WE REACH FOR THE SUN

WE REACH FOR THE SUN
by John Freeman Fish

I was so sure of myself. Like a beansprout jutting from moist earth, unfolding its leaves I unfolded words that fell and balanced over the tops of heads in the small crowd.
“When someone is always searching they never find anything. They don’t know what they want is inside them. all they find is more searching. They are in love with seeking. Like someone who is promiscuous, they are in love with the hunt not the orgasm.”
She was about my age. I looked down at her through the atmospheric light that ranged from bright, hot spots to dark corners to multicolored, glistening reflections of the clothes on glass of framed art on the walls to the glitter and polish of restaurant table tops.
She was of an age and style that one could, if the wanted to, overlook fine lines from fun, pain and weather. One could see the chiseled, determined features, the singing, blue-green eyes that stared past me and through the layers of self-obsession that surrounded me like an X-Ray beam.
“That’s like saying it’s shallow for a plant to reach for the sun.”
“I didn’t mean to sound judgmental. And, besides, that’s different.”
Her probably not really blond hair created a halo around her intense, elegant profile. “Maybe. But isn’t that all we know how to do? Search. Reach. Seek for salvation, love, water, food, air, sex, security, knowledge.”
“I suppose I’m talking about seeking answers where none exists.”
Our friend standing near said in a perfect Bette Davis imitation, “Why ask for the moon, when we have the stars.”
We stared at her.
“I saw that in an old movie,” she explained.
“Seeking and never finding. How depressing,” said a total stranger.
I said, “Oh but we do find. Find it, absorb it and become it. The sun, the air, whatever.”
“True,” The blond spoke again. “We’re all the same always and forever so there is no search really. It’s all a game. Like a cat trying to catch a toy.”
My eyes scanned the room. “Yes, I guess so.” I couldn’t think anymore. I polished off my bottled water and the other two their wine. Someone moved in front of their face with a tray of sushi. His back was a black hole and I turned away. Across the room an oboe player was center stage, yet appeared alone in her concentration. Her song ended and I said goodbye.
On the way home I made a wrong turn and found myself on skid row. On narrow side streets figures darted chaotically and then huddled and then moved in jerking, tight groups as if tied together by ropes. They had a nervous pulsating look. I recognized the drug addict energy from many years before. Recollections left behind. I thought I had thrown out those memories with the trash.
I quickly turned the corner onto a well-lighted busy street where I felt safe again. I turned on the car radio to soft jazz, then classic rock, then classical, then western, then turned it off. I started to put in a CD and then thought I didn’t have that far to go and it seemed too much trouble. The freeway bled light across an on ramp and I stepped on the gas. I pushed forward, anxious to be home. Then suddenly wondered why. Nobody was there. And increasingly I was having the feeling lately that I was already home. Always. The thought was unsettling and also thrilling. It meant there was nowhere to go. I was already there. Unless I was just playing a game.

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Tags:

philosophy, poetic, psychology, short story, spiritual, story, sun, sunshine and writing