Final Project - Pictures

Collaborative ETP VI - so this is what it sounds like to be ashamed

Are there children in here?

if we treat them like animals they cry

and some cacophonous thump echoes,

and I can’t distinguish groans of pain from moans of pleasure

I thought it was a cold man falling off a wet pail

diesel engines turn over like hungry stomachs,
like a baby crushed under rubble

it’s like a jittery old finger curling around the scene, surrounding, gripping,

and a motorcycle gears up and rips across the space

just this thin metal rod flying in from the street

snatches of words and sentences float in the ether above,
and where the lady spoke, music drifts

the refrigerators hummmmmmm like the water

can I make a confession?

EEEE tea peas-icks - joe

Amid the explosions I heard the moans.
Torturous grins of pleasure exist in dungeons where the mice squeak with relative glee.
I can’t distinguish groans of pain from moans of pleasure.

Guhdunk

What was that?

Kaboom

Staff sergeant says it was an unexploded mortar. I thought it was a cold man falling off a wet pail.

Even when it’s quiet I feel the vibrations in my skull. Rifles and stifled screams, plush soft hand grenades warm with desire. The vibrations grow and spread from my head down to my throat. Sometimes I scream at night.

Everything in this damned place echoes, especially fear. Can I make a confession? I humiliate victims of abuse and take lots and lots of photos for friends back home. I hear rape in my ears but it sounds like rubber boots on dry gravel. This land needs more lubrication, more blood.

Sometimes the prisoners sing, and I sing along but nobody hears. I don’t want them to anyway. The fans are helicopters and I wait for them to carry me away or at least shoot some rockets in this stale prison. Men speak like apes, too many “Acks” “isheeels” and “allahs” bouncing off clean concrete. Did I mention the mice?

What was that?

Are there children in here? Why? So this is what it sounds like to be ashamed.










The nights are too dark. The lack of light makes up for the surplus of sound. They are emitted from the tired hungry guts of dark mustaches and head dresses. If we treat them like animals they cry, if we treat them as queers they don’t. I fucking hate a man’s lips out here, all dry and red. They can’t wait to get their mouth wet but they wont admit it. Iraqis are homophobes so let’s torture them with bananas. Oh and don’t forget the camera. And the leash. Is this gay? Make that bitch sergeant Lynndie England hold the leash. Yeah now it’s not gay at all. Let’s pile them up and rejoice in front of the choir.

Aaaaah lay lew yeah! Oh yeahhhh ppphhhhuuuukk BLAmmmm.mMM~!!@##!


Trumpets pour out of their veins like angels from cloudless cities and diesel engines turn over like hungry stomachs. Deliveries are made; more humans than food I’m afraid. Entertainment, photographs, postcards for the kids, rubbing the prisoners down with petroleum jelly and forcing simulated oral sex. Crispy pink panties for the face of a terrorist. Bedpost crucifixion and electrocution. I doubt Jesus cried like a fucking pussy though. Christian homily, eternally boring, show ’em don’t tell ‘em. This is what democracy feels like, broken eardrums and synthesized identities. ALlaH allah! If I could laugh louder I would.


Oooh yeeaah. Mmmmmm. Oooooh shit that’s it. Don’t stop--don’t stop--I’m almost there. Uuhne mmmph mph uh hu huuh huh I can feel you. Get down now. Get down NOW. Strap it on you mother fucker. Hold it in your hands just right. Uhhh lock and load, pack in your ammunition. mmmmhmmm go go go go go!!! Go!!!GO!! FLANk right, blue team go go go! Oh fuck yes keep it going.




Bush. The shape the mouth is a loose blistering vagina. President Bush. Gross. Bush is really a worthless suffix, like a baby crushed under rubble. President Bush. Maybe a deaf person would think I’m saying press-in-then-push by reading my lips.

What was that?

Oh yeah.
I am so.
Sorry.

But yeah I’d do it again if I was promised earplugs.

ETP VI - Gary

Night

The air conditioning units are on the roof of the building. Their hum-rattle stretches over the lawn and up the sides of a sixteen story apartment building. The sound thinly bounces off each bump of the roughly painted façade, mirroring the gravel rooftop (where the AC units sit) in texture. It’s like a jittery old finger curling around the scene, surrounding, gripping.

Static, some palm trees are sitting in the noise.

