hall-pass; annnnd, the supply room near the wood-shop is where the flags and uniforms and vests and stop-signs and extra hall passes are kept. The safety officer has a key and a desk in there. Actually, it is where the custodial staff can take breaks, but they either don't take breaks or have a quieter place than the one next to the wood-shop.*

Go began to tip-raise the ear and turn, while murmuring, "Gina Knottswald is . . ." But Gina encouraged returning the ear for more nearly-silent whispering.

*Gina is short for Virginia but you know what the asshats teased me with, in middle-school. I'm, was, just as guilty. I once deployed 'Bucky-Billy,' and I'm not proud that I once wore my ass for a hat, too.*

Without turning, Go said, "Whisper asshat for me one more time."

*and then this asshat asked me to whiss-per asshat . . . I swear sarah's dimples send shivers down my silky soft ssanctuary near my spine.*

"Whoa there! Secret agent Gina Knottswald knowingly wears the safety officer's hat - great. But, does that last part about you losing your Virginia count as part of the deal? If it was all-that-teasable it can't still be a secret." Gina's freckles grouped when she smiled big. It creased her forehead and her chin.

Go considered becoming a color guard. Might be nice to be invited to share a private study-hall slash lunchroom with someone who could see the invisible underpinnings and already knew what their place in it would look like.

character's in store:

Tobbo Shop

The Durman Murmurs

Tomes Borrowed or Owned

simple test to evaluate imagination/attention/ADD/creativity

Please take a moment to examine this image. As you are looking at it for the first time, try to keep a tally in your mind of how many individual characters are depicted. When you are done counting, tell me what you came up with.

(After less than a minute) the participant replied 'over a dozen'.

Give it more attention if at all possible. I realize your brain has a high-powered high-speed function that is just-egging-you-on to pay attention to something more captivating (sorry about that boomer phrase I just used; it's absolutely not about what you think). Think of it as a 'spot-the-hidden' thingy. Try again. How many do you see?

Sixteen. But, I don't think some of those would count as a character in many other people's minds.

Tell me about one of those, if you would. One that you question if it would count as a character.

There's the silhouette in black on the side of the house. It stands on two legs with a stick in one hand like a supporting staff; it's got a very long beak-like nose; and it's wearing a kind-of crown. I think most people would consider graffiti on the side of a building to not qualify as 'a character', but I included it as one because this artwork wants me to include it as one.

Nice answer. Of all the characters — the sixteen you counted — pick one that you most identify with as depicting how you feel at times. Maybe not at this very moment. But it, "says something to you." I would like you to imagine what the artist was attempting to portray when they included that character in this collected depiction of these images.

The native in the middle of the field with a head-dress carrying a flaming torch. The artist was hoping viewers would recognize his plight. He is one of the few characters staring directly at us. He's surrounded by the effects of the smoggy industrial refinery, desolation, despair and a dead-dry field. If I'm not mistaken this character is made of wood? No matter, he's considering burning it all. Completing the destruction begun by . . . you get the idea.

Yes, wonderful imagination you have there when you take it out and give it a chance.

What's the correct answer to the total number of character's; if you don't mind me asking.

You hit the nail on the head with the 'depending on what one counts as a character'. I've received answers as low as 'one' and as high as 'twenty eight' if-you-can-believe-that!

Which one was the 'one' answer?

They felt that the only actual human, visible in the frame, must be the only 'real character' and the others were inanimate objects. It's not easy to see, but, a person is peering out the front window.