Seekers

Art festivals, Jazz in the Park, March Madness, full moon. . . and a stomach virus.  I tried.  I went out early yesterday to look at the art. . . the crowd.  The sky was a perfect robin's egg blue.  Flawless.  Everything was right. . . but me.  After my walk, I went home and to bed for the rest of the day.  Got up in the late afternoon/early evening and went to the lake to watch the moon rise in a perfectly clear sky.  It was rather unremarkable, I think.  No, that is not true.  Everything was right.  Perfect, really.

It is me.  Even the cat's love is irritating right now.

Ah, me, let's think of other things.

One night checking out at Whole Foods, the young cashier rang up my sorghum beer and asked me if I had ever been to a certain Irish pub in town.

"Sure," I said.

He had just turned twenty-one and had gone and began telling me about how great it was anyway.  We communed, us adults.  I was envious.  Flattered that he would ask me, though, and that he wanted to share his tale.  Nice kid.  Made me remember all those first nights going out when I barely drank, when all the world was new and made you mad to live, to see it all before it disappeared knowing that things disappear and have disappeared having heard it over and over that you should have seen this ten years ago wishing you had, trying, trying.  There is a world like that still, the one on the horizon and just beyond, both forward and backward, yearning to go both ways, to bring one to the next knowing that you are one of the few, the lucky few when you are there that day, that night, just then when everything comes together just once for you to see.  Seekers.  For them there is plenty and never enough.  Go. . . go. . . go. . . before it is gone.