“You know, there’s people out there that think this is all an accident. Some type of coincidence. That photosynthesis magically happens. And the fact that trees give off oxygen, the very oxygen that the humans breathe, was one big mistake. A mistake. It’s true, nobody gives credit to the artist nowadays. I worked my ass off making everything connect—and let me tell you—it wasn’t easy. Oh no, it was a bitch to be honest. And for what? To be dismissed? To be doubted? It’s not right.”

“Oh I’m sure there are some people who appreciate what you’ve done.”

“Yea like who?”

“Like the Christian’s for example. They’ve been pretty avid followers of your work for quite sometime.”

“More like avid misinterpreters if you ask me. It’s like, you spell out some rules for them, and they still don’t get it. Take Thou Shalt not Steal, for example. They’ll follow it, but the second they catch someone stealing they’ll kill em…it’s like h-e-l-l-o, did you already forget the other rule? Thou shalt not kill? I mean, come on. And then, they have the audacity to question why they are sad inside. It’s like, hmm maybe because you killed someone? They act like there wasn’t a very specific reason I told them not to kill.”

“Oh I’m sure there’s others who see the beaut—“

“And you know who are the worst. The scientists! They study my work, they are the closet people to it. And you would think—would think that they would be the one’s to be like wow, this all connects, this can’t be an accident, it’s too unlikely. BUT NO. They study it and they claim it as their own. Like, oh I’ve discovered this thing that happens in the muscles. I’m going to call it Golgi Tendon Organ. And do you think they name it that because it describes the function of the thing they discovered?”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say, no?”

“No! It’s the flippin’ guy's name! His name! He named a process that I created, after himself ! They are literally stealing my ideas and calling them their own! The nerve!”

“It’s probably just because they need a little more time to evolve. I’m sure once they reach enlightenment they will show you the appreciation you deserve.”

“Let’s hope. I mean, It’s not like I need recognition for my work, but sometimes it would be nice, ya know? I’m just a regular Ol’ God like you, I’ve got feelings and stuff, too. All I’m asking for is a little gratitude every once in awhile. Is that so much?”

“No, it’s not so much. I understand how you feel, God. It’s not easy being the creator of worlds. But remember, that’s why we got into this line of work—because it’s not easy.”

“Yea, you’ve got a good point. It’s just sometimes, when I see them down there, walking around in the world as if they created it...it makes me feel so small. Invisible even. It hurts.”

“You’re only God.”

God smiles softly, “Thanks Buddy, I think I just needed to vent.”

’No prob, God. Anytime.”

A sinking feeling shuddered into her heart when she recognized the empty eyes across the room. A pair of eyes that contained no soul behind them. No morals. Meredith Jordin did not believe in coincidences and the sinking deepened as her desire to confront this person grew. Grew like a poisonous ivy wrapping around her mind. She suffocated her cigarette into the crystal ashtray on the end of the bar and walked toward the empty nothingness, watching the pair of eyes grow larger with each step forward.

When the room to step was no more, she found herself staring into the bony structure of her nightmare. The nightmare that haunted her dreams each sleep since she was a child. The relentless face that judged each new action she created and snuffed out all joy that fizzled up into her making. Meredith Jordin opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when the nightmarish face did as well. No, she thought to herself, I will not be silenced, not this time. She parted her lips, ready to confront once again, but the face did the same. Meredith could not believe the audacity of the person who had caused so much suffering in her life. What was left for her to say? To do? It was Meredith’s turn now. She fought down the rage building up inside of her and forced out two words.

“Never again.”

Only to find out that the person spoke the same two words. Meredith’s face reddened. She curled her right fist and drew her arm back. With one fluid movement forward, her shoulder lurched to connect her fist with the woman’s retched face. First came an ear-splitting noise that echoed off the dark wooden beams of the sultry bar room. Then came the pain. Meredith retracted her fist and cradled it into her chest. Her arm seized with insurmountable agony. As her left arm wrapped tightly around her wounded fist, wetness gushed down the opening of her white blouse, warm and thick, and turned cold once it touched her bare skin. She opened her grasp to find the origin of warmth. Deep wounds slashed across her wrists, which emptied out the vibrant color of death. Meredith pulled at a fragment lodged in one of the wounds. A piece that travelled the length of her forearm. The fragment shifted and bounced light off its reflective surface. With a blurred gaze, she brought her arm up to her face. And found the pair of empty eyes staring back at her. Meredith fell to her knees and then to the floor. Shattered pieces of mirror surrounded her draining body. And with one last effort before her life turned black, Meredith spoke:

“Never again.”

