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[al-m]

People in virtual communities use words on screens to exchange pleasantries and argue, engage in intellectual discourse, conduct commerce, exchange knowledge, share emotional support, make plans, brainstorm, gossip, feud, fall in love, find friends and lose them, play games, flirt, create a little high art and a lot of idle talk. People in virtual communities do just about everything people do in real life, but we leave our bodies behind.

Robert C. Bordone

[d-r-e-a-r-y]

[mymodernmet]

Kodak Revamps the Retro Super 8 Film Camera for the Digital Generation

[al-m]

Mission Control During Apollo 10

[al-m]

Cinemagraph – new favourite thing.

[n-o-r-t-h-w-a-r-d]

[al-m]

👌🏼

[al-m]

There's a bit of each of us in all of us.

[al-m]

#djcrisp #theman #thelegend

[al-m]

This is your captain speaking. #welldressedanimals

[absorbeo-blog]

[al-m]

A guide to modern social living.

All people are equal, we’re lead to believe. But some have more friends, and more likes they achieve.

Their dps are glossy; their faces, they sheen, but each afternoon, their newsfeed is mean.

It vexes and tricks them, in each dazzling ruse, that everyone else is a much better muse.

But they won’t be denied of their place at the top, they’ll curate their image - at nothing they’ll stop.

They’ll pay to highlight it, text friends to take note, that their new chateaux has some fucking moat.

And friends will ignore it, they’ll whisper and smirk, ‘cos they’ll just out-do it with daddy’s new Merc.

So, be vapid and silly, be bashful and trite. Chances are no one’s listening, not even at night.

Untag what’s abhorrent, repost each delight. Don’t ever be witty, else expect keyboard fight.

You’re here to look good, square pegs in square holes. Don’t ever forget this / go breaking your mould.

Your Facebook and Twitter, are not just for show. They're chronicling life for all comp'nies to know.

Your preferences, fears, wills and your goals, will all be exploited as markets evolve.

And ads will be tailored to your sense and smarts. So pull the white flag right down to half-mast.

Don’t read what’s fine-printed, the Ts and the Cs. Instagram’s all 'bout the sweet memories.

Don’t mind that it’s owned by that same mon'lith, that mines all your data, and each snap therewith.

So sell yourself short, and remember it’s free, to have all your info sold on to comp'nies.

But then who should care? Out of sight out of mind. Well, perhaps we’ll regret this when looking behind.

We wished and we willed it, we tried as we might; but nothing would snuff out our god-awful fright.

That we’re all sub-par, and somehow we’re worse, than all those poor souls who are sharing our curse.

But we’re not, and no matter what shit we do see, we must foster our strength: solidarity.

Be it simple or smart, stupid or lame, the contents of newsfeeds is never the same.

But one thing’s for certain: we cannot shirk blame, for all us partaking in this stupid game.

Social media suck.

[al-m]

You know when you're lying there in the dark, and you feel it boring into you, into your every fading waking thought: the emptiness. It creeps around, lurking in the shadowy nooks of the cluttered cupboard of your mind. And you feel as though it bores through you and into the bed beneath your head; you'll roll over and fall into the crevasse left when your Bonnie left you, Clyde. It can't be said, how many tears were shed, how many things you dread to conjure up in your reluctant brain and you are rendered reticent, retiring and without the means to rectify what you have done. You fucked up, and to be honest, you're a bit of a monster. You have a few hours before you wake and start work, where you'll smile and hand out free shit to people you don't know and will probably never see again. But there'll be a person who you'll want to see, and you won't see her either. You might see her again, but you won't see her again. Perhaps she'll never see you the same way she once did. "Is the person she once saw, still there to be seen?" you'll ask yourself. And perhaps you'll never know the answer to your own question. And deep down, at the bottom of that crevasse, that's where both that question and its answer belong.

[al-m]

Check out '⇈Beat' on @8tracks.

[al-m]

[elinka]

The meeting.

by Luc Tricot

[williamhackerphoto]

FATHER

leslie, missouri, 2012

©william hacker

[burnedshoes]

ELLEN JANTZEN: GHOST WRITER

”(…) each typewriter has a story to tell. Was it used to write a novel, poems or letters to editors? Was it used purely for business? Which users are still alive and which users have passed on?

I feel that more than most artifacts, the typewriter has a very personal connection with the user on a physical level (touching) AND on an emotional/intellectual level. The act of writing, even if only transcribing shorthand, draws upon the inner world of the typist.

In this series I am invoking the spirit of past users of each typewriter I photographed.”  - Ellen Jantzen

I bought a beautiful typewriter from the 1930s-40s a few days ago, a Naumann Ideal Modell ET, from the inital owner who told me some funny stories about it. Since then I enjoy writing postcards & letters with it, good old letters…

Playing with words, soothed by the sound of the type bars smashing against paper, leaving their mark, transporting a message; and it’s wonderful, you know, to have an addressee out there who’s happy to receive these analogue creations, your words filled with soul, paper as their carrier.