Some cacophonous thump echoes over the sound of the AC units. Something large, hallow, and plastic dropping on the sidewalk.

Cars on the road past the roof with the AC units go by, but usually their motors don’t pierce the heavy sound of the hum and the rattle. Now a motorcycle gears up and rips across the space. It’s a laceration from the road that tears all the way past the trees and grass and into the balconies of the apartments. There is a hospital nearby.

Hmmm, there is a low hum as the AC units work, working.
HmmmmrtHmmrt
Walking across the concrete path
HmmmmrtHmmrt
No wind
HmmmmrtHmmrt
Leaning on rough paint with forearms
HmmmmrtHmmrt
Cold
HmmmmrtHmmrt
Badump, the large plastic
HmmmmrtHmmrt
container being dragged across the concrete
HmmmmrtHmmrt
its scratching like thin hairs
HmmmmrtHmmrt
HmmmmrtHmmrt
Hmmmmrtmmrtmmrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnn
Rrrrriiiiiiineeeeee
An ambulace:
Like a point, precise;
A pin entering the skin, striking the one nerve;
Just this thin metal rod flying in from the street, through the bubble of the hum-rattle, into the middle of the forehead.

The little stretch of road is short and the ambulance leaves. There’s no change in the rhythm of the AC units, Hm.

Josh ETP VI - Beep

There's a broadcast; The lady sounds nice, friendly, and unreal. She's saying something, I can't quite make it out. Snatches of words and sentences float in the ether above.

And murmuring, murmuring trails through. Maybe 

someone's saying something important. 

It doesn't matter, the lady is still broadcasting.

Then there's water cycling through a sink or pipes. I realize it's always been there, probably before the lady started speaking. I'm guessing it'll be there long after she's stopped. And she stops.

There's a beep in the distance! 

Someone has bought something. 

They're committed.

A wheel creaks. It's creaking by me.

Beep! Beep!

Squeak.

I hear a laugh. HuHuHuHuHu!

And where the lady spoke, music drifts. It's above and around. The water is probably cycling, but now the music is playing. And playing.

Squeak. Beep.

A cart rumbles.

Voices murmur. Maybe someone asks, 

"How far would you go to survive?"

The refrigerators hummmmmmm. They've always done that I think. Like the water.

Voices wander past. There's squeaking.

Somewhere, somewhere something

like trays impacting something sound off.

Bags fluff! Are they for produce?

The doors creak open.

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

The doors. Squeak.

Beep, Bags. Footsteps in a hurry.

Bags shaking. Footsteps. Beep!

A wheel squeaks.

Beep. And there's a glass somewhere? Are they in the bags?

Footsteps. They might be flip-flops.

A cart rumbles.

The doors.

Collaborative ETP V - Migration Geneology

ACT ONE: that particular chapter

Miles and miles tell her that she needs something but it wasn’t from Chicago. Montana is where you go to have a large house after years of saving. There were days she would shut her eyes so hard because of all the hard work and long writhing and decaying years. The past was crawling up her leg and sinking megatons of thrust deep into her memories. The mission is important, the objective critical. She's finally going somewhere.

ACT TWO: move

She inserted the key and turned the ignition

She burns left, then right, and north, and backtracks. She waits, she crosses the divide.
Noxious gases puff and swirl. Metals and paints corrode. The maelstrom is at her door.

She's finally going somewhere. It's been years.

ACT THREE: the glass is half empty

She really belonged to the world sometimes.

Once she lived in Mexico City; The skin there was so, "southern belle-ish on your sister and so I’m-going-to-help-build-the-atomic-bomb-ish on you." She had to leave. It was far too much.

She wandered lonely landscapes. She wandered into the black desert and its endless waste. The mission called.





Time passed.
She moved to Montana. Afterwood she would call it.

It's not everything she was promised. It’s a log cabin in the middle of nowhere. It made her more hate her sense.

She's finally there.

Afterwood - joe - ETPV

Unrelated, and for a Cause known to only the perpetrators. The streak of white is inviting her to lick up any extra salt. Who among the living is willing to fork over the gold? She would yell this from her glass tray that showed four non-faces. and What to make a struggle for nothing out of? Was her second favorite thing to make people taste it. I tasted it and was comfortable with being confused





The name of the game has always been comPETITION, and there are insects and the gods of them are all ready to comPETE for more coopeRATION.

