One Camera. Sixteen Cores. And the Illusion of More

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Or, why I don’t bring my drone, my phone, or my sense of calm with me anymore.

It used to be that when I went out to take photos, I brought one camera, a basic shoulder bag, and a tripod that rattled a little no matter how I packed it. The bag held what I needed—maybe an extra battery, a filter or two, and some trail mix crushed under a lens cloth. The tripod went everywhere with me, usually slung awkwardly over my shoulder like a stubborn hiking companion.

The Minolta Dimage 7—remember that one?—wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. No lens choices, no dual cards, no menus within menus. It had a zoom, a viewfinder, and a shutter button. I pointed it at something I liked and pressed the button. That was the whole process.

Today, when I head out, I bring a camera bag I sometimes leave in the car. Inside it are lenses I spent weeks deciding between. There’s also a drone I barely fly, a phone with more AI than the space shuttle, and a creeping sense of guilt that I should be doing more with all of it. Which is probably why I often do nothing at all.

I used to photograph because I was out walking. Now I walk to debate whether it’s worth photographing. It’s a subtle shift—but a dangerous one. Somewhere between the DSLR, the drone, and the upgrade to sixteen-core processing power, I started losing my grip on why I did this in the first place.

That’s not to say I hate the tools. I love them. In fact, I love them so much that I resent them for making me feel like I should be doing more with them. Every device, every piece of software, every update says the same thing:

"You can do anything now." And it’s true. But the follow-up whisper is the part that gets you: "So why aren’t you?"

That’s where the pressure starts. That’s where the joy begins to leak out. And that’s where I find myself now—trying to trace the lines back to when it all got heavy. Maybe that starts with a camera bag. Maybe it starts earlier than that.

Whatever the case, this isn’t a how-to. It’s a map back to the feeling I used to have, when one button was enough.

Chapter 1: One Camera, No Excuses

Back when things felt effortless, I had the Minolta Dimage 7. It didn’t have the sharpest lens or the latest tech, but it worked without drama. No constant second-guessing, no pressure to optimize. It simply let me take photos—and that was enough.

I wasn’t chasing perfection—I didn’t even know what that meant in photography. I just liked how quiet it made my brain. A camera in hand was like a filter between me and the world, but not one that distorted—it focused. I didn’t need to justify my subject. Flowers, shadows, old brickwork, fog over dry grass—it all counted.

And somehow, without realizing it, that quiet certainty faded. Little by little, it gave way to... options. And the more options I had, the harder it became to know what I was after.

But we’ll get to that. It didn’t happen overnight.

The Minolta Dimage 7 wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t particularly sharp in low light. But it was consistent. It gave me control without complication. When I took it out, there was no voice in my head comparing options, wondering what lens to switch to, or what settings I should’ve used instead. It simply worked—and that was enough.

Before that, there was the Epson 850z. Less of a tool and more of a companion. I didn’t carry it because it was the best—I carried it because it made me curious. One afternoon I wandered into a wildflower patch, shot what caught my eye, and left without wondering if I’d nailed anything. And that might’ve been the most honest version of photography I’ve ever practiced.

Back then, photography was more about seeing than capturing. More about noticing than perfecting. Limitations gave me a rhythm. Without options, I made decisions faster. I trusted what I saw. And somewhere in that simplicity, I stopped chasing and started noticing.

These days, I second-guess more. I scroll, compare, tweak, reshoot. I’m told that more options are better. That more is progress. But I’ve learned that the illusion of better can pull you away from what made you start in the first place. That illusion doesn’t just slow you down—it buries you in doubt.

I used to make decisions based on instinct. Now I find myself calculating possibilities like I’m benchmarking hardware. Maybe I’m running legacy firmware in a future-facing world. But back then? That one core ran clean.

Chapter 2: Then Came the Bags

The shift didn’t happen all at once. Like most things that change us, it crept in. First, it was upgrading that modest shoulder bag to something more padded. Then a backpack—better for hiking. Then something waterproof. Then attachments for side pouches, a clip for the tripod, even a rain cover. Before long, I had systems inside my systems—pouches within pouches—and still, I could never quite find what I was looking for.

