Vegetating.

No dog or horse encounters, no lady stories, no existential rambles, no nightmares worthy of note, no surreal streams of consciousness, no film reviews, no Shire happenings apart from the fact that I cleared some road drains and gave the remaining crop from my apple tree to the local school, no Trump rants since he’s being nothing more than boringly maladroit as usual…

Where do I go from here? What is life if there’s nothing to write about?

Should I bask in past glories and read some old stories which I wrote near a decade ago? Or should I climb into a waste paper bin and get used to the new status quo?

Notice, observe, consider, imagine, write, edit, post. That’s my MO these days. I like the growth energy of my garden, but I find working on it tedious. I used to enjoy rambles around the Shire, but that was when there was reasonable prospect of meeting a ray of sunshine walking towards me (two rays actually.) I used to like capturing images on film, but that was before I discovered the limitations of a two-dimensional medium.

Nowadays I write. Without writing I am but a runner bean with no legs, a kidney bean with alcohol intolerance, a broad bean with anorexia, a French bean that’s lost its beret. My purpose is absent.

That will have to do for now. I expect there will be more eventually.