Actually

She looks out her compounded window lenses and sees it dripping like a flag. She reminds herself how lonely it was without it, her hot meals and habitat. Now it’s far too much, seeping through her cracks and fissures like apples in chain link fences. The colony, the nest, the rest of the world that she loves to forget; the best of it was left underground in writhing, decaying tunnels. She could either pit it out Ffrumm the soil and taste the juice or ignore it. The days of fighting for food and feasting with fools were gone and she decided not to think about that anymore.





Afterwood she would call it.




Gut wrenching, these parasites that eat for me.



She would tell me about the days she would shut her eyes so hard all she could taste was apples.









God spit more salt in the eyes of her brother and his lover, both shared her molecules. The past was crawling up her leg and sinking it deep into her pores. It was always there like copper residue, memories just made it more detestable. The system must be broke?

If only taste was as magnificent as non-sight, then she’d be able to find her way. She fancied herself a criminal. She liked to fight and make it twitchingly good with her brothers and their lovers. This, she thought, would truly cause a riot.

But it didn’t. It just made her more hate her sense.






Things took a turn for the worst when she fell too far from the apple tree. That wasn’t a chain link fence at all. She told me that once in the sand. I’ve been climbing WHAt forever? Leave what exactly for what, four faces for freedom? What is freedom without liberty? What is liberty? Why do these questions taste so good, why does everyone else tell me they’re supposed to taste like a mushroom? She really belonged to the world sometimes. She would break into song.

I have wandered lonely landscapes for too long.
If only I could count the moons
I would tell you but I’d still be wrong
I’m led by my tongue
I’ll compete I’ll get along too
for some more of it. It is It.
Is that it?


These moments when she made sense-- they make me afraid. Clarity is hard to come by in this kingdom. I find it hard to express but never to remember. When do I remember her words? When it’s dark I feel them crawling through my ears and molesting my drum. The vibrations. I visualize her taste. Though I cannot see, I can taste her sight when I taste apples.


ETP V - Gary

Hola, ¿cómo estás niño? ¿Te llamo Carlos, cierto? ¿Carlitos? Or Carl. You live in Mexico City, and sometimes I wonder. About that particular chapter that is. Or rather that span of time. The skin here, so southern belle-ish on your sister and so I’m-going-to-help-build-the-atomic-bomb-ish on you. You’re running through the streets, playing with the little brown Mexican boys, but all the while there’s a sign hung over the kitchen table. “English spoken here,” it says.
You move to Montana. Wow, welcome to the united states in a big way. A big sky kind of way. Huckleberry fields (hell, huckleberry icecream), cows, horses, picking cherries. Somehow your father teaches Spanish here, in this place that (perhaps I know nothing of geography and migration trends) is as far from Mexico as I can imagine. You speak French too. That’s what your grandmother spoke or something. I think your mother too maybe. So many languages. Sometimes you try to teach me German – I have no idea where that came from, but it wasn’t from Montana. I never really liked French either.You go to college when you were 15. Chicago is where you go to highschool. It was nice then. You went back and said it turned into a ghetto. Lots of blacks. No tie, wearing knickers, bad shirt too. You are poor. What do you expect when you pick cherries for a living? And your father teaches. And your mother is a mother because that is all a mother can do. She makes you two waffles because you’re a man, so you sneak out to buy Rebecca a cheese burger at night. Ella no entiende español. Ahora es cómico cuando nos hablamos y nunca nos entiende. ¡Da rabia esto! Pero, cuando eran amores, ¿cómo fue la interacción entre ella y tu mamá? You must have been the translator. An honest one, I’m sure.There you are and all your children are grown up and have children of their own. You work for the government (still!) and enjoy a nice pension because off all the hard work and long years you put in. You take us on a trip to Hawaii. You take us on another trip to Hawaii. You take us to our “house” in Montana for a family reunion. It’s a log cabin in the middle of nowhere and we don’t stay very long, but we do go river rafting in the Snake River, which isn’t too far away. No, the Snake River must have been somewhere else you took us. Maybe. Anyway, you have a large house after years of saving. Very frugal, you are.
Cruising is your thing now. So much I wonder if you have even the chance to look at the pictures that cover the fridge that you leave for weeks on end to travel on extravagant boats. But, I know you see us. There are five photos in your wallet. Us guys and your favorite granddaughter. You also write poetry for all your grandchildren on their birthday. You write poetry. You speak Spanish. Who does your photo look like?

