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MOTION THOUGHTS
Saturday, September 08, 2007sinking into the sweet lavendarof my mama’s purple pillow it’s the best place in the house to stare at the back of your eyelids the soothing singing of the shower head floats through the closed door next door i know mama is inside preparing for her favorite part of the day, almost time to sleep, to prepare her body and soul for the chore of tomorrow’s striking resemblance to today my mother loves her bath time “kill me kill me kill me kill me” loud, tinkling voice bounces off the white tiles it’s true that i can’t help but smile “I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU” it’s true, i always knew the faucet turns, the water stops i lift a heavy body from bed steam rushes through the opening door but just before my glasses fog i glimpse the mirror, my own face flinching in surprise, next to my mother’s, warm and washed and well i am her distorted echo, broke up and kicking back same thoughts “i’m goinna bed” she gives herself to the sheets, the comfort or the night i flip the light Labels: family, mother, poetry, sleep, water, writing Saturday, August 25, 2007Porcelina of the Oceans.I be-wigged her and painted her, then took her photos. Isn't she lovely. From a few years ago.  Labels: water Friday, August 03, 2007Under the Sea.I have a veritable mountain of art just exploding to be seen, so I begin my quest. Slowly but surely I will group together my doodles and exhibit them in sets according to theme. One reoccuring fascination of mine is the merperson. It will be subject of my first group. Enjoy or ignore. ^I think I did this mer-couple about ... 4 or 5 years ago.   The ears of this melancholy mermaid remind me of a selkie, but she is a mermaid, nonetheless. Again, from several years ago.  Now this warrior merman is much more recent. From spring 2007. Next we have a closer view of his fin and tail, of which I am proud. I like the details.  This mermaid shedding her skin by moonlight was created in Autumn 2005, I think. I really like her alot, and keep her in my nice three ring binder :).  The next one is one more of the earlier mermaids. Early in a relative sense, because I've been drawing mermaids since I was about 2.. She's from about 4 years ago. I like the way she's stretched out...  She has some friends to keep her company on a page of tattoo ideas from my nice three ring binder. Well, that's it! I do love a good merthing, as you can see. So I hope you do too! Labels: water Thursday, August 02, 2007Testing the waters... Get ready; this is my first post. I have no idea how this is all supposed to look, work, or um... function in general. So, with sincere hopes that I'm not fucking anything up, here's a painting I did last semester on a sunny day. Thursday, April 26, 2007the little piece of driftwoodby Lydia Hendersona piece of driftwood is tugged along by the current. water wears it thin and soggy. rocks scrape its belly. the sun warms it through gaps in the clouds. sandy banks open their arms for it to rest. but the current always calls it back to drift. the driftwood lets go of the sandy banks. it drifts and drifts. the banks are turning to stone and rigid glass. the water dumps into the mouth of the ocean. the driftwood ducks under the surface, wishing for the arms of the sandy banks that are so far away. the ocean is a lonely and solitary place. one day, just as the little piece of driftwood was losing hope, it heard the sound of a small boat's sails flapping in the wind. suddenly the piece of driftwood was plucked from the sea by the most delicate of fingers. the color of her skin was just as soft and pale as the color of the warm sandy banks and her eyes were dark and wet, just as the ocean had been on moonless nights. she turned the piece of driftwood over, running fingertips over the cracks and imperfections. instead of tossing it aside, she placed it on the floor of the boat. just as the sun was reaching the peak of the sky, the little boat and the piece of driftwood pulled into port. the girl tied the boat off and disappeared. not much longer she returned with a small can of ocean-blue paint and a small bundle of thin rope. with a brush she began to paint on the piece of driftwood. she tied the rope to it as well, so that it could hang from the dock. "home.." she read aloud with tears welling up in her eyes. "one day i may come home." she touched the sign and smiled lightly, climbing into the boat again. the piece of driftwood gazed at the boat as it got smaller and smaller. maybe one day she'd come home. every day and all through the night the little piece of driftwood gazed at the sea, watching for the little boat to return. sometimes the sea splashed up on the driftwood, or the wind would toss it about. if there was ever a time the driftwood thought it could no longer hang on, something or someone would come along to hold it up. sometimes the sun would come out and say, "don't cry. i'll dry