Eleven Days in Rio by Marko Roth

Rio De Janeiro, Brazil

Moments by Muge
China Moments by Muge
China

Do it for Denmark?

A Danish travel site is offering 3-year supply of baby stuff to couples who can prove that they conceived a child while on a vacation purchased through their site.

"The streets are filled with garbage in even the best of neighborhoods…
During the winters the sun is something spoken of only as rumor, and the persistence of darkness denies you the distraction from the emptiness of your existence that a bright summer’s day helps obscure. As you trudge through the dank, refuse-encrusted streets you are constantly reminded that the work you do is meaningless and no one would miss you if you were gone, even the people for whom your passing might mean more insignificant toil added to their own useless list of tasks.
The constant cacophony of construction carries the twinned curse of brutal bursts of deafening sound at unpredictable intervals and the visual reminder that these new shiny glass monstrosities—these blots on the skyline that are doing permanent damage to the horizon—are being built for the people who have somehow figured out the trick of accruing compensation for the magic arts of prevarication which you are either too incompetent or self-important to manage on your own. Each time you cross the street because another expensive tower is going up it is a series of swift blows to the psyche with the implicit rebuke to your failure the sharpest punch.
Your days are spent in a constant pageant of activity and everyone takes part in the charade because that is the way we convince ourselves that our drudgery has merit and isn’t actually anxiety-inducing motion gone through for the sake of personal validation. No one stops to question why we suffer through this demoralizing routine when only a small number of people—who have already been the beneficiaries of a system designed to ensure that those with the most are able to keep it and get more—actually enjoy the returns on all the make-work. In those rare moments when you aren’t driving yourself deeper into the hole to keep up your illusion of value there is no respite to be found in stillness, only an echoing chasm the utter hollowness of which is made slightly less empty by your filling it with regret, alcohol and episodic television, which we are all making claims for as the Great Literature of Our Age rather than cop and mob shows with better production values.
Your loneliness is matched by a horrible disquiet, the source of which is the unspoken truth that everything is terribly tenuous and even the meager living you are scratching out right now is but one or two small accidents or omissions removed from that of those sad unfortunate souls you see sleeping on the streets or muttering mindlessly to themselves as you pass them by, pretending not to notice. It would take one tiny tug of the thread for everything to unravel and even all the energy you presently put in to papering over the terrible flaws and dark parts of your personality will no longer do you any good because after a certain point there is no compassion, no forgiveness and finally not even an acknowledgement of your existence.
When you sleep it is only with the aid of powerful prescription medication which helps drown out the sirens signalling the injury, death and wanton acts of human cruelty all around you.”
“But despite the challenges of city living, the city’s population is growing in ways not seen in decades.”
Alex Balk: Population Growing
art: Drawings for Manhattan
(via kateoplis) "The streets are filled with garbage in even the best of neighborhoods…
During the winters the sun is something spoken of only as rumor, and the persistence of darkness denies you the distraction from the emptiness of your existence that a bright summer’s day helps obscure. As you trudge through the dank, refuse-encrusted streets you are constantly reminded that the work you do is meaningless and no one would miss you if you were gone, even the people for whom your passing might mean more insignificant toil added to their own useless list of tasks.
The constant cacophony of construction carries the twinned curse of brutal bursts of deafening sound at unpredictable intervals and the visual reminder that these new shiny glass monstrosities—these blots on the skyline that are doing permanent damage to the horizon—are being built for the people who have somehow figured out the trick of accruing compensation for the magic arts of prevarication which you are either too incompetent or self-important to manage on your own. Each time you cross the street because another expensive tower is going up it is a series of swift blows to the psyche with the implicit rebuke to your failure the sharpest punch.
Your days are spent in a constant pageant of activity and everyone takes part in the charade because that is the way we convince ourselves that our drudgery has merit and isn’t actually anxiety-inducing motion gone through for the sake of personal validation. No one stops to question why we suffer through this demoralizing routine when only a small number of people—who have already been the beneficiaries of a system designed to ensure that those with the most are able to keep it and get more—actually enjoy the returns on all the make-work. In those rare moments when you aren’t driving yourself deeper into the hole to keep up your illusion of value there is no respite to be found in stillness, only an echoing chasm the utter hollowness of which is made slightly less empty by your filling it with regret, alcohol and episodic television, which we are all making claims for as the Great Literature of Our Age rather than cop and mob shows with better production values.
Your loneliness is matched by a horrible disquiet, the source of which is the unspoken truth that everything is terribly tenuous and even the meager living you are scratching out right now is but one or two small accidents or omissions removed from that of those sad unfortunate souls you see sleeping on the streets or muttering mindlessly to themselves as you pass them by, pretending not to notice. It would take one tiny tug of the thread for everything to unravel and even all the energy you presently put in to papering over the terrible flaws and dark parts of your personality will no longer do you any good because after a certain point there is no compassion, no forgiveness and finally not even an acknowledgement of your existence.
When you sleep it is only with the aid of powerful prescription medication which helps drown out the sirens signalling the injury, death and wanton acts of human cruelty all around you.”