Josh ETP V - Critical Objective

It began with an errand, a mission. The timing was critical, and so were the objectives.

It was warm and sunny. Hot.

She inserted the key and turned the ignition. The engine roared. She belted her buckle. The power: one-hundred-thousand horses, fifty megatons of thrust, zero to the sound barrier in two point three seconds. And the ride!
A football stadium! An industrial complex! But also a presidential suite with more chrome and polished wood than some ever see. And surround sound that actually surrounds falls into genuine leather. It was stitched somewhere nice, with pride.

She's finally going somewhere. It's been years.

She burns left, then right, and north, and backtracks. She waits, she crosses the divide. There's something here. It could be an oasis. It could be an illusion. It could be both.

Outside it's grown hotter. Noxious gases puff and swirl. Metals and paints corrode; It's harsh. The maelstrom is at her door, and rapping at her windows. It wants in. But state-of-the-art, classified automated defenses are up to the task.

The glass though, the glass doesn't quite defend against the roars and the blasts. They are unpleasant.

She's here.

It's not everything she was promised. It's everything that she was expecting, and worse.
The glass is half empty.

Now she has to leave. The atomic reactions are silenced, and the key withdrawn. The buckle is undone. There's nothing left to do. She can't put it off any longer. And the mission calls.

She goes. Into the heat! Into the black desert and its endless waste.

The mission is important, the objective critical.

So are her own objectives. She's come for HIS gold, there's no harm in plundering silver. She needs it. She's earned it.

It's not selfish. It's politics. It's practicalities. Everyone deserves their cut. She's assuming the risks.

It's her show.

Now it's getting cold. They don't like the heat here. In fact, they don't like anyone.

Oh, they'll smile to her face. They'll tell her how wonderful she looks and fantastic she feels. But miles and miles tell her otherwise. Miles and miles tell her that she needs something. She's a walking deficit, dearth incarnate. The land is hostile.

It's also cold.

She knows HIS mission is important. She knows HIS objectives are critical.
Something stirs inside her.

The cold relents. 

They say she's wonderful, and she believes. The miles and miles tell her that she needs something, and she knows they're lying.

She knows; There's more plunder to be had.

Collaborative ETP IV - Holy Name

Jimmy Lago described it as "awful",
but no-one was hurt.

"It's not ok"
          Officer Buzzkill

Priests and nuns and
felony obscenity charges,
a spending bonanza 'tragedy'.

And a global fire in freezing temperatures.



I am not a happy camper!
it's an understatement.

ETP IV JOE - sexting

Encinitas justice

INCIDENT; PRACTICE

Techno-trend

Technically child pornography

      As global as AT&T

"It's not ok"
      Officer buzzkill
Weapon

Felony obscenity charges

      It exists

Risque legal consequences
      For shooting texts
      In the ears out the mouths
      Using their fingers lolZ!

Pitfall

Relationship pregnancy unplanned

One private part, several girls

Digital rape "completely unaware"
      THANKS MOM
Value(s)
Multimedia package
Felony obscenity charges
      Digital stud

3 female photos, 4 grinning boys
      Swollen red cell phones

Everyone in Greensburg knows
Who's the girl who sent two

JoshETP IV - Agreement

Senate's agreement,
with the House

a stimulus bill,

all seven-hundred-and-eighty-nine billion

give and take, give and take,
it's an understatement

I am not happy with it!
I am not a happy camper!
they took from education, they took from health

they put it,

into tax issues



what a spending bonanza

ETP 4 - Gary: Chicago Cathedral

a Fire has swept through
fire:
shooting out of the cathedral's roof

flames were seen
fire trucks
rushed to battle the blaze

in freezing temperatures

priests and nuns were inside
Holy Name
flames were shooting out of the cathedral

the original was destroyed by a Fire in 1871
the new cathedral
built four years later

jimmy lago described it as "awful"
'tragedy'
but no-one was hurt

Collaborative ETP III - Theme from the Bottom

Flowers, used plate;
rest,
the weight of the world, all 5400 kilograms of it,

fork, two spoons;
submerged,
there is something like a ghost there

food, residue stains;
their bones still lay in the earth,
unclean

oranges, mixed browns;
the other is blood red and pokes out from underneath the first,

bottom sink

ETP 3 - Gary

There is something like a ghost there, on the pillow, but it has weight and sinks into the soft surface. Really there is nothing there, but it is easier to imagine something, anything there, instead of just straight nothing – nothing can’t leave an imprint on a surface.