A sinking feeling shuddered into her heart when she recognized the empty eyes across the room. A pair of eyes that contained no soul behind them. No morals. Meredith Jordin did not believe in coincidences and the sinking feeling deepened as her desire to confront this person grew. Grew like a poisonous ivy wrapping around her mind. She suffocated her cigarette into the crystal ashtray on the end of the bar and walked toward the empty nothingness, watching the pair of eyes grow larger with each step forward.

When the room to step was no more, she found herself staring into the bony structure of her nightmare. The nightmare that haunted her dreams each sleep since she was a child. The relentless face that judged each new action she created and snuffed out all joy that fizzled up into her making. Meredith Jordin opened her mouth to speak, but stopped when the nightmarish face did as well. No, she thought to herself, I will not be silenced, not this time. She parted her lips, ready to confront once again, but the face did the same. Meredith could not believe the audacity of the person who had caused so much suffering in her life. What was left for her to say? To do? It was Meredith’s turn now. She fought down the rage building up inside of her and forced out two words.

“Never again.”

Only to find out that the person spoke the same two words. Meredith’s face reddened. She curled her right fist and drew her arm back. With one fluid movement forward, her shoulder lurched to connect her fist with the woman’s retched face. First came an ear-splitting noise that echoed off the dark wooden beams of the sultry bar room. Then came the pain. Meredith retracted her fist and cradled it into her chest. Her arm seized with insurmountable agony. As her left arm wrapped tightly around her wounded fist, wetness gushed down the opening of her white blouse, warm and thick, and turned cold once it touched her bare skin. She opened her grasp to find the origin of warmth. Deep wounds slashed across her wrists, which emptied out the vibrant color of death. Meredith pulled at a fragment lodged in one of the wounds. A piece that travelled the length of her forearm. The fragment shifted and bounced light off its reflective surface. With a blurred gaze, she brought her arm up to her face. And found the pair of empty eyes staring back at her. Meredith fell to her knees and then to the floor. Shattered pieces of mirror surrounded her draining body. And with one last effort before her life turned black, Meredith spoke:

“Never again.”

Here is the opening chapter in the book I’m currently working on (almost done!!---ish). A little background on the book:

Learning to Be Human is a semi-autobiographical tale that follows Jacklynn Pendleton, a twenty-three-year-old college student, after a psychotic episode induced by a marijuana overdose. Jacklynn, who prefers to be called Jack, lives with two female roommates—one who she is impartial to and the other who is her partner in crime. She studies Kinesiology at San Jose State University and writes fictional novels as a hobby. As she travels down the rocky path of self-discovery, Jack finds advice paralleling her struggles from unlikely resources: class lectures, strangers, and recreational drugs.

Learning to Be Human shows the uncensored inside world of a seemingly normal and healthy functioning girl. This fragmented and unstructured story mirrors her damaged consciousness and perspective on the world. Each short chapter dives deep into her epiphanies about what it means to be human and her overall grappling with self-awareness and death.

“A new idea is delicate. It can be killed by a sneer or a yawn;

it can be stabbed to death by a quip

and worried to death by a frown on the right man’s brow.”

--Ovid

From one unknown to the next:

“Let’s stop pretending that we’re okay. That we’re okay with not knowing. Not knowing our origin, our identities, or our destination. Let’s stop pretending that we understand everything—who we are and what we’re doing. Let’s be real. This is weird. I know nothing about what I am, who I am, where I came from, why I’m here, or where I’m going, and neither do you. Let’s stop pretending we know so we can share what we’re experiencing with each other, because we’re all experiencing it together. I’m scared, curious, hopeful, and ignorant. I have no idea what I am doing, but I enjoy doing it. I enjoy learning to be human.”