“But despite the challenges of city living, the city’s population is growing in ways not seen in decades.”
Alex Balk: Population Growing
art: Drawings for Manhattan
(via kateoplis) "The streets are filled with garbage in even the best of neighborhoods…
During the winters the sun is something spoken of only as rumor, and the persistence of darkness denies you the distraction from the emptiness of your existence that a bright summer’s day helps obscure. As you trudge through the dank, refuse-encrusted streets you are constantly reminded that the work you do is meaningless and no one would miss you if you were gone, even the people for whom your passing might mean more insignificant toil added to their own useless list of tasks.
The constant cacophony of construction carries the twinned curse of brutal bursts of deafening sound at unpredictable intervals and the visual reminder that these new shiny glass monstrosities—these blots on the skyline that are doing permanent damage to the horizon—are being built for the people who have somehow figured out the trick of accruing compensation for the magic arts of prevarication which you are either too incompetent or self-important to manage on your own. Each time you cross the street because another expensive tower is going up it is a series of swift blows to the psyche with the implicit rebuke to your failure the sharpest punch.
Your days are spent in a constant pageant of activity and everyone takes part in the charade because that is the way we convince ourselves that our drudgery has merit and isn’t actually anxiety-inducing motion gone through for the sake of personal validation. No one stops to question why we suffer through this demoralizing routine when only a small number of people—who have already been the beneficiaries of a system designed to ensure that those with the most are able to keep it and get more—actually enjoy the returns on all the make-work. In those rare moments when you aren’t driving yourself deeper into the hole to keep up your illusion of value there is no respite to be found in stillness, only an echoing chasm the utter hollowness of which is made slightly less empty by your filling it with regret, alcohol and episodic television, which we are all making claims for as the Great Literature of Our Age rather than cop and mob shows with better production values.
Your loneliness is matched by a horrible disquiet, the source of which is the unspoken truth that everything is terribly tenuous and even the meager living you are scratching out right now is but one or two small accidents or omissions removed from that of those sad unfortunate souls you see sleeping on the streets or muttering mindlessly to themselves as you pass them by, pretending not to notice. It would take one tiny tug of the thread for everything to unravel and even all the energy you presently put in to papering over the terrible flaws and dark parts of your personality will no longer do you any good because after a certain point there is no compassion, no forgiveness and finally not even an acknowledgement of your existence.
When you sleep it is only with the aid of powerful prescription medication which helps drown out the sirens signalling the injury, death and wanton acts of human cruelty all around you.”
“But despite the challenges of city living, the city’s population is growing in ways not seen in decades.”
Alex Balk: Population Growing
art: Drawings for Manhattan
(via kateoplis) "The streets are filled with garbage in even the best of neighborhoods…
During the winters the sun is something spoken of only as rumor, and the persistence of darkness denies you the distraction from the emptiness of your existence that a bright summer’s day helps obscure. As you trudge through the dank, refuse-encrusted streets you are constantly reminded that the work you do is meaningless and no one would miss you if you were gone, even the people for whom your passing might mean more insignificant toil added to their own useless list of tasks.
The constant cacophony of construction carries the twinned curse of brutal bursts of deafening sound at unpredictable intervals and the visual reminder that these new shiny glass monstrosities—these blots on the skyline that are doing permanent damage to the horizon—are being built for the people who have somehow figured out the trick of accruing compensation for the magic arts of prevarication which you are either too incompetent or self-important to manage on your own. Each time you cross the street because another expensive tower is going up it is a series of swift blows to the psyche with the implicit rebuke to your failure the sharpest punch.
Your days are spent in a constant pageant of activity and everyone takes part in the charade because that is the way we convince ourselves that our drudgery has merit and isn’t actually anxiety-inducing motion gone through for the sake of personal validation. No one stops to question why we suffer through this demoralizing routine when only a small number of people—who have already been the beneficiaries of a system designed to ensure that those with the most are able to keep it and get more—actually enjoy the returns on all the make-work. In those rare moments when you aren’t driving yourself deeper into the hole to keep up your illusion of value there is no respite to be found in stillness, only an echoing chasm the utter hollowness of which is made slightly less empty by your filling it with regret, alcohol and episodic television, which we are all making claims for as the Great Literature of Our Age rather than cop and mob shows with better production values.
Your loneliness is matched by a horrible disquiet, the source of which is the unspoken truth that everything is terribly tenuous and even the meager living you are scratching out right now is but one or two small accidents or omissions removed from that of those sad unfortunate souls you see sleeping on the streets or muttering mindlessly to themselves as you pass them by, pretending not to notice. It would take one tiny tug of the thread for everything to unravel and even all the energy you presently put in to papering over the terrible flaws and dark parts of your personality will no longer do you any good because after a certain point there is no compassion, no forgiveness and finally not even an acknowledgement of your existence.
When you sleep it is only with the aid of powerful prescription medication which helps drown out the sirens signalling the injury, death and wanton acts of human cruelty all around you.”
“But despite the challenges of city living, the city’s population is growing in ways not seen in decades.”
Alex Balk: Population Growing
art: Drawings for Manhattan
(via kateoplis)

