I am colorful

Sorry folks. No pictures. But here's an anecdote.

The wheels go round. Highway passes by. I sit behind the wheel and colors expand and fall, the fading sunlight making shapes and casting shadows out across the I-35 corridor. Strip malls and shopping centers, cattle grazing in seas of grass, geometrically aligned plots of farmland, rows after rows of furrowed ground, all find new hues and dimensions in hazy dusklight. We move through it.

Carried and jostled and noisily we move towards Waco. An old friend is there. Chris Buck. Always, without fail one must refer to him using both first and last name. Chris Buck. It will also suffice to repeat first and last name in rapid succession. Chris Buck Chris Buck. You can even affix a motivational slogan if you so desire. Chris Buck is capable!

This shows what good friends we are.

In the night we drink beer and catch up on old times, revisiting stories which steadily become more myth than reality and spouting new tales that will doubtless follow the same course. In the morning we pack an ice-chest and sit by Lake Waco. We soak in sun like snakes, with a necessitated urgency that our subdued exteriors repress. When the sun becomes too strong, we head for water, sometimes stopping to throw a frisbee for a few minutes but the wind refuses our efforts and we vow no further attempts until aided by either some higher power or a better frisbee.

An older man with scars on his mouth and beneath his shades and his funny hat and a limp in his slowed walk sits down with a friend at a table some ways in front of us. As evening falls, I find myself walking alone back to the bus and strike up conversation with the man with the scars. He tells me his name is Karl - with a "K" - and hands me a frisbee better adept at windy missions. He tells me he used to play frisbee before his leg got fucked up, and he tells me the whole story. I listen because he seems in need of an audience. Karl talks so fast I can only catch every third word, but I piece together a roughly hewn narrative about a motorcycle accident, a girl, the ensuing multiplicity of surgeries, rehab, and billiards. He tells me of his abstract designs - t-shirts with various text slogans and brightly colored boxes and images. One says Psycho vertically down the front with eyes and tongues and other things worked in to the text. On the back it says, I am colorful. He describes another that has 1+1 written on the front pocket. He asks if I know what it says on the back. He holds up two fingers. I wait. Peace, he says. As Sarah and Chris walk up, Karl tells me about his website, Walligator 7 (although I still can't find any trace of it on the internet). As I leave, he tells me that we should play frisbee again someday.

After goodbyes, we head down the road for home - or some semblance of home - and look forward to continued adventures ahead. Soon enough.