chase scenes serial #17

realized that I had left my camera on the plane. I had lost all of the supplementary materials from the trip. Many photos of iceberg lettuce salads lost. What just now entered my mind was that whoever ‘claimed’ my lost camera must have waded through all of these photos. My impressions of the Black Hills and the Badlands. Did they take some time to reconstruct my journey, form character sketches of my father and myself? How accurate were they? How comprehensive and personal were they? The text I wrote to accompany those photos would have added very little to their experience other than to corroborate the chronology of the trip, yet it would not have grounded that trip in any other continuum of character than the one forged on that trip. I am here for only a short time longer in between writings as the journey nears its end, I have been weighing what I hope this text will accomplish as of yet I recall only detailing one tableau in the trip. Does the actual composition need to cease when I touch down in Atlanta?‡ The man next to me is rehearsing Italian phrases from his guidebook. I remember one from my voyage. “Ha une camera?” Sometimes it repeats in my head uncontrollably. It is a thought that rides next to everything else as I go through
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