"The streets are filled with garbage in even the best of neighborhoods…

During the winters the sun is something spoken of only as rumor, and the persistence of darkness denies you the distraction from the emptiness of your existence that a bright summer’s day helps obscure. As you trudge through the dank, refuse-encrusted streets you are constantly reminded that the work you do is meaningless and no one would miss you if you were gone, even the people for whom your passing might mean more insignificant toil added to their own useless list of tasks.

The constant cacophony of construction carries the twinned curse of brutal bursts of deafening sound at unpredictable intervals and the visual reminder that these new shiny glass monstrosities—these blots on the skyline that are doing permanent damage to the horizon—are being built for the people who have somehow figured out the trick of accruing compensation for the magic arts of prevarication which you are either too incompetent or self-important to manage on your own. Each time you cross the street because another expensive tower is going up it is a series of swift blows to the psyche with the implicit rebuke to your failure the sharpest punch.

Your days are spent in a constant pageant of activity and everyone takes part in the charade because that is the way we convince ourselves that our drudgery has merit and isn’t actually anxiety-inducing motion gone through for the sake of personal validation. No one stops to question why we suffer through this demoralizing routine when only a small number of people—who have already been the beneficiaries of a system designed to ensure that those with the most are able to keep it and get more—actually enjoy the returns on all the make-work. In those rare moments when you aren’t driving yourself deeper into the hole to keep up your illusion of value there is no respite to be found in stillness, only an echoing chasm the utter hollowness of which is made slightly less empty by your filling it with regret, alcohol and episodic television, which we are all making claims for as the Great Literature of Our Age rather than cop and mob shows with better production values.

Your loneliness is matched by a horrible disquiet, the source of which is the unspoken truth that everything is terribly tenuous and even the meager living you are scratching out right now is but one or two small accidents or omissions removed from that of those sad unfortunate souls you see sleeping on the streets or muttering mindlessly to themselves as you pass them by, pretending not to notice. It would take one tiny tug of the thread for everything to unravel and even all the energy you presently put in to papering over the terrible flaws and dark parts of your personality will no longer do you any good because after a certain point there is no compassion, no forgiveness and finally not even an acknowledgement of your existence.

When you sleep it is only with the aid of powerful prescription medication which helps drown out the sirens signalling the injury, death and wanton acts of human cruelty all around you.”

But despite the challenges of city living, the city’s population is growing in ways not seen in decades.

