The photographs shown here were warped. Wonky in a similar manner to the literature of Richard Brautigan or Kurt Vonnegut.
I was reading one of Richard Brautigan’s books this morning. That is a dangerous undertaking for a writer. Reading Brautigan, like reading Vonnegut, tends to screw up my “ear” for the English language, even though I generally speak and write in a variant called North American English. I usually have to read some Hemingway to get my ear clean again. I haven’t read any Hemingway today.
The photos were made with a Panasonic Lumix DMC-G1 that is apparently preparing itself to die. Too bad. I like the camera but it is on it’s last legs, like a person who wants to be somewhere other than this world and is trying to kill himself by implementing a series of extreme actions that will lead eventually to his death. You know, someone who do will everything short of slitting his wrists or putting his head in an oven to cancel this lifetime’s contract. Like taking up alcoholism or meth addiction as if it was a social movement or a religion, along with exhibiting radically erratic behavior until the spark finally dies. Until the light goes out and it no longer matters.
I had to make some extreme adjustments to these photos with software, including converting them to monochrome, to make them just barely passable as historical records. They are from a motocross event held in the Mojave Desert that my grandson was participating in.