up your rope so that it becomes strong again. i'll always shine down my warm rays upon you." other times a pair of fish would poke their heads out of the water and say, "we'll protect you of the tide, little driftwood. you'll never be a burden." all of these things brought hope to the little piece of driftwood. but with time the cracks in the driftwood seemed to deepen and it began to split. the little piece of driftwood had grown even more fragile and brittle than it had been before. when it was splashed by the ocean it wished to turn into sea foam. when the wind shook it against the dock it hoped to plunge to the water below. the little piece of driftwood cried out for the little sailboat, unable to keep silent any longer. the ocean calmed. the world grew quiet. it felt as though time itself was coming to a halt. all of a sudden the wind came drifting past the little piece of driftwood and whispered, "patience says the little sailboat." and with that the breeze swept across the weary little piece of driftwood, kissing the wounds and somehow brought strength back to its heart. Labels: oil paint, prose, water, writing Tuesday, April 24, 2007the summer comes caked with blue jewel pools.your garden hose spills for days until the yard is a bowl where you hang, supine and planet-faced, weighing less than in space. The summer rises runed, taroted, charted in the humming still of June rooms: I say we go away. Where's the fresh water in this place? Our cards are played, our fortunes made until the sky glows orange-white from plaza lights and the neighbors are Byzantines and Gypsies. Memphis spreads out slow from its winter clench. Arms unfold, the benches creak and crow in fronts, new-mowed grass tells its headless story. I'm picking up once the moon is limestone. I'm leaving for the quarry. Sorry, white legs. Sorry, coat pegs, The days are hot for the taking. The black spade of rot iron doesn't shape so menacing. I need these calluses for climbing, goat curses for skirt lining, chicken magic for my mancala eyes, shining. Labels: Memphis, poetry, water, writing Monday, April 02, 2007Ode to One of UsAs I Sit in my Bright Room;Listening to the components that make me thinking of you, reflecting your eclectic personality. Everybody tries to catch you, But you always manage to escape, giving them the jailed fate instead. As you move along my hands, that feeling freely runs, Like a horse in the prairie, along my naked body. Thraumatized, Changed, There you keep moving, Following your route and eating smaller water creatures, as if their lives were not important enough to you and not worth of living for that. And they probably are ultimately not. If she wants me, we'll be the sleepyheads, but i will choose to be the craziest clock (that)Likes to float around the galaxy that (she) is, playing with the marbles she owns, and thinking about what such whole universe means to me: Spring, Infinite stacks of stars, Floating lonely space cowboys, On one side. We, On the Other side. To You, Labels: it might be you indeed, space, water, what do you think(?) Wednesday, March 28, 2007Stream of consciousness whimsical lyrically liberal narration of a morning in the life of me complete with spelling errorsi wrote this after i woke up because my roomate was practicing piano and the internet didnt work. im not emo i swear.The vector at which his shoulder met his torso ached with pain. He thought to himself about stretching before exiting his warm nest and venturing forth onto the ten steps of icy hardwood that comprised the very genesis of all of his days, but instead chose to roll out of bed like a sloth falling from a fig tree. Stumbling to the bathroom and choosing not to illuminate it via the tiny rectangular console he had grown as familiar with as he had most members of his immediate family over the course of his lifetime, he stripped to the nude and adjusted the faucets so that he would shortly be stationed beneath a warm torrent of water. Washing his face and body with soaps that appealed to him more on basis of color than anything else, he began mumbling a Beatles song quietly and closed his eyes. Washing his hair was a toss-up typically. He would graze his palm across the crown of his head repeatedly until he had decided that it contained either too much or too little of his bodily oils and make his decision accordingly. When the warm porcelain rectangle had inevitably lost its charm for the day being, he turned the faucets once more and began to dry himself off. As he stepped out of the shower, frantically equating the lyrics of the song he had been singing to the circumstances of his own life, he began to realize the behavior he was encouraging and attempted to subdue the unproductive turn of logic before it festered into something more capable of imminently depressing him beyond salvation. He spit the toothpaste out of his mouth and looked his body up and down a few times, making countless judgements of it and himself, coming to