I am not going to write about “this photo” or “that photo” because, in a typically contrarian move, I decided a while back to stop taking photos.

Yes, it’s the sort of thing I may regret if I grow old, but right now, I don’t care.  I put them in the same category as the other chotchkies I don’t buy or hoard.  They’re the subscription cards in magazines.  The stickers on bananas.

Apologies and concessions to: those pursuing photography as an art, those it brings joy to, those recording the pre-dystopian world for their unborn nuclear babies, etc.

But I’m not backing down.  If I’m in some memorable place, I want to be using all my wherewithal to act, not record.  I want to be doing things that random strangers take photos of and look back at and say “wow, remember that guy that bought all those live cooking turtles in the open air market and set them free?”  Or something.

If I’m at a party, I want to party.

I want to be greedy.  I want to look at photos other people take of places I haven’t been yet.

I don’t want my pregnant pauses interrupted with a flashing battery indicator, dials, lenses, bullshit.

If it’s really tasty, I’ll remember it the way it was.

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