Ragpicker’s Hut Eugène Atget 1912
via wood’s lot
(Source: unpalombaro)
Feeding pattern of a caterpillar, from Forms and Patterns in Nature by Wolf Strache
(via mythologyofblue)
Mexican Border, (taken from behind a chain link fence), 1983 via mydadtakespictures
Los Angeles, 1992
Once when I was a teenager, I overheard my father tell a friend that when his daughters were born, we became his main subject. He described his current project as “The Story of Teenage Girls”. My sister and I resented this, began to rebel, hid from the camera and hid from my father. He was not telling our story, he was telling his own. We were just characters in it. I was often dismayed that my most vivid memories from my childhood happened to also be the ones my father had photographed. Did I have any of my own memories? Were these photographs taking the place of my own genuine memory? Was his story of my life replacing my story?
Everyone told my sister and I that someday we would be grateful for these images. They wished they had a photographer for a father. His photographs would keep our memories alive, were like little time machines, they said, but I didn’t understand why this was a good thing. Why would I want time to stand still, especially in moments that I didn’t even choose? My father was the one editing reality, selecting which moments were important enough to document. Why couldn’t I keep my own memories alive? I remember doubting whether I could remember my own story or if I was only depending on a copy of a moment made permanent on film.
I am told that he did not drink like an ordinary toper, but like a savage, with an altogether American energy and fear of wasting a minute, as though he were accomplishing an act of murder, as though there was something inside him that he had to kill, ‘a worm that would not die.
—Charles Baudelaire on Edgar Allen Poe, from Edgar Poe, sa vie et ses oeuvres (Edgar Allan Poe, His Life and Works, 1852), via (via theshipthatflew)
Reading gives one something to think about other than one’s self.
—Tom Bissell (via mythologyofblue)
Steve McCurry, Kuchi Nomads, Evening Prayer, Kandahar, Afghanistan, 1992
via nirvikalpa
(via sacred-geometry)
In my first thirty years of life
I roamed hundreds and thousands of miles.
Walked by rivers through deep green grass
Entered cities of boiling red dust.
Tried drugs, but couldn’t make Immortal;
Read books and wrote poems on history.
Today I’m back at Cold Mountain;
I’ll sleep by the creek and purify my ears.
Han-shan / Gary Snyder
via movingpaw
An old Italian gentleman lived alone in New Jersey . He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:
Dear Vincent, I am feeling pretty sad because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over. I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days. Love, Papa
A few days later he received a letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Don’t dig up that garden. That’ s where the bodies are buried. Love, Vinnie
At 4 a.m. The next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left. That same day the old man received another letter from his son.
Dear Papa, Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances. Love you, Vinnie
(Source: catalogosphere)
(via justwakethefuckup)
