humanscaled:

“Meta-four.” (get it?)

If only that last image was showing us some occupiable space, then we might find compelling logic here in that carport roof.

rockingarchitecture:

Office building by Vikar & Lukacs Architect Studio

The Tiger-striped cat

widowinparadise:

(by grapesgrapes)

My childhood

We Still Live Here.

Here the ways of men part: if you wish to strive for peace of soul and pleasure, then believe; if you wish to be a devotee of truth, then inquire.

-June 11, 1865

thepoliticalnotebook:

A considerable number of people consider photos taken with the iPhone to be automatically not photojournalism, no matter the content or composition. Despite that, there is a significant body of work in conflict photojournalism by very talented photographers that uses the iPhone, often filtered using the Hipstamatic app, to depict scenes of countries in wartime. Damon Winter did it. David Guttenfelder did it. The very interesting documentary project called Basetrack is doing it. Recently, to accompany his New York Times story, “The Bad Guys vs. the Worse Guys,” Ben Lowy shot photographs in the same way. He says of using the iPhone,

iPhones enable a greater intimacy with a subject in a way that traditional cameras can’t. People are so used to seeing you pull out a huge camera and then acting a certain way. iPhones are still new enough that you get more realistic, less subjective, images contentwise because you aren’t pulling out this huge camera.

And indeed, the photographs taken by the iPhone give more of an air of actually being there, and have a far more candid, intimate tone. 

on the brink. On the edge. It teeters and it tilts. Over the edge. On the edge. Over the edge. I stare, you stare, and we all end up staring. The anxiety is killing me and you know it. Sitting at the table outside is where I see her. ‘Impervious’ the sign above her reads. I think not. Stride on over and sit right beside her, “Hey, my name is ____.” “What?” “____” Cute name she tells me. Everything is on the edge. I stare, she stares, even he’s staring by now. The only person that isn’t staring is you. Her plastic skin and porcelain eyes. Beautiful I say to my self. She raises up her hand to my face gently finding my cheek. Soft. They’re so nice, those eyes of hers, I want to tell her. And her gesture so genuine. In that second she absorbed all of the hurt man could have ever endured. All of the scrapes and tares just healed, even the ones replaced by mud colored scars. On the brink. On the edge of my seat. We stare. We gaze. Drunk. Everything stands on the brink. Where do I want her? With a book in her hand reading, reading out loud. “The industry is a terrible place once you get involved”, she begins, “full of scandal and deceit.” 

A tree. Its roots ancient. Its trunk tall, strong…stout. Branches unlimited looming like a crowd of arms reaching and groping. Twigs extended pointing towards a horizon of what else but more trees. The leaf, the final frontier, the furthest extension of the green, yellow and red beast. So delicate and fragile, with little effort in could be picked and crushed…yet millions are prepared to take its place. All of this beauty bound together from the past…the past when this tree was nothing but a little seed no bigger than a the tip of this pencil. All of this bounty bound together by ropes after it is torn apart by axes. I am able to have my pencil. Thank you. I able to sit down. Thank you. I am able to smoke. Thank you. I am warm. Thank you.