What used to be simple became tactical. What used to feel mobile started to feel burdensome. One day I was out with a compact setup, and the next I was choosing between which lens would disappoint me less. Not that they weren’t good lenses—some were excellent—but every option added just a little more pressure. A little more doubt.

Do I go wide in case the sky does something interesting? Do I bring the telephoto in case that deer reappears in the clearing? Do I pack the drone, even though the wind is already whispering, “Don’t bother” through the trees?

What used to be a walk became a checklist. Camera. Lenses. Extra batteries. ND filters. Drone. Controller. Phone. Cables. Tripod. Straps. Clips. And that’s before I even thought about what I wanted to shoot.

Some people can work in that headspace. I admire them. But me? I’m not a multitasker. I’m an aging single-core processor in a world asking me to do more with less.

I started noticing the bag more than the moment. Instead of watching how the light filtered through branches, I’d catch myself watching my shadow on the path—bulky, overpacked, unsure. The irony wasn’t lost on me: I had everything I could possibly need to create. And yet I felt less creative than ever.

Every time I added a new piece of gear, I told myself it was about flexibility. Preparedness. But what I really added was friction. Each new option was a door, and eventually I couldn’t decide which ones to walk through, so I just stood still.

And here’s the truth that stings the most: I started leaving the bag at home. Not in protest, but in fatigue. I’d tell myself, “It’s just a walk today.” But even that felt like a retreat. I wasn’t choosing presence—I was avoiding the pressure of deciding.

I see people on the trail sometimes. One camera, one long lens. Maybe trying to catch a deer stepping out of the thickets, or a hawk circling low. They move quiet. Intentional. Not trying to make a masterpiece—just trying to catch a moment. It reminds me of how I started. I didn’t box myself in back then. I wasn’t a landscape photographer. I wasn’t into macro. I wasn’t chasing birds. I was just looking. Just open.

I remember a time I took a whole afternoon shooting shadows on a sidewalk. Another spent chasing the patterns of peeling bark. It didn’t need to be profound. It just needed to be mine.

But now? I think I hesitate because I’ve tied meaning to gear. If I bring the drone, I have to get something “drone-worthy.” If I carry the telephoto, I better come home with something close and sharp. I’ve assigned expectations to every tool—and in doing so, I’ve placed expectations on myself.

That old Dimage didn’t ask me to be good. It just asked me to look. And maybe that’s why those photos, even with all their flaws, still hold something honest.

So maybe the goal isn’t to go backward—but to strip forward. To peel away the layers I no longer need and see if what’s underneath still wants to create.

Let’s find out.

Chapter 3: Overclocked and Under-Inspired

The thing no one tells you about inspiration is that it doesn’t scale. It doesn’t grow proportionally with your tools, or your software, or the cloud storage you swear you’ll finally organize. Inspiration stays the same size. But the space around it gets louder.

Every upgrade, every new feature, every well-meaning article about “getting the most out of your creativity” tells you that you could be doing more. So you try. You say yes to every idea your brain throws at you. One image becomes a series, then a short video, then maybe a blog post. Maybe you need snowfall. Maybe you should animate it, narrate it, archive it.

You start with a spark and end up lost in a to-do list. And somehow, nothing gets done.

I used to think it was just poor time management. Or age. Or burnout. But I think the truth is simpler and harder to admit: I’m overwhelmed. Not by what I have to do—but by what I could do.

I go out with the intent to shoot one photo, and by the time I’ve packed my gear and gotten out of the car, I’ve talked myself out of the original idea and into five others I’ll never finish. That’s not creativity—it’s confusion. And it’s exhausting.

The irony is, I know how to do the work. I’m experienced. I’ve built systems. I’m organized. But none of that protects me from the weight of constant possibility. If anything, it makes it worse. I can see how far the road goes. I know how deep the rabbit hole is. And I know I don’t have the bandwidth to go there every time.

Some people thrive in that space. They juggle projects like a magician spinning plates. But I’m not wired like that. I’m not a multitasker. I’m not a mind-map guy. I’m a single-core processor in a multi-threaded world. Give me one thing. Let me finish it. Then we’ll talk.

