Breathe Ghosts, Spit Ink

jamespeterward: Taken the day after my 33rd birthday which saw...

Tue, 11 Jun 2013 19:06:32 -0400

Taken the day after my 33rd birthday which saw me in a bit of a reflective frame of mind. It’s nothing special - beautifully vacant perhaps - which pretty much summed up my state of mind at the time. Or something.

alexmatzke: Controlled burn in Custer County, Dawson County,...

Thu, 30 May 2013 15:37:45 -0400

alexmatzke:

Controlled burn in Custer County, Dawson County, Nebraska. 2013

darnyill: Abu Dhabi, William Hüber

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 15:58:25 -0400

darnyill:

Abu Dhabi, William Hüber

thewolfwithinhim: based-dreamer: the1kydstare: devidsketchbook...

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 16:15:45 -0400

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

Photographer Mike Brodie | Posted by devidsketchbook.com

thewolfwithinhim:

based-dreamer:

the1kydstare:

devidsketchbook:

Extraordinary photos of young hitchhikers and freight train hoppers by Mike Brodie

Mike Brodie (tumblr | facebook) first began photographing in 2004 when he was given a Polaroid camera. Working under the moniker, The Polaroid Kidd, Brodie spent the next four years circumambulating the U.S. amassing an archive of photographs that would go on to make up one of the few, true collections of American travel photography. Having never undergone any formal training, he chose to remained untethered to the pressures and expectations of the art market.

mike brodie has been my hero for a long time now. <3

Miss that shit.

Snipers that kill an enemy combatant will remove the round from...

Fri, 28 Sep 2012 23:20:37 -0400

Snipers that kill an enemy combatant will remove the round from the opposing sniper’s rifle, that was meant for him. Often a hole is drilled through the bullet and it is worn around the neck. It is called the Hog’s tooth.

frecklefuck: The Decemberists — Eli, the Barrow Boy

Sun, 16 Sep 2012 22:35:07 -0400

frecklefuck:

The Decemberists — Eli, the Barrow Boy

Public Service Announcement

Wed, 12 Sep 2012 21:15:29 -0400

caitbikes:

This is a ghost bike.

They are memorials left where bicyclists have been killed and often painted white.

Do not remove them.

That is all.

Photo

Mon, 10 Sep 2012 19:20:08 -0400

Photo

Fri, 07 Sep 2012 15:12:08 -0400

Photo

Mon, 03 Sep 2012 01:00:10 -0400

Photo

Tue, 21 Aug 2012 18:48:50 -0400

prettymuchthebestever: TVSign on Flickr.

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 16:34:20 -0400

prettymuchthebestever:

TVSign on Flickr.

Audio

Sat, 18 Aug 2012 17:35:19 -0400

Photo

Thu, 16 Aug 2012 19:38:02 -0400

Photo

Sat, 11 Aug 2012 12:19:38 -0400

Photo

Tue, 15 May 2012 11:20:46 -0400

roachpatrol: mysticplaces: Kandovan village | East Azerbaijan,...

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 18:20:36 -0500

roachpatrol:

mysticplaces:

Kandovan village | East Azerbaijan, Iran

Oh my god beautiful.

frecklefuck: aileenkwun: Peripheral Visions: André...

Sun, 30 Oct 2011 17:52:20 -0400

frecklefuck:

aileenkwun:

Peripheral Visions: André Thijssen

“If there is such a thing in photography as a “decisive moment”, the term coined by Henri Cartier-Bresson, then there must also be the opposite––the casual, corner-of-the-eye event … a photographer who concentrates on the periphery of the frame, he sees beauty in things that most people aren’t interested in. Thijssen’s work provides access to parallel worlds, of which we are occasionally also aware, however we prefer to ignore these unfathomable moments in time.

Hey Rip, Jack

This pic’s for you.

Driver and Passenger: Disposable Camera; Several Snapshots in Time

Fri, 07 Oct 2011 23:57:10 -0400

I.
Hands trace stone walls blindly, following curves and sharp edges chiseled out by eons, ages, time and so much weather. The hands are rough too, but not rough enough to match the canyon. The hands do have something the canyon doesn’t, though: the ability to feel. The power of sensation.

That is what the Passenger believes, at any rate. Sometimes he wonders if the rock does feel, but when he wonders that he knows and remembers that he’s passed the twenty-four hour mark without sleep. After all, if the rocks felt, then with his awful abilities he would be able to tell.

The lack of sleep was another story entirely. He pictures the twenty-four hour mark as an arching gate with a film of light instead of a door, not unlike the reflection of water at the bottom of a pool. In his mind’s eye he walks through it, it scrapes over his skin and leaves no feeling as it goes, but it takes his meticulously structured logic with it. How he acts after the Mark frustrates the Passenger to no end; the remaining logic does battle with the onset of hallucinations and broken ideas.