It is interesting that there is only one pillow on this full sized bed, which seems to be meant for two. Although more interesting is the state of the blankets, if they may be called that, that are on the bed. One of them matches the pillow: gray. The other is blood red and pokes out from underneath the first. Neither is close to a human shape. The scene is this: a scrunched up gray ball with a red “U” underneath.

Was it mentioned that the whole bed sits on wheels, ready to be carted away?

It seems the owner of this bed slept hard.

ETP III - Joe

The weight of the world, all 5400 kilograms of it, rested on the tracks at the base of cold sharp mountains, ambiguous chaparral planes. Dynamite detonated its way into a pre-forged future and violently blew through the earth and set the decibel level for what was to follow. Empires rose and fell on two metal steel bars connected by oil-soaked dead trees.

The oil that kept the ties dry was ultimately what murdered the senile, wrinkled trains

Machines that were bank accounts for men white with romantic names
And black-stained fame

So long ago. The men with wheels and gears for faces were buried but their bones still lay on the earth. Coal explodes into oil, trains into trucks, trucks into planes that sometimes blast into the most recent mechanical money-maker

Buildings breathing zeros and ones that travel at the speed of electrons in copper

These new trains ride wireless tracks across digital country-sides

New trains don’t look or sound like anything and patronize parallel pieces of metal

New trains are soul-less, omnipotent, and explore new markets in a way that doesn’t require an architect or land surveyor or empathy

That was now, but now miles of metal, miles of metal, miles of metal are left to wander and ponder. We used to confuse the wind and the earthquakes for trains. Financial vanity lasts so these tracks last, a tribute to a romantic, physical past. The fortune, the land, the torture, the plans, the work, the suffering, the myth, the gift, all weigh on those tracks so that they don't have to rest on us.

Josh ETP III -Down there

Flowers, used plate;
rest,
bottom sink

fork, two spoons;
partially submerged,
water

food, residue stains;
floating particles,
unclean

oranges, mixed browns;
bottom,
laced liquid

flowers, printed border;
pinks,
green stems

Collaborative ETP II - Holy Animal

open mouth
of a holy animal
half is white;
its top half is
maroon / green

/ yellow / purple

/ black
mishmash.

There's a faint
sweet aroma.

light passing
through
bends outward
then sweeps
back in,
plastering its
flat end low
against

white and clear
opaque fabric
warm

dirty faded worn forgotten
open mouth
unused and untread
hard stone detritus
decaying without purpose

light \ dark
warm \ cold
infinite esophagus

baking and cooling
solidify
stepped over

stitches that hold the land to the sea

ETP II: Objects in Situ - Joe

One line shooting across a portal
white and clear opaque fabric sliding beneath the shade
light passing through a shutter of shelter onto slippery beads
warm. cold.
one structure two lives
open mouth of a holy animal
infinite esophagus
hard stone palate ready force its will on the earth
no more research
no more play
only the seams
stitches that hold the land to the sea

Josh ETP II -Stepped Over

dirty faded worn forgotten

unused and untread

green detritus

decaying without purpose

baking and cooling

solidify

stepped over

f a i n t s w e e t a r o m a

This tiny yarn leads up to a teabag sitting in a cup. The cup's bottom half is white; its top half is
maroon / green / yellow / purple / black
mishmash.
The whole cup is full of water, which the teabag has now made into tea. There's a faint, sweet aroma. The cup's handle bends outward then sweeps back in, plastering its flat end low against
the cup.

Collaborative ETP I - Echos of Visual Movement

There is a sneeze She nods He furrows his brows and stares intently at the person who is speaking to him leaning forward and to the side Talks, shrugging left shoulder His arms remain crossed until he decides to speak; which he does with his arms. with the left hand gesturing in a swiping motion pulls his I.D. card straight from his pocket and places it in the clerk’s hand. her hands clasp in her lap, under the table. rocking softly back and forth as she laughs he maintains his good posture; adjusting it from time to time if he begins to slouch. Back to sitting His strides are longer. Her legs and torso are very static She brushes something off her (lap?) straight in the booth Heels move, taking sandal bottoms with them, bouncing. begin to walk up the stairs towards Imprints.