The Fall

My lips pressed against the cool glass rim of the knee-high bong Stephanie purchased last week. With the biggest inhale I could muster, I drew in the heated molecules of THC and let them infiltrate and singe the supple tissues of my lungs. I coughed. As I looked at the swirls of smoke seeping and sprawling across my room, filling it with a thick haze, I thought, maybe, maybe I took too much. That and the fact that I hadn’t stopped coughing. I scampered to the kitchen and heaved over the sink in fear of vomiting out my lungs. When I had finished, when I was finally done, I wheezed myself back to my bedroom, pulled out a vinyl and set the needle down. I sprawled across my bed and felt the wave of marijuana drift over me. Ahh, my good friend THC, my reliable and comforting friend who trickled into my body and saturated my mind. As the seconds ticked away, thoughts swirled around in my head like whimsical lightning bugs dancing in a forest. A deep urge to fixate on them grew within me. A feeling similar to the urge a child gets in a candy shop. A child who wants to consume everything in the shop and cry with glee as colorful jewels of sugar spilled from her mouth. The urge grew while small treasures of knowledge skipped merrily by. I wondered how many I could catch. I reached out and plucked a lightning bug from the swarm and studied it, pulling the wings off one by one. Then I grabbed another and another with an obsessive reach. Handfuls and handfuls of lightning bugs, little treasures of knowledge—sugared jewels—began to expand my awareness until the sheer number became overwhelming. And just like that—like that—with the snap of a figurative finger, the drifting wave turned into a rushing tsunami. And I thought, maybe, maybe I took too much. The once whimsical lightning bugs turned into creepy, crawling cockroaches—harmful thoughts that created an unwanted energy inside of me. Embrace it, a friend once told me. Embrace it. My attention turned to the music filling the room. Strawberry Fields Forever. My breath rose and fell in a rhythmic fashion until the surrounding environment dissipated. Inhale. Exhale. Rise. Fall. Up. Down. The infinite blackness behind my eyes spread until the whispering mysteries of the body and mind crept hesitantly out of hiding.

Whispering mystery one: Is she gone?

Whispering mystery two: I think so.

Whispering mystery one: But she never leaves. How can we be sure?

Whispering mystery two: It’s safe. She must be sleeping. Come out, let’s play.

Familiar secrets always present and just outside of awareness began to prance around inside my mind. Secrets held by the subconscious, the dark side of the moon. With the subtle fear of being exposed, I integrated with a stream of THC molecules swimming towards the neuronal receptors inside my brain. Neuronal channels rushed open and molecules flooded in. Neurotransmitters were released to the next neuron in the chain of consciousness—all working to communicate something. To pass the word along. To share a thought. With an ignorant awareness and an unrelenting interest, I concentrated on the internal workings of my brain and wondered what thought it was trying to communicate. Digging deeper into the recesses of my subconscious like a teenager squeezing the life out of an already popped zit, I finally realized what it was trying to convey to itself—to me.

That someone was watching. That I was watching. I had been caught.

Whispering Mystery one: Alert! She sees us! Alert! Initiate shut down mode!

Whispering mystery two: But we can’t! She’s still awake. It’ll damage her permanently!

Whispering mystery one: We have no choice. This is a restricted area. How could she have gotten in? Shut it down!

Confusion flooded across my mind like desert sand being swept away into a windstorm. With an uncomfortable force of recognition, the thoughts in my head blared like one hundred static radios on max volume. An abrupt jolt sent me into a panic. A bucket of water spilling over the blaring radios. Fingers of electricity sparked and short-circuited something inside of me and I knew, what once was a smooth working machine was now a shattered remainder of the self. I was not in control anymore. My thoughts were secondary to my existence and were incapable of forming. The once quiet functioning of my mind previously hidden by the unsettling chaos of my thoughts, now blared into my awareness, taking up every ounce of attentional focus I had. Fragments of my timeline sped by in a non-linear form. Out of structure sentences. Out of structure memories. Sounds from my past stabbed into my mind. A telephone ringing. The sound of a throat swallowing. A car door slamming. All familiar, all repeating. Blinking. Screaming. Yelling. Without knowing why or how, I began to slip away. And just before I blacked out, just before my life changed forever, I thought, maybe, maybe I took too much.

A stream of ethereal light poured from the creature’s hand and crawled through the air to surround me in a tunnel of genuine brilliance. My feet lifted off the ground with an ease only felt in dreams. Suspended on my back, the light began to pulsate with smooth movements, almost as if it were breathing, as if it were alive. Time ceased to exist.

“How do you feel?” Asked the creature with echoing snarls.

I opened my eyes to blackness—like a night without the moon and stars in a house without fire or electricity.

“I feel…rejuvenated.”

“Good. Do you wish to continue?”

Here, in this eternal moment there was an understanding that I was not aware of at the time, but it came naturally. An understanding that everything spoken was from the core of truth.

