Carlos Typhoon

flash fiction

—HE TRIED—

Introducing her to his sister for the first time. Six months in. Sitting in his living room. Telling himself that the time of year a person was born probably COULD play a determining role in their development, what with all the seasonal variations (sunlight, temperature, moisture, allergens, etc.)—he tried—when she told his sister that of course they were going to get along, “We’re both fire signs! Plus, all of my best friends have always been Leos too.” Sitting there, repeating to himself, “Plath, Vonnegut, Rand. Plath! Vonnegut! Rand!”—he tried—thinking back to that first conversation they had had about their favorite books. On their first real date. Ignoring the fact that he couldn’t remember if it was the book too or just the author’s life that had ended in suicide—he tried—after she told him her favorite writer was Sylvia Plath, with Vonnegut and Rand coming in right behind her, “I love The Bell Jar too.” As he talked about how Sirens of Titan had impacted him as a youth, as he talked about Atlas Shrugged, as he recommended Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, “You HAVE to read it!”—he tried—pretending like he could still remember even just the essence of its titular treatise, or Galt’s Speech, or the Tralfamadorian’s purpose for humanity. 

Introducing her to his mother for the first time. Nine months in. Sitting in the den of his childhood home. Saying to himself, “Scientists. Scientists. In this grand experiment that is life, we are BOTH goddamn scientists!”—he tried—thinking back to the night after their first real fight. Huddled together in that dingy little bar, as they found a common ground for them to move forward on. Acting like he could still write out a wave function, Maxwell’s equations, or even just a simple kinetic energy formula—he tried—when he had told her that his approach to examining existence had always been one of outward exploration (physics, cosmology, elementary particles, and such), which seemed to both oppose and complement her tendency towards an inward exploration (psychology, introspection, meditation, and the like). Sitting there in the house he had grown up in, reminding himself that he didn’t know what the hell quarks or electrons were really made of, or if that was an appropriate question to even ask, telling himself that string theory could be said to say something quite similar—he tried—when she told his mother with such assurance, “Well, you know, all is one.” Reminding himself of the definition of the word, of its Latin origins, unus plus versus, “turned into one,” telling himself that he didn’t know what the hell consciousness was, or where it came from, or how it could arise out of a collection of unconscious elements—he tried—as she continued, “And we’re all just the universe experiencing itself from different perspectives.” 

Moving in together. A year and a half in. Seeing HIS first book of poetry and HER first novel sitting side by side on the mantel in THEIR new home-office. “It’s Latin for unique…of its own kind,” acting like a decade of disuse hadn’t withered whatever fluency he’d once had—he tried—as he had “let it slip” that he had taught himself to read and write Latin, which he felt had made him a more explorative poet, “Poeta plus exploratorius.” Standing in their new kitchen as guests trickled in for the housewarming party, after his brother had just called to say he wasn’t going to make it. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m fine,” reminding himself that of course he wanted to have better access to his emotions, as a poet for sure, but also as a plain old human being—he tried—as he felt that familiar sense of uneasiness within when she asked him, “But how does it make you FEEL?” Standing there, muttering to himself, “Fuck no! Don’t sell yourself short. How much is it normally?”—he tried—thinking back to the first time they met, talking about his poetry book that had just come out, Sui Generis, which she had stood there and read a few poems from in the middle of a party and then refused to accept a copy of for free when she asked him if he had any for sale. Replaying in his head the first time she had finally let him read some of her own writing, a few chapters from what would be her debut novel—he tried—remembering how impressed he had been by her style, her subject matter, how moved he had been when she later titled it Poeta Plus Exploratorius. He tried and he tried and he tried—and then he tried some more. He tried and he tried and he tried—he tried— 

And so did she.