a grin on her face Forehead white, ear in shadow, a profile with hard light. a short spiked crew haircut around his boxy head. His arms remain crossed until he decides to speak; holding her plate of food small pink bag by her feet as big as her bicep, which is small. an almost fist shape index finger on right hand that frames his face as he speaks. His gray shirt that reads, “Hurley” fits tight around his muscular body, She has a small frame She is silent Skin tight jeans, skinny jeans. the corner wall in the back of the booth and is wearing tan shorts. at his feet, always adjusting his posture. the bag is hiding her toes, but the backs of sandals poke out under her heels. Silence

Josh ETP 1 -She does

She's leaning into the booth. She's gesturing wth her right hand in low motions while she talks to her (BF?). The right hand goes up to brush her hair in a short motion. She's holding her plate of food which just arrived. She's picking up the food and taking a bite while lowering her head. She's lowering her head and maybe laughing or exclaiming something. She's using vinegar on her plate. Both hands are grasping utensils and cutting; She's looking down to do this. Her head is up to talk. One hand(or both?) are at her mouth in perhaps laughter. The left hand rises in a flat-palmed motion. She is cutting her food with both utensils again. Still cutting. And laughing too. She's chewing food. She's talking. And chewing. She might be using a fork with her left hand. She's gesturing with her right hand. She leans down to take a bite. She's covering her mouth with her left hand while she talks with perhaps laughter. She's rocking softly back and forth as she laughs. There is a grin on her face. She's leaning forward and to the side(towards the booth seat). She's using the fork again(with her left hand). She's chewing and silent. And silent. There is a sneeze. Another sneeze. She's taking a bite of food. She's silent. The fork is used. A bite is taken. There is chewing. There is laughing and talking. The head is lowered and a bite is taken(with the left hand). The left hand is digging for food on the plate. She's wiping her mouth with the left hand. She's gesturing in a swiping motion up her face. The vinegar is being used again. Still being used. Now the fork(with the left hand) is digging for food. The head is lowered and a bite is taken. She is silent. More of this. Silence. Now talking and chewing and digging for food. The food is perhaps eaten this time from the right hand. She is using both hands(with utensils) to lift and manipulate the food. Her head now rests on her right hand while the left digs for food. She takes a bite without taking her head from her hand. This continues. She is silent. Continues. Another bite is taken. The right hand remains on the side of her head. She is taking a drink from her straw and holds the glass with her right hand. Her head no longer rests on her hand. The hand is against the booth wall in an upright position. She is using both hands with utensils to lift a piece of pizza onto her plate. She turns away from the wall and now sits straight in the booth. She is lifting the food to her mouth with her right hand. She chews. She looks up at her (BF?). She is looking up(possibly listening). She laughs and wipers her mouth in an almost fist shape. She is back to cutting up her food with both hands and eating with the right. She leans down and is perhaps using her right hand to manipulate the food onto her utensil in the left hand. She raises her right hand with a limp wrist in front of her mouth. She is chewing and cutting with both hands. She leans down to take a bite. She is digging with her fork(in her left hand). She leans down to take a bite. She is silent. She is chewing. She leans back and raises her hand to her mouth. She leans forward again. She laughs. She is chewing and possibly listening to her (BF?). She raises then lowers herself in the booth. She leans back into the corner wall in the back of the booth. She chews her food. She has a grin on her face. She has a grin on her face. She makes a remark and laughs. She lifts food to her mouth with her right hand. She looks down. She brushes something off her (lap?). She is gesturing with her right hand. She is chewing. She is looking down and laughing. She is laughing. She is talking and laughing. She raises her right hand to her mouth while laughing.

Bodies In Situ - Joe

He is 6’1” and has a short spiked crew haircut around his boxy head. He has stubble, thick eyebrows and sideburns. His gray shirt that reads, “Hurley” fits tight around his muscular body, and is wearing tan shorts. He sits slouched back in his metal Price Center seat with his shoulder blades resting on the top of the chair. There are three other men, two of which are sitting in the same manner. His arms remain crossed until he decides to speak; which he does with his arms. They are spread out and his motions are carried out with slow strong movements that frame his face as he speaks. He furrows his brows and stares intently at the person who is speaking to him, arms crossed.