I think that’s why I miss the days when I didn’t have so much capability. Back then, a photo was enough. Not a placeholder for something bigger. Not a piece of a content strategy. Just a photo. A moment. A reason to breathe in and hold still.

Maybe that’s still possible. Maybe it just starts by choosing less. By trusting that one thing, done well, is better than ten things imagined but unfinished.

Chapter 4: The Phone Isn’t the Answer

Let’s get one thing out of the way: the phone is not the enemy. But it’s not the answer either.

I’ve owned iPhones from the 6 to the 15 Pro Max. I’ve tried to believe the hype. I’ve listened to friends tell me it replaces their DSLR, that it’s “just as good” for what they do. And maybe for them, it is. But not for me.

The phone is a marvel of convenience. It’s a Swiss Army knife for the digital age. But in photography, convenience and creativity don’t always sit well together. What the phone gains in accessibility, it loses in intention.

When I shoot with a phone, I don’t feel the same presence. I don’t compose the same way. I don’t see the same way. The tactile part is gone. The commitment is gone. The frame feels optional.

And the quality—despite the impressive specs—still falls apart when you look too closely. Zoom in, and the magic unravels. You see the smearing, the artifacts, the oversharpened skies and the shadows that forgot how to fall naturally. It’s like looking at a painting that used to be a photo.

But what bothers me more isn’t the file—it’s the feeling. I take the shot and immediately check it. Swipe. Tap. Adjust. Maybe add a filter. Maybe change the crop. It’s fast. Efficient. Emotionless.

When I shot with my Dimage or my Canon, there was space between capture and review. That space mattered. It gave the image time to live in my head as I remembered it, not just as pixels on a screen.

Phones have taken away that space. They’ve shortened the cycle of creation to the point that reflection barely exists. And I miss that. I miss waiting to see what I got. I miss caring about each frame because I didn’t shoot 200 in a burst.

There’s also the social gravity of the phone. It pulls you toward sharing. Toward likes. Toward engagement. Even when you don’t want it to. The same device that takes your photo can instantly push it into a world that demands a reaction.

Sometimes I just want to make something and not have to explain it.

So no, the phone isn’t the answer. Not for me. It’s a tool. A very smart, very helpful tool. But it’s not my creative partner. It’s not my camera.

And maybe that’s okay. Not everything that can take a photo is meant to hold your vision.

Chapter 5: AI and the Art of Letting Go

AI is everywhere now. In your editing. In your organizing. In your phone’s camera, reshaping skies and guessing at shadows before you even hit the shutter.

And to be fair, it’s incredible. I’ve used AI upscalers that can make a low-res image print-ready. I’ve tried generative fills that clean up distractions like they were never there. I’ve messed around with MidJourney and watched it spit out images that feel eerily close to dreams I didn’t know how to describe.

But here’s the thing: the more AI I use, the more I realize I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing recognition. I want to look at an image and know it was mine—not because it’s flawless, but because it feels like something I saw. Something I felt.

AI doesn’t feel. It mimics. It guesses. It interprets. And yes, sometimes it gets it very right. But when I look at those images—clean, clever, surreal—I don’t feel proud. I feel detached. Like I hired someone else to paint my memory.

Photography has always been about compromise. You never get everything. The light’s off. The bird flies away. The shot’s too soft. But in that mess, in that constraint, there’s a kind of honesty. You worked for it. You saw something, and you tried. Sometimes you failed. Sometimes you didn’t. But it was always yours.

AI skips that step. It goes straight to the result. And as impressive as it is, I find myself asking: what happens when we start skipping all the steps?

What happens to the process?

What happens to us?

Maybe AI has a place. Maybe it can help when you’re stuck. But I don’t want to let it replace the part where I wrestle with the moment. The part where I wait. Or mess up. Or get lucky. Or learn something.

The art isn’t in how perfect the image is. The art is in how much of you is still visible in it.

And if that means letting go of the need to keep up with the machines—so be it.

Let them chase flawless. I’ll chase something real.

Chapter 6: Organized, But Not Always Okay

There’s a special kind of satisfaction that comes from organizing your photo library. Labeling, sorting, keywording—it scratches the same itch as vacuuming a clean floor or untangling a drawer of cords. It feels like progress. Like control.

