Receptacle

What else would I be doing? Do you see how quickly I'm blurring? I'm reminded that I ask jars of questions. I open my computer. I open my cell phone. I step out of my pick-up truck and walk in the mud. What else would I be doing?

You know that thing about one man's trash. Disc golf is not a treasure. Disc golf is a sport. I like to play it with a beer in my bag. I prefer courses overrun with leaves. Have you ever heard 20 chains rattling against a pole? I prefer when Layne is there, her camera more often at the trees. 

Still, I asked her to take this photo. Look at my left foot ready to leave, forever. You can't make it out, but that hat is stitched with the Circle City Acers patch. That hat holds more than my head. That jacket is not mine. Jason left it in his closet. Jason left Elwood disc golf for Texas.

You know the story about Elwood's disc golf course being dug out of the old city dump. Today, I looked left from the teepad of hole 7 and noticed the mound covered in dirt, in leaves, bits of neon green easily mistaken for a lost driver. Scattered about are baby doll heads from the 50's. Perfume bottles made of whatever can last that long. A black tube like the one that sucked our sewage from the camper when I was a kid.

Today, I introduced myself to a man I've met 7 times. He spoke of an island hidden away, a secret place to research cloning. Also, that new Wes Anderson movie. The movie two people who mean the most to me dressed up as for Halloween and I had no idea. What else should I be knowing? 

Layne informs me of things like this. Like the dark creeps in on my brightest disc. I want to call Jason and ask him how his disc flies in the Texas heat. I want to see if that guy has another story to tell, a cross-country van trip to California, a raccoon dead in a log where he found three unmarked discs. I want to call them all back here, so I can empty every disc from my bag and have help finding them. It's getting dark. It's time to throw away this beer can.