It is getting colder and he shifts his weight forward. All of a sudden all four get up and move towards the trash can. He places his backpack over his shoulders and throws away his Panda Express Styrofoam container, pushing the trashcan lid flap open and dropping in the trash. One person leaves as the other 3 begin to walk up the stairs towards Imprints. When he walks he walks with his shoulders back and his chest up. As the two others slouch, he maintains his good posture; adjusting it from time to time if he begins to slouch. When he walks, he does so with a sway and his arms swing back and forth—and seem to take up so much space that the others move away from him. He keeps his head down and looks at his feet, always adjusting his posture.

They walk through Marshal Housing towards International walk, and march through eucalyptus forests, forging a straight path towards their destination. When he speaks as he walks his head tilts up and his voice is projected outward. People seem to notice him. He looks at a girl walking towards him, looking at her from her feet to her head. She passes and he snaps his head forward again. Now that there are more people walking in the area, he perks up and walks with his head up. His strides are longer. They arrive at Rimac and his friend opens the door. He walks inside first and pulls his I.D. card straight from his pocket and places it in the clerk’s hand. She scans it and lets the three men through. They head towards the locker room.

ETP1: Bodies in SITU - GARY

She nods and sits at attention. Her cheeks catch the sun and shine – makeup on them. Her mouth moves: talking while smiling. She nods, her hands hold a sandwich she bites into it, wipes hands with napkins thouroughly, then her hands clasp in her lap, under the table. She goes back for the sandwich, giggling with her mouth closed, now filled with sandwich, cheeks pushed out nods. Black hair in a pony tail with a maroon band holing it in place. White reflective stud ear rings, catching the sun. wipes her hands again. Laughs with mouth closed again small pink bag by her feet as big as her bicep, which is small. She has a small frame, skinny wrists, skinny ankles, heels – the bag is hiding her toes, but the backs of sandals poke out under her heels. Skin tight jeans, skinny jeans. A white ruffled shirt, poofing off skinny shoulders and small breasts. There’s a little shadow line in the middle of her chest – a low cut blouse? Top. Eyebrows raised. Forehead shines in the sun, makeup? Listens to friends, turns head to listen adds own biit of information. Chews although sandwich is not in her mouth. Talks, shrugging left shoulder and bobbing head towards that side. Her legs are very static, so is her torso. Top row of teeth showing. Laughs with her teeth exposed now. Eyes open wide. Very white. Black eye makeup around socket contrasting the white balls. Lighter than olive skin, pink lips – makeup? Sitting, talking to friends. Her legs and torso are very static, hands return to lap where the rest, motionless. Eyebrows are static too. Looks down at sandwich as she goes to pick it up revealing dark eyelash – makeup. Mascara. Eye not as wide now, more relaxed. Smiles with moth closed, goes for the napkin again. Nods. Ponytail nods with her. Talks, throat moving out and in. sits, static, talking, eating, time passes. The sandwich is being eaten slowly. She rests between bites. Long rests with mouth, and now a collarbone can be seen, making a shadow when she shrug/laughs with her shoulders. Scratches left shoulder then pulls on top, then back to sitting, talking, time passes. Nods eyes open, takes breath through the nose – neck lines show. Hands in lap, sitting, time passes. Scratches forehead with index finger on right hand. Hand comes from lap, up to the itch, and back. Hands in lap, talking, time passes. Front half of her face shining. Chattering, lips parting. Time passes. Frozen look on her face – eyebrows up eyes open, lips tight. Nose is small, small face, small frame, static frame, static face. Nodding. Nods are small, less than an inch in different, hair barely nods. Sit and talk time passes. Look left, big eyes, irises and pupils swivel left, large white shocking spaces to her right in each eye. Heels move, taking sandal bottoms with them, bouncing. Another nod. Nod, sit, talk, bob, time passes. Shrug. Time passes. Looks left, outside of circle of friends. Forehead glowing, shining white. Forehead whit, ear in shadow, a profile with hard light. Continue to sit. Continue to nod, sporadically. Only nods. Continue to nod, lips read “yes.” Nod. Time goes. Fix left shoulder. More time filled with sitting, talking. A different motion here: her pupils start bottom left, she blinks long, they end upper right. A breath… through the mouth. Continue to sit. But pony tail swings. Hands move, half smile – left side of her face. Bottoms of feet vertical, taking sandal bottoms. Just sitting, no more eating. Sit, talk, chest is tight, sit sit sit. Nod. Scratch your wrist, look right, following a friends wave, straining neck right, lifting chin. Back to sitting, back to staticness.