the conclusion that he would be happier without one (or at least, without a mirror). "I'm soooo tired, I don't know what to do/ I'm sooo tired, my mind is stuck on you/ I wonder should I call you..." It seems that this tune had wormed its way further into his head that he had thought. Why did it always sound like Lennon was singing about him? Perhaps it was a consequence of his latent egotism, he thought. Believing that every song was relatable to such a mundane existence. Laughable, he reiterated. It was often the case that he would force himself to shed thought patterns he believed unsavory by demeaning himself for ever arriving at them. It was the only discipline that seemed to habituate itself in his behavior. If he found himself in a situation in which he was suddenly or aptly aware of thoughts he considered unproductive, unappealing, or retroactive, he would cease them by silently crucifying himself. "The waay things are going/ They're gonna' crucify me." Fuck. Labels: water Thursday, March 15, 2007A song (with lyrics and beats)This ones pretty simple, i wanted something i could just write some easy lyrics to. it started out as an exercise in polyrhythms but i dont think i really captured the percussion sound i wanted in the end.Seas Of Violet Saturday, March 10, 2007Hands so Little, Depression so GreatRosasharn and Dewey Dell skippin’ down the laneO’ those two’d skip to Timbuktu to undo all the pain Of a blooming, pink baby’s veins in her veins Of a cold, blue baby washed away by the rain. Take me in the secret shade, take me in the truck He took me for a pretty whore ripe to be plucked And that was swell, but truth to tell-- I was fucked Left me inside out, and -- out of luck, O’ You put your arms around me, but it wasn’t any good Now, I’m naked in the wilderness beneath a red hood, And I don’t need a man; I can chop my own wood, But you could do so much for me if you just would The buzzards are cawing, the men are squatin’ On their hams watchin’ hundreds of peaches go rotten If it kills me, I’ll pick til the sack froths with cotton Til it’s full like I was of one to be begotten. One beautiful mornin’ the road unfurled, Sticky, we were kissing in the heat like syrup. One mornin’ he went missin’, my hair uncurled, Wide-mouth frog, hair of the dog, I am a stupid girl So unlike my tight-lipped mother, Body thrown down now in the swollen river This is hell, my belly swell, pop and burst all over Hold my hand, momma, cause it hurts all over Sweat glued my matronly thighs to the seat Sweat stained my dress; too tight, it bound me And God wouldn’t tell me what your name should be Or why he gave us fruit if we’re not suppose to eat Still, I’m clinging tightly to the ballad’s last lilt Hold tight, hold tight, to the basket hilt, Though I have been spat, sucked, and split. I am full of guts. I am full of milk. I tried to slam the door, but you stopped it with your foot, And ran your dusty fingers down my cheek caked in soot, And put your arms around me. But it wasn’t any good. And you could do so much for me if you just would. writ by Cadet Morgan Rose Labels: poetry, water, women, writing Tuesday, February 27, 2007Triple Trash as Cadet Craig sees it. This is Cadet Craig's. I posted it without his permission. I don't think he minds. The scanner isn't big enough, it cut off a beautiful little rocketship and some more grass. And a halo. And some rain. And some trash. Piece of shit. He let me color some :) Labels: TRASH TRASH TRASH, water Thursday, February 15, 2007A New SongI play everything on this. I 'm debating whether or not i should add lyrics, be they my own or someone else's. The title is completely meaningless.Ocean Bullet Monday, February 05, 2007Idea!The orange street light is blistering in my eye,shining as a broken sun through the purple grass everything's brown, dark, seemingly still, as if the hand of Death is upon my head, while I sit back and relax letting my mind flow, as a river full of little shiny fishes flows underneath the bridge of life. They're such a multitude, electric thunders in the black water, such white and blinking vibrations, perceptions of my neutrons. Hard to distinguish, as hard it is to separate a child from his or her mother. But I made it, and came out of the dark tunnell, out of that bed made of muddy dirt of my conscience, and realized that I caught one of those fishes, that I separed the proton from its natural atom, and it weighs about a ton: an idea, that is! Labels: water Monday, November 27, 2006Straight from the Truth's lips:Seven thousand swans exploded over Stark Lake like fireworks, red light and guts splattered over our picnic blankets and parked cars. What a show. And we'll never know how else the evening could have ended. How much longer could we have choked down anecdotes and champagne, avoiding eye contact and chortling? The swans had to go; their numbers were only comparable to our hordes of children, the little bodies of entertainment only money could buy. It's fun