I’ve always kept my archives in order. Even when I wasn’t shooting much, I was still curating. Still naming files. Still adding location tags and descriptive titles like I was filing away pieces of a life I didn’t want to forget. In a world where I often feel creatively lost, organization offers a strange kind of compass.

And now with AI, even that’s been made easier. I can batch keyword by location. I can run object detection. I can generate captions, sort by subject, even auto-title photos I haven’t looked at in years. It’s fast. Efficient. A little eerie. But also helpful.

Still, there’s a difference between building a library and living in it. I’ve spent entire weekends cleaning up folders and not taken a single new photo. I’ve told myself I’m preparing for when inspiration returns. I’ve said it’s all part of the process. But sometimes, I wonder if I’m just staying busy in the safe zone—curating instead of creating.

When I’m organizing, I’m in control. There’s no chance to fail. No bad lighting. No flat compositions. No second-guessing. Just labels, dates, and categories. It feels like work, and it is—but it’s not art. It’s what happens after, not what starts it.

And yet, I can’t seem to let it go. Maybe because it offers a kind of emotional protection. If I can’t create something new, at least I can make sense of what I’ve already done. At least I can prove to myself that I’ve been here, that I’ve tried.

The truth is, I find peace in order. But I also know that order alone doesn’t move me forward. It just keeps me from falling apart. And maybe that’s fine—for a while. But I don’t want to become someone who only tends the garden and never plants anything new.

I want to shoot again. To risk again. To leave the comfort of clean folders and wander into the mess of creation.

And maybe, once in a while, misplace a file or two.

Chapter 7: Walk First. Shoot Later. Maybe

There was a time when I never left the house without a camera. It wasn’t a rule—I just didn’t want to be caught without one. If the light changed, if the clouds opened up just right, if a red fox trotted across the trail—I wanted to be ready.

Now, more often than not, I leave the bag behind. Not because I’ve lost interest. But because I’ve started choosing the walk over the shot.

I walk to breathe. To stretch. To sort out thoughts that don’t make sense inside four walls. And sometimes, I walk to remind myself that beauty doesn’t have to be captured to be real.

Some days, I see something incredible—a shaft of light through trees, fog catching on a ridge—and I freeze, reaching for a camera that isn’t there. In the beginning, it felt like I was walking away from something important—like I’d regret not having a photo to prove the moment existed. But over time, that fear softened. I started to believe I didn’t need to capture everything. Sometimes, seeing something clearly once is enough to remember it forever.

When I do bring a camera now, I try to let it come second. The walk comes first. The weather. The mood. The quiet. I no longer treat every outing like a mission. There’s no shot list, no must-get angle. Just space, and whatever finds me in it.

I still love photography. But I don’t need it to justify being out in the world anymore. I don’t need proof that I saw something. I just need to see it.

And if I happen to have the camera in hand when it happens? Even better.

Chapter 8: If I Could Do It Over...

Sometimes I imagine starting over—not in life, but in gear. Wiping the slate clean. Selling off the bag of lenses, unplugging the drone, logging out of Lightroom, and walking out the door with just one camera and one fixed lens. No upgrades. No presets. No backups. Just a battery, a card, and time.

If I had to start from scratch, I think I’d want something like that old Minolta Dimage 7. Not because it was perfect, but because it didn’t ask much of me. It didn’t suggest features I wasn’t using. It didn’t make me feel like I was falling behind every time a new model was released. It just let me work with what I had. It let me be present.

I know we romanticize older gear. I’m guilty of it, too. But it’s not nostalgia—it’s clarity. It’s the recognition that fewer choices can lead to more creative freedom. With every new lens, every new sensor, there’s a kind of promise: “Now you can do even more.” But what if I don’t want more? What if I just want enough?

Enough range to frame what I see. Enough sharpness to honor the moment. Enough simplicity to keep me grounded.

The gear you choose ends up shaping how you shoot—and sometimes, even how you see. I’ve owned lenses that made me chase subjects I didn’t care about. I’ve bought software that added layers of friction instead of flow. And while all of that taught me something, it also taught me this: I’d rather do one thing well than juggle ten tools halfway.

