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Similar but still sorry…

You’d be hard pressed to differentiate today’s photo from any others in my portfolio of trash, litter and junk.

I'd defy you to tell the difference between this shot and many others. It's a sorry lot. Not pretty, but a necessary evil to bear witness to the piles of junk along our paths.

I defy you to tell the difference between this shot and many others. It’s a sorry lot. Not pretty, but a necessary evil to bear witness to the piles of junk along our paths.

Monotonous in its presentation, huh?

But there is a grotesqueness in the similarity. As I stuffed piece after piece of the mess into the bag (and muttered my typical expletives ‘WTF?‘ or ‘I don’t GAS’) it occurred to me that while virtually every shot is like the one before it and the one before that, the momentary glimpse of reality is a slap in the face to anyone else who might join me if we care a smidgen about this travesty.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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