by Erik Hagen
to exaggerate or anything, but I am feeling a little...what's the world?...catal...the things that happen to your fingers?...callused. She takes me through "dooms of feel." Even saying something like that...makes me think of Carmina. The tenor or choir sang, oh what was it? Let me think for a second.
Now I remember. They say "stillantibus ocellis." Jesus, you'd think God had an understanding of beauty sometimes. He could easily have just stopped beautiful language or from existing and we would never even know it. Or what if he made German the human language? Makes you think, though, like what if he really did destroy the most beautiful thing in the world and we just call things beautiful because we have nothing better for comparison? I brought that up because although I feel callused, and I just need you right now. The highest points are the like, really up there, and the lowest points...well, they always talk about the bigger they are the harder they fall. I hate to keep using the word 'doom' to describe these things because it sort of reminds me of that old computer game. I remember that you played it when we were younger because you liked pretending your dad's shotgun was strong enough to blow up those floating heads. My memory isn't what it used to be, but man, I just got that picture of you in my head and can't really describe it. You're there and right over there is that weird poster I ripped. Language is weird like that. I don't think God would've destroyed the most beautiful language, though. With weeping eyes, I pray he didn't. But anyways, what was I saying? Something about doom, right?
Well to counterbalance the whole doom-talk, it is important to note two things. The first is that I feel she's the only person I've ever met that truly lives her soul. In that one Simpsons episode, Lisa mentions that philosophers sometimes think that people need to earn their soul through hard work, dedication or something like that. I don't mean it that way, because I know how quick you move to Simpsons' references. What I mean by that is she like, well, really lives her soul, as Cummings said. It feels vibrant, alive and excited to be alive. That sounded sort of weird. So there are a couple weeks where she is happy, cheery and all that – those are the days she really lives her soul. Those other days...it just doesn't seem to work out right. She can sometimes go through some sort of radical mood change and goes crazy. I swear to you, it was definitely deeper than a monthly thing. I just looked at the way her face told me about her soul. I read her eyes, man, they were my book. Everything was just so honest in that she smiled to reveal her soul, not veil it. I mean she was totally happy and just couldn't control her face or voice or anything. She was content just to be herself, with some weird unity of soul and body. That sounds a lot like new age bullshit and I hate saying it, but Jesus, it's just beautiful to see. And I totally can hear myself talk, too; dooms of love and all.
All that happiness turns to frustration and anger. It happens so quickly. It's just a wheel, man. Carmina has it. This wheel, it just turns and turns and all I ever get is the same thing over and over again. She's happy for some period of time then starts moving another direction. She's pissed for some of the time and proceeds to gets more pissed before things start to get better. Even Carmina can't comfort me here – "quisquis amat taliter volvitur in rota." Carmina identified it, but then just leaves me lost; abandons me in the fucking maze. The wheel always turns and it bothers me how inescapable the whole thing in. Every woman, always the same, just like every man she ever dates...always the same. Fate gives me a new wheel and I just turn on it. The whole time. All these fights, they just are over the same stupid shit over and over again. It's just... I bring up all these problems with her and how it seemed to get a little better or worse then I remember how wonderful her soul is. So the whole relationship gets better for a while, then it just collapses. I go through all the dooms of love and feel and everything, again and again. With weeping eyes, it never ends.
The waitress has been looking at me for most the night. If she keeps waiting for a pause in our conversation, I doubt she'll ever get back again. Let's take a quick break, order shots or another round of drinks and give me your take on it. I know it's long, but I shared this entire context so you could offer me advice. Don't lose me yet, man, you've got to help.
Does anyone really move beyond aesthicism? Or is it always nibbling at your heels? (2009).
Ethicism Rising
God invents text messages: sees a new way for people to suffer
Pauses in phone conversations while breaking up with girlfriend: awkward, difficult, lonely
Pauses in text messages: normal, necessary – perhaps she's busy?
Silence breeds imagination: longer the silence, larger the imagination
Talking on phone: "let's break up." "Why?" "..."
Text messages: "let's break up," put phone back in pocket, read Kierkegaard or Salinger
Talking on phone: hanging up – rude, cruel and argumentative
Text messages: turn phone off – "no signal."
Once these thoughts entered my mind, I reached the point that I didn't want my phone on anymore. I didn't want to see how she would respond. I was pleased with waiting – that encroaching excitement that something big is about to happen. The potential love of my life could be pleading with me to give it another shot. She could be ignoring me. She could be frothing all the hate she can muster into words. Maybe I'll have thirty minutes of voicemail. I can't be sure until I turn my phone on and solve the riddle. But, like watching the end of a great movie looming, I don't want it to stop. As the audience files out of the theater, I'm reminded of all that I've settled for – the movies deliver perfection and I'm stuck as myself. In those moments, wouldn't you wait for scenes after the credits? Just in case the film world had one more message for you? Just so you could hear their real 'goodbye'? Go ahead and leave the theater – I'm not quite ready yet.
About the Author: Erik Hagen is an aspiring writer. Short Stories from Aesthetic Life is his first book. Comments and questions can be directed to his email at [email protected] or his blog at https://erikhagenism.blogspot.com/
