Lotus
by Jonathan Jay
You
Walking around the lake in Echo Park, stopping to find them—or where they should be—you
think to yourself: you know nothing of the lotus. Or of the singular or plural
with regards to the lotus, for that matter. You stop; you stare. You see nothing. You imagine
them
-floating below the surface
–like mossy cabbage
–in a brown stew.
There is a sign just above where the lotus should be that explains the meaning of the lotus, but, much like the unseen lotus, the words on the sign are obscured—submerged not in water, but graffiti—a silver sideways rainbow
–a neon orange 8
–a bubbly turquoise blue–90IH–like a meaningless code you would type to show you’re a real person.
Most is obscure, but what is apparent: “The flower of the Asian Lotus are sacred to many people around the world serving as a symbol of rebirth, purity, and life. During the Lotus Festival, each”
…is where it ends. And while you could easily look it up, there is something about the mystery of it you’re ok with.
Give it room to grow, you’ve heard before and hear again
You walk away for another loop to your bench.
You have been looping around the lake for a full year now, as if in a holding pattern for landing
—only you feel like you’re in an entirely other pattern.
You approach your usual reading bench just to the left center of the lake where all of the birds converge in looping patterns of their own, but they—whoever they are— are still there on your bench.
So you make another loop.
They
They used to be friends.
When they were friends, they would come to the park and picnic. Cheap pizza, cheaper wine. They picked the place for the view, the view they mostly imagined. Directly across from their side of the lake stretches flights of stairs, stairs they imagined to be in the shape of an Aztec pyramid—the height of another civilization.
The stairs have been there since the beginning of time—since before their fight, anyway.
“We should climb those stairs,” they always said.
They never did.
They see you glaring at them, as you pass.
You look away.
You
“The Lotus Kids”, you think to yourself, walking by them, glaring. You remember now the Red Hot Chilli Peppers song that first introduced you to the idea of the lotus—a song about a bunch of kids who do nothing all day
—in various states of distraction.
—Like drinking, you think, looking once more over your shoulder at them.
Can 20 somethings still be kids? you ask yourself as you pass almost theme park like examples as answers. Sure they can.
Even 30 somethings, 40 somethings.
Especially here, especially in LA.
In LA, especially.
Your 12th grade English teacher used the song about the lotus kids” as the introduction to “The Lotus Eaters” portion of The Odyssey, the opening lines returning to you like an echo—
Things will never be the same
Still I’m awfully glad I came
Resonating in the shape of things to come
And the chorus:
We are the lotus kids
Better take note of this
For the story
He also used it to explain why he left teaching years later when you saw him on the street just outside of a bookstore downtown.
Something about a ring bought in New Mexico.
About remembering. About being stuck.
Something about it being time to go.
You look to your own ring on your own hand, a wedding ring you wonder whether you should remove permanently, and you continue your loop.
You see them laughing on the opposite side of the lake. You imagine they are laughing at you.
They are right to laugh at you, you think.
They
They can laugh about it now
—are laughing about it now.
They were young. They were melodramatic. They were going through some shit
—plus the drugs and the drinks. Of course there would be bottles broken against walls, words said that couldn’t be taken back, repeated again.
They are still going through some shit
—too many jobs, not enough money
—their moment eclipsing
—age.
Let’s change the subject, they agree.
They laugh and clink bottles
—and in the silence between the clinks and the laughter, they both know that there is something they will never get back
—something serious
—something they can’t articulate
—something they can only feel.
They catch up.
They try to fill each other in
—an outer space.
You
You loop. You loop and you realize that the lotus kids aren’t going anywhere. And neither are you. You walk up the slight hill behind their bench and settle down, leaning against a jacaranda tree
—a tree you know that is months before bloom.
A man behind you strums his guitar while blasting “This Must Be the Place” on an old stereo. You wonder whether he is even playing the chords to the song.
There is no correlation, you think and immediately think otherwise.
This is different, you think.
You imagine the lotus.
They
They turn and see you spacing, staring at them, they think. They get uneasy. They pack their lotusy things.
You
You can see them get uneasy and become uneasy.
You pretend to read your book.
You read. And you pretend to read and you read for all of time
—as the radio guitarist strums his guitar to the blasting radio version of “Wild World”
—as the birds and the people continue to loop
—and the lotus kids climb the pyramid-like stairs in the distance.
They,
they rise, they rise steadily—
And you, you feel like you’re not going anywhere, like this
—like this isn’t what you’re meant to be doing,
—like you’re just treading water,
—treading water just beneath the surface.
BIO
Jonathan Jay is a writer and editor at aesterion (www.aesterion.com). He has been published in the RIC Journal (www.ricjournal.com). He lives in Los Angeles.
