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I’m still here…

I am still here.

Still walking, still picking up other people’s junk, still keeping a photographic chronicle of who knows how much stuff. Nothing has changed.

Three days of walked wrapped up in a plastic bag. I'm not sure you want to see the individual items. Suffice to say, it's just one hell of a mess.

Three days of walking wrapped up in plastic bags. I’m not sure you want to see the individual items. Suffice to say, it’s just one hell of a mess.

That’s not entirely true. The two month hiatus between blog posts is more about a feeling of non-inventiveness; i.e. how can one make the business of picking up litter and keeping one’s path de-cluttered of interest?

My anger at what other people do, their slobbery, their uncaring action toward my (and your) environment pushes me onward to keep up the graphic display of disgusting streetside idiocy. So I’m back at it. And I’ll keep at it.

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.

1 Comment on I’m still here…

  1. Dave, I am happy to see you back. The litter is still here and will not go away until it is taxed…a $.05 deposit on each bag, box, wrapper, jar, container, tissue, piece of paper, cup, bottle, can, case, etc….before it leaves the store would maybe stop it or at least slow it down.

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