to dress them smartly. It's fun to correct their language. It's fun to explain to them the one way arrow of time, the fact that we can't party forever, that we all must explode over Stark Lake water."My head is full of lemons!” little Nora exclaimed, grabbing an empty jelly jar from our picnic basket, and flinging her skirt's wasted bread crusts into our faces. Little Nora proceeded to gather select pieces of the defunct birds, a collection of the best bits in her empty jelly jar. The top half of a black beak, newly unwebbed feet, spinal bones, a slew of white messy feathers, and even a still beating heart. Joyfully the child bounds back to us, frozen under the protection of the poplar trees, ladybugs and aphids crawling over everything. She presents us with the jelly jar, beaming furiously and breathing heavily from the excursion. We are unimpressed. We are older – in our semicircle, in this curve where we're arranged and have sat with our asses grown onto the quilt, onto the ground, unimpressed by little girls, but that dress I put her in. Buttercup and lace. Oh, tell me true, who, when the picnic blanket was rushed to the tip of her nose, snug-bugged-bitten in a rug, who told the bedtime story that said, “Nora Blue, the entire universe is waiting for you?” We didn't have the time, so we squatted in our design, centered ‘round the half-eaten roast chicken and jam cookies. Unimpressed, white birds, beams bursting through wingspans, red birds while we partook of the deviled hams. The graceful arc, skeletal, spiraling, finally spiraling down, the collapsing messy parts. Nora's in the middle, splashing in the blood like mud. Her skinned knees, their skinned bellies, Nora's in the puddle, mixing up the gush. What is she doing? It's nibble night. Nora with her socks off, that dress is stained, daffodil is pomegranate red, positively red with that ruination from the stars, who knew? She's not my responsibility? Nora's in the gobbledygook, Nora's in the soup. Someone, hurry up and extract her from that dirty mess (Seven thousand swans exploded). It was a lonely trot back to the blood spotted Beemers, our arms empty (we left the blankets in the grass to be tossed out with the litter at dawn, or whenever). “Goodnight, Jonathan.” “Good Evening, Beatrice.” “Kisses, Harry.” Thank the good Lord for satellite radio, filling our empty retreats with international sports talk. I've never seen a game of Jai-Alai. Sounds nuts. We faked interest in the interest of ignoring potential interest in our starless sky and the giggling Nora and Norman in the back seat world. No more swan light distraction. No more thick splatter. I've never been so disgusted with the dim cleanliness of our doorstep. “Nancy, put the kids to bed.” New schedule. 7:30: Dig through garage piles for house paint. 7:45: Spread white primer in even zigzags across the lawn. 7:52: Create Jackson Pollock mimicry on stoop with dark brown muck paint. 7:55: Throw on some garden dirt for texture. 7:56: Pick best flower, sandwich it between left ear and skull. 7:59: “Put yourself to bed, Nancy.” 8:03: Roll around the garden bed, particularly mashing suit jacket into ground. 8:05: Smoke my last cigar, extinguish butt in lawn gnome's eye. That was satisfying. Upstairs, the wife and kids were probably in bed, staring at the ceiling, or maybe televisions. Bored. I went for a walk. But, God damn it! The beauty and terror of a streetlight! The inescapable uniformity of images, the unchanging look and texture of an electrical socket. Scents float by me as I walk – trash receptacle, flower bed, dog shit, apple pie cooling on a windowsill. All of them predictable, even similar, the bullshit you can count on, and remain disgusted with for as long as you're required to put up with it, until the day your body or your brain finally says, “I've had it with this world of pills and keys and advertisements for remote controls that operate the white AND the multicolored lights!” But for now you just breathe in the unbearability and move through space with a new knowledge of devastation, the carnage of a fleet of swans and the delight it gave a child. The constant and overwhelming everything pushes in, almost crushing us as we strain to just be. But, God damn it, that's just one more thought to fold up and put away and hide in my desk drawer like a letter from a lover, and one day Nancy will find it and say, “What's this?”, her eyes splattered bugs on glass. It didn't mean anything, honey. That was just that night. I was thinking about straining about being. Do you believe it? I love my daughter. I love my son. I love beneath me, the rugged receding sidewalk because it's like my face in the early mornin' on this late night's salacious escapade, having affairs with all the streetlights, and I feel their arms winding around my ribs, stone-cold wrapped around my waist. From here I see a pretty girl with an eager set of lips – young, the youngest – lean to the windowsill. I want to swoop in, knock