Despite this his manner of speech remains (mostly) lucid.

The hand, no matter how rough it is, catches on something sharp in the natural cement of the cliff. What the hell would be sticking out of compacted ash that hadn’t been blunted by the elements.

The Passenger holds his slightly bloody hand, and his eyes scan the area he’d felt the sting come from.

Nails. Ancient square nails, weathered and weeping a trail of rust from their final resting place in the shape of a Creediron Cross, much like the one on his shoulder. Cracks radiate from some of the nails. Fresh cracks. Fresh dents. Someone had taken a hammer to these quite recently. The Passenger didn’t care to guess why.

“Fuck.” He whispered through his teeth, an angry noise somewhere between a bark and a hiss. “Better not get tetanus or something.”

The Passenger continues on through the slot canyon before he reaches the splintering wooden scaffolding of a tourist overlook. There would be a road somewhere near, if he was lucky.

(He was never lucky. That’s what landed him in the canyon, after all.)

II.
Hours before, the highway was the last place they wanted to be. The rear-view mirrors showed a car without a driver following them, riding their bumper, swerving from side to side like a goddamn hungry sidewinder.

Whenever the Passenger looked backwards to confirm, there was nothing there. The threat only existed in the mirrors… and in the radio. It hissed and crackled even when turned off, even when the Driver gritted out hasty orders to disconnect it.

“Pull the whole damn thing out! No. No no no just rip it out or we’re screwed!”

Wires yanked and snapped like metal roots, and the numbers on the clock and am-fm readout flashed, spun, changed as if in protest. For a moment, it was almost as if the wires were snaking around his wrists, he swore they were, he swore they were he swore—

The Driver chucked the unit out the window, and all they could hear was smashing glass and screeching tires behind them.

When they dared look back, not even the debris of the smashed radio could be seen.

“Yeah. Being hunted, what a great feeling. Nice. We oughtta’ do this more often, it really gets the blood pumping. Nice cardio. Seriously.” Nervous words. Breathy. Exasperated. Accusing. Just a note shy of hysterical.

This was far from the first time the Driver had socked him in the jaw to calm him down.

It was the only thing that worked anymore.

III.
Cloth maps weren’t a tradition anymore, they were a curiosity, nothing more than a novelty sold in gift shops all along the highways, especially once the plains gave way to the high desert. The gift-shop variety was a poorly-made breed, a quick reproduction for the sake of cashing in on the money tourism brings.

When he found the hempcloth map spread out on the Driver’s hotel bed, he knew by the look of it it was the real thing. It was marked with cities that didn’t survive ages of drought, war and plague, it was veined by roads known only to the intrepid explorers in the golden age of archeology, and it was marked with a line of three sites that didn’t make any sense.

Two years later they did. He stood before one of them, a Passenger no longer.

A map as old as dirt was the perfect place for nameless marks, marks for the graves of folk tales the roads wished they could forget.

IV.
If the car wouldn’t start, it was always an omen of bad things to come.

Needless to say the Driver was thrilled when the engine let out a jittery whine and gave up. His stuttering curses almost mimicked the engine perfectly, he babbled and pleaded and threatened the engine to start.

Passenger approached the Jeep, a bedroll and his duffel bag over one shoulder. “Trouble?”

“The ignition.”

Nothing more needed to be said. The hood was thrown up, tools were fetched from under the back seat and the Passenger set to work. There was clattering, knocking, and the screeching metal-on-metal sound that never failed to make the dark-skinned Driver grind his teeth.

“You broke something, I know you broke something. Please don’t break anything. We’re in the middle of nowhere.” He spoke more to reassure himself than anything else.

“Turn it.” The reply came from beneath the car. He was certain the Passenger hadn’t had time to crawl under there that fast.

“Excuse me?”

“The key! Turn it! You deaf of something?”

Dust was pushed aside and a dusty, sweaty man emerged from beneath the Jeep as if he had been birthed from the underbelly of the hunk of metal itself. The obnoxious grin on his face ruined the effect, though, dripping with pride as the engine turned over and settled into a nice running purr.

When the Driver asked what he did, he was unable to answer properly. “I just did it” was the best answer he could get.

Traitor, they Whisper

Sat, 01 Oct 2011 15:51:47 -0400

The one who walks these roads is an abomination. Her skin is dark and freckled, and her hair is a frizzy mess and her eyes betray her; orange hazel of a port-city child of illegitimate lineage.

Traitor, they whisper. As if she is the embodiment of all that is wrong. She must suffer the “sins” of her parents which were no sins at all, unless being business partner merchants who happened to be married was some sort of awful crime.

By the way other Bezzards cursed and spat at her she supposed in the end it was.

It was stupid, whoever made those unspoken laws needed a good knock to the skull from her wrench.

Her name is Tamora. She holds a variety of nations in her blood. Her home country calls her a mutt, but her parents call her a brilliant mechanic.