Maybe yesterday I should have written "tinkering" rather than "piddling," but I am a much better piddler than tinkerer. And this is the image I should have led off with. . . or something like it.
Retiring in the north doesn't have the same appeal to me though it may be more familiar to some of you.
I had to rely on these because I just don't have any fresh images to show. I did manage to go for a walk with my camera for a bit yesterday in the Little Vietnam section of the city, but I haven't been able to download them yet and I am pretty sure I have nothing worthwhile. You need to know what you are doing, and I did not. I sort of made up something as I went along, but when I was back to the car, I thought, "Boy. . . you need a project."
Remember when I was shooting the jr. league sports in my own hometown, wrestling and roller derby? I was just getting started when my life became caregiving. That was fun. I need to find something in the few hours I am away from my mother everyday.
That's going to be very difficult.
I sure do like the idea of a piddling retirement, though, a garage, some music. Maybe I'll set up a workshop in my mother's garage for making prints. First, though, I need to go through my billions of images and organize them and decide what is worth printing and which printing method I should use.
It is daunting.
Maybe I'll just play cards with the neighbors.
It's just a matter of "giving in," I think. Giving in or giving up.
But I don't have a gin rummy partner, do I? Nope. It will have to be piddling alone like a sad widower biding his time, I guess.
I've decided not to struggle with narratives here anymore unless something comes to me. I've been stressing myself out trying to write through my mundane existence. It doesn't matter, really. The blog is suffering the fate of every living being.
But, you know. . . we can always make it a little racy.
That one is for the kids.
"Ewwww!"
Maybe I shoulda led with that one.
Don't worry, it's alright, it'll happen to you
We were children once, playing with toys
And the sound that you're hearing is only the sound
Of the low spark of high-heeled boys
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