the crust out of the way, grab her, let the lights grab her, and Nora, and Norman, and illuminate the atmosphere when they're lifting us up, saying “This is what the swans see.” Do you feel the bones growing, cells extending, the web between your toes, and atoms split, our bodies multiply. The stitches of Nora's buttercup of a dress have finally been severed, and I'm sorry, sweetie, but now I see your wide, white wings unfold in the cloth falling from you, down there. We're all over. We pool on the elastic surface of a cloud, making a V which is quickly ruined, shaping, reshaping, our flock, my kids, there's seven thousand of us, we got away. Watch us go. Explode. Redistribute. Assimilate. Devolution to singular particles free of family ties. Beautiful. But, God damn it. I'd rather be light. I'd rather be sound. I'd rather be a fleeting moment with no evidence of existence beyond a one sense observation. The stoop is beautiful. A muck explosion. Let's redecorate the known universe, break apart the ordered randomness, the clinical patterns. I don't want to be inside. I don't want to be outdoors. All that's left to hope for is morning reports of the world's entire collection of birds amassing in one open field, ready to burst. This story was written in a round by Cadets Ledet, Alanna, and Morgan Rose. Thanksgiving Day 2006 Labels: birds, feet, fireworks, water Tuesday, November 21, 2006more old wordsI dreamed the world was ending. I was scared until I found you. You took me to the zoo.In reality, you are not here. I sit on my windowsill and smoke myself stupid. I tip ash over the ledge and pull fire between my teeth: to light up the cold inside. Evil smoke curls around my face and makes my eyes water. The familiarity of the action starts mental upset, learned behavior working to my disadvantage. The black cigar keeps my lips from trembling -- stay steady, breathe in. My fingers betray me while my clouded mind drifts in some other sky. Trains in the distance become whales. (Where are they coming from? There's not a railroad or a beach for miles.) The whole idea shakes me. I ask myself, "What have I done?" Over and over. No longer a magic eight ball. No magic answer floats up into truth. I only produce smoke and sickness, floating on the blue dyed pool of my shallow person. I fumble eternally, make excuses. Finally I force myself to stumble back to bed -- no longer a haven for my sleepless self, my spine too twisted to find rest. The post-tobacco taste which normally makes me happy is disgusting tonight -- a reminder of my hideousness and rejection. I burned away my heart. Held the flame over the bowl of my tears and now I'm dried up -- is it what I wanted? The prospect terrifies me. I spend two days crying in bed to recuperate and win back my human parts. I curl into a deep alone, eyes singing to the symphony outside. Monday, October 30, 2006Stevie Wonder As around the sun the earth knows she's revolving And the rosebuds know to bloom in early may Just as hate knows love's the cure You can rest your mind assure That I'll be loving you always As now can't reveal the mystery of tomorrow But in passing will grow older every day Just as all that's born is new You know what I say is true That I'll be loving you always (Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky) Always (Until the ocean covers every mountain high) Always (Until the dolphin flies and parrots live at sea) Always (Until we dream of life and life becomes a dream) Did you know that true love asks for nothing her acceptance is the way we pay Did you know that life has given love a guarantee To last through forever and another day Just as time knew to move on since the beginning And the seasons know exactly when to change Just as kindness knows no shame Know through all your joy and pain That I'll be loving you always As today I know I'm living But tomorrow could make me the past But that I mustn't fear For I'll know deep in my mind The love of me I've left behind 'Cause I'll be loving you always (Until the day is night and night becomes the day) Always (Until the trees and seas just up and fly away) Always (Until the day that eight times eight times eight is four) Always (Until the day that is the day that are no more) Did you know you're loved by somebody (Until the day the earth starts turnin' right to left) Always (Until the earth just for the sun denies itself) I'll be lovin you forever (Until dear mother nature says her work is through) Always (Until the day that you are me and I am you) Always (Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky Until the ocean severs every mountain high) Always mm mm We all know sometimes life hates and troubles Can make you wish you were born in another time and space But you can bet your lifetimes that and twice it's double That God knew exactly where he wanted you to be placed So make sure when you say you're in it, but not of it You're not helpin' to make this earth A place sometimes called hell Change your words into truths And then change that truth into love And maybe our children's grandchildren And their great grandchildren will tell I'll be loving you until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky Sunday, October 29, 2006PHOTOESSAYAfter scouting it out on the evening of Friday, September 29th, Art Party Members Brandon, Alanna, Warren, and Tom visit the Valley of Trash during the daytime for a thorough investigation. Photos do follow! Mayoral Candidate Cadet Brandon Ledet and Art Party Pioneer Warren Pope walk the path to the Valley of Trash. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren mounts the first rig quickly. It was easily conquered the night before, and is already familiar territory. (Photo Tom Macom)  The Valley of Trash is likely home to many hobos, tramps, and "lost men," some of which enjoy sitting in chairs. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren is lithe and agile on the rigs. (Photo Tom Macom)  Mayoral Candidate Brandon (AP-LA) films trash, trash, trash. This includes both actual refuse strewn on the ground, and human members of the popular New Orleans band. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren continues to pioneer. (Not shown: his covered wagon; bonnet.) (Photo Tom Macom)  Rigs lie scattered everywhere, their inverted and horizontal ladders and staircases completely irrelevant. (Photo Tom Macom)  The Emergency Shut-In apparatus on one of the rigs stands useless. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren climbs a rig deeper into the Valley. (Photo Tom Macom)  Ferries and barges pass on the Mississippi river all day long, completely missing out on all of the fun. (Photo Tom Macom)  Trash trash trash? Only a fraction of the trashscape. (Photo Tom Macom)  Mysterious oxygen canisters stand in the Valley, occasionally letting off pressure in a frightening and loud manner. This is rather scary at night when you're not expecting it. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren walks all over the 53 ton rig. Many of the pieces were labeled according to weight, including a 75 ton tube. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren takes another approach to the 53 ton. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon films trash by the oxygen tanks in the Valley, as viewed through rig grating. (Photo Tom Macom)  Barnacles cover the lower portion of some of the rigs. They crackle and pop as you walk on them, as a scent reminiscent of a sea food restaurant wafts up at you. (Photo Tom Macom)  Alanna, xylophonist-extraordniaire and Art Party founder, documents the scene at the bottom of a tube. (Photo Tom Macom)  Pioneer Warren looks on as Alanna films baby crabs. Later, they dance on one of said baby crabs. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon grins at something that's probably completely insane. His hair looks good. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren eyes Alanna quizzically. (Photo Tom Macom)  Alanna ponders whether Cadet Aldo (not shown) will survive the imminent deadly tornado attack. (Photo Tom Macom)  Alanna converses with Cadet Ledet from inside the 75-ton tube. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren swings from a rope hanging from a still-erected rig on the shore. (Photo Tom Macom)  Comrade Tom and Pioneer Warren swing from the beautiful rig of love. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Tom takes a close swing. He is utterly out of control. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Swinging from giant rigs is good for many muscle groups, including the happy muscle, and the giant clam. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  The trashscape as seen from a still-standing rig. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren captures both ropes. (Photo Tom Macom)  And poses. (Photo Tom Macom)  Warren ascends stairs to the second platform of the right whilst Brandon and Alanna converse. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon and Alanna hang around the first landing, their highest point of ascent. (Photo Tom Macom)  Brandon and Alanna as seen from the roof grate. (Photo Tom Macom)  A defunct ITT Barton pressure gauge is one of many instruments found on the roof of the rig. (Photo Tom Macom)  A ska valve, a little known but very important component to petroleum rigs, is quickly attended to by Warren. (Photo Tom Macom)  Gauges and measuring contraptions are dispersed throughout the rig. (Photo Tom Macom)  Cadet Tom grasps a rope before taking off into outerspace. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Cadet Tom and Warren pose for the camera. Sort of. (Photo Alanna Stewart)  Later at the fly, Cadet Warren rewards himself with a cold beverage which wears a shirt. (Photo Tom Macom)  Cadet Warren contentedly twists the cap off of his well-dressed drink. (Photo Tom Macom) fin Labels: black and white, New Orleans, photography, water
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