Alex Balk: Population Growing

art: Drawings for Manhattan

(via kateoplis)

Wineries of California Maps Wineries of California Maps
London

Rio by Gordon Roger Alexander Buchanan Parks

Brazil

vicemag:


Adrain Chesser’s The Return depicts a loosely banded tribe of people who move between Idaho, Nevada, California, and Oregon. Traveling with the seasons, the subjects of The Return use traditional hunter-gatherer skills along with knowledge of indigenous food crops to follow an ancient way of life known as “the Hoop.”
“The subjects in The Return are predominately not indigenous Native Americans. Most carry European ancestry, and most come in one form or another from the disenfranchised margins of mainstream America,” says White Eagle. “Most are poor, some are queer, some are transgendered, some are hermits, and some are politically radical. All believe that major shifts are needed in the way modern society interacts with the natural world. And all are willing pioneers, stepping off into uncertain terrain and searching for something lost generations ago.”

Chasing America’s Modern Nomads vicemag:


Adrain Chesser’s The Return depicts a loosely banded tribe of people who move between Idaho, Nevada, California, and Oregon. Traveling with the seasons, the subjects of The Return use traditional hunter-gatherer skills along with knowledge of indigenous food crops to follow an ancient way of life known as “the Hoop.”
“The subjects in The Return are predominately not indigenous Native Americans. Most carry European ancestry, and most come in one form or another from the disenfranchised margins of mainstream America,” says White Eagle. “Most are poor, some are queer, some are transgendered, some are hermits, and some are politically radical. All believe that major shifts are needed in the way modern society interacts with the natural world. And all are willing pioneers, stepping off into uncertain terrain and searching for something lost generations ago.”

Chasing America’s Modern Nomads vicemag:


Adrain Chesser’s The Return depicts a loosely banded tribe of people who move between Idaho, Nevada, California, and Oregon. Traveling with the seasons, the subjects of The Return use traditional hunter-gatherer skills along with knowledge of indigenous food crops to follow an ancient way of life known as “the Hoop.”
“The subjects in The Return are predominately not indigenous Native Americans. Most carry European ancestry, and most come in one form or another from the disenfranchised margins of mainstream America,” says White Eagle. “Most are poor, some are queer, some are transgendered, some are hermits, and some are politically radical. All believe that major shifts are needed in the way modern society interacts with the natural world. And all are willing pioneers, stepping off into uncertain terrain and searching for something lost generations ago.”

Chasing America’s Modern Nomads vicemag:


Adrain Chesser’s The Return depicts a loosely banded tribe of people who move between Idaho, Nevada, California, and Oregon. Traveling with the seasons, the subjects of The Return use traditional hunter-gatherer skills along with knowledge of indigenous food crops to follow an ancient way of life known as “the Hoop.”
“The subjects in The Return are predominately not indigenous Native Americans. Most carry European ancestry, and most come in one form or another from the disenfranchised margins of mainstream America,” says White Eagle. “Most are poor, some are queer, some are transgendered, some are hermits, and some are politically radical. All believe that major shifts are needed in the way modern society interacts with the natural world. And all are willing pioneers, stepping off into uncertain terrain and searching for something lost generations ago.”

Chasing America’s Modern Nomads

vicemag:

Adrain Chesser’s The Return depicts a loosely banded tribe of people who move between Idaho, Nevada, California, and Oregon. Traveling with the seasons, the subjects of The Return use traditional hunter-gatherer skills along with knowledge of indigenous food crops to follow an ancient way of life known as “the Hoop.”

“The subjects in The Return are predominately not indigenous Native Americans. Most carry European ancestry, and most come in one form or another from the disenfranchised margins of mainstream America,” says White Eagle. “Most are poor, some are queer, some are transgendered, some are hermits, and some are politically radical. All believe that major shifts are needed in the way modern society interacts with the natural world. And all are willing pioneers, stepping off into uncertain terrain and searching for something lost generations ago.”

Chasing America’s Modern Nomads

“Snow is inherently nostalgic. It encourages you to travel back and think about your life. I think it’s something about the way it blankets reality, sort of erasing the present one dead pixel at a time. And that makes room for the past”

- The New Yorker

“Practically speaking, a life that is vowed to simplicity, appropriate boldness, good humor, gratitude, unstinting work and play, and lots of walking brings us close to the actual existing world and its wholeness.”
— Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild (via kvtes)

(via theantidote)