I’d pick a camera that fits my hand, that powers on fast, that gives me the shot when I see it—not after I’ve scrolled through menus. I’d skip the multi-page setup guides and go straight to the shutter. I’d learn its quirks like I did with film—by failing a few times and making peace with it.

The truth is, I don’t need the best. I don’t need future-proof. I need gear that gets out of the way. Gear that lets me see first and shoot second—not shoot first and fix it later.

If I could do it over, I’d chase less polish, more presence. Fewer tools. More trust.

And if I do it right from here forward, maybe I won’t need to start over at all. If I Could Do It Over...

If I had to start from scratch—one camera, one lens, no editing—I’d want something like that Minolta Dimage 7. One unit. Big sensor. Wide-to-telephoto range. That’s it.

Because I don’t need the best. I need enough. Enough to stay curious. Enough to stay out of my own way.

Chapter 9: What I'm Really After

If someone asked me how to avoid burnout, I’m not sure I’d say much. I’d probably just shake my head and say, “I still deal with it.” Because I do. Some days I grab the camera and don’t even bother shooting. Not because I don’t have ideas—more like too many. It all gets tangled, and the camera starts to feel like one more thing I’m failing to keep up with.

Years ago, it was all about the big stuff—wide-angle shots, graduated filters, strong foregrounds. The kind of images you’d see in every “how to shoot landscapes” guide. I went along with it. It made sense.

Now? I don’t know. I find myself looking at smaller things. A pattern in the grass. Paint peeling on the side of an old shed. Little stuff most people pass by without thinking twice. And those are the things I seem to care about now.

The gear interest is still there—I haven’t changed that much. But the feeling that used to come with it? That’s what’s faded. When I started, I had places to share photos where people actually looked. You’d post something and someone might ask about your settings, or what drew you to the scene. You’d get actual feedback, sometimes even learn something new. Felt like people cared.

Now it just feels scattered. The good stuff gets buried. Instagram’s a flood of algorithm junk, and the photo sites I used to like are either overrun with noise or half-abandoned. Unless you’re doing something outrageous, you’re mostly invisible—and even if you are, it’s not like anyone sticks around.

That’s what I miss. The part where what I saw mattered enough for someone else to stop and say, “That’s interesting.” Not because it was viral. Just because it felt real.

I’m not trying to gain followers. I’m not even sure I want more attention. I just want to feel like I’m not the only one still looking for something honest.

The thing I keep chasing? It’s that quiet pause—right before the shutter. That second where it all slows down, and I actually feel present. Not performing. Not producing. Just seeing.

I used to believe the more I made, the more progress I was making. That if I kept at it, I’d get somewhere. But the stuff I still remember—the moments that stuck—they weren’t always the ones I captured. Sometimes I didn’t even raise the camera. But I remember them anyway.

I still slip into old habits. Still scroll too much. Still wonder if I should be doing more. But I’m getting better at noticing when that happens—and stepping back. Letting it breathe a little.

So yeah—what am I really after?

Not more. Just... enough. Enough clarity to see what’s in front of me. Enough quiet to care about it.

That’d be more than enough, actually.

Where I Am Now

These days, I’m not chasing. I’m not even sure I’m waiting. Mostly, I’m just stepping aside—clearing a little space in my head and seeing what stays.

I haven’t gotten rid of gear. I’ve just stopped asking it to carry my creativity for me. Two cameras, five lenses, and a drone I occasionally remember how to fly—that’s plenty. But I’m learning not to measure a walk by whether I used any of it.

Photography still matters to me. But I no longer need every outing to prove it. Sometimes I bring the camera. Sometimes I leave it in the bag. Sometimes I take the shot. Sometimes I just watch the wind move through the trees and think, “Good enough.

You could call it minimalism, or fatigue, or just getting older and knowing what you like. I don’t have a perfect system, a grand plan, or a three-step solution. I just know that lately, I’ve been walking more. And caring a little less about what I come home with.

Maybe that’s not the most inspiring conclusion. But it’s an honest one.

And honestly, that feels like enough.