“I do.”

“If you accept this gift your perspective of life will never be the same. Do you still wish to continue?”

“I do.”

A muffled scoffing sound escaped from the creature’s draping black veil, a veil that was not seen, but felt.

“Do you understand that there is no difference?”

“Between what?”

“Between life and death.”

“There is no difference?”

“There is no difference.”

“But what will they think?”

“Who?” The creature asked with perplexity in his voice.

“The others.”

Without answering the creature put his sprawling fingers on my stomach and pushed. Down, down, down I went with no ground to stop me. Falling forever. But that was okay, because the light inside of me was warm. The light inside of me was warm. No, the light inside of me was hot—tremendously hot, like an ember growing into a flame. A flame growing into flames. Growing and growing, building with an energy eager to consume everything and nothing. An energy eager to combust. And I stood there, where there was is not known, and how I was able to stand is irrelevant, but I stood. And watched as the universe around me obliterated into nothing. And that nothing formed a single thought. The single thought that started it all.

**Feedback and healthy critiscm wanted ;)

When the thoughts of the mind are loud and blaring and torture you into disquiet, feel the movement of an inhale travel through, for the thoughts are a mere part of a whole. The swimming words in the mind, words formed from observances and opinions, ideas and fears, the swimming words that shape into sentences and circle around in the mind like water circling a drain, are just a mere part of a whole. A mere part of you that is given far too much attention. Too much value and weight. The thoughts are secondary to the awareness of experience. Secondary to your existence. When the mind is loud and blaring and tortures you into disquiet, feel the movement of an inhale travel through, for the thoughts are only a figurehead to the Self.

The Meeting of Men

A man sits next to me waiting for an in-person meeting with a client. He’s wearing a crisp light-blue button-up long sleeved shirt with a brown belt, navy blue slacks, and black shiny dress shoes. His hair is short and light brown and cut neat with style.

He comments on my drink.

“I’m jealous of your beer. I’ve got one last meeting coming up.”

I tell him its Kombucha.

We continue to work silently side-by-side for a couple of hours until the person he is meeting comes in through the coffee shop door.

As far as I can tell they have only spoken briefly on the phone. They greet and shake hands with the manly rhythm often seen in business.

One solid shake.

Sometimes two.

The new man is wearing a crisp light-blue button-up long sleeved shirt with a brown belt, navy blue slacks, and black suede dress shoes. His hair is short and light brown and cut neat with style.

They talk about business. Stuff I naturally zone out on.

I put my headphones on to drown them out.

In the midst of their meeting I hear their muffled voices heighten with glee. A rise of emotion due to a common personal connection in the world. They both reach out a hand with closed fists towards the middle of the table and knock their knuckles together with a laugh. A fist-bump. They smile and continue to talk and their voices rise once more with glee. Another connection, another fist-bump. More business talk after that. I think they are friends now. The meeting comes to an end and they hesitate to leave. I wonder what they are thinking.

The original man mentions word of a beer and the other mentions he hasn’t indulged since the birth of his recent child. An awkward moment passes and the original man rustles in preparation of leaving.

The other points out that he is going to stay. The other says he will too.

“You want me to buy you a beer?” Says the new father.

“Are you gonna have one?” Whispers the thirsty one, hushed with eager.

“Yea.”

“Yea.”

And they drink. And continue to bond like old friends. I bet they’ll complain to their wives about how each was a tool. Or maybe they’ll say each was cool. I’m still waiting to see if they connect knuckles once more.

The black tip of her tail moves with a repetitive force. A rhythmic slapping on the living room couch indicates that she is agitated. Her eyes are wide and alert. A sassy meow implies that she does not want to be pet. But why? Her gaze is set on the scene outside. Outside where the wind is blowing and the rain is pouring. Surely she is more comfortable in here. Next to her stuffed mouse, limp and ready for action to be placed upon it. Why doesn’t she express interest? It emanates with the herbal smell of catnip. A smell that tempts her wild. But she is indifferent. What is her deal? I pour out a bucket of toys in front of her face. A ball that chimes when touched, a bouquet of feathers on a string that wiggle when set into motion, and a rubber chicken that squawks when squeezed. Though her gaze does not falter. She is bored and I try to put her perspective into mine.

Like a cat, I scan the house with curiosity searching for an entertaining moment. How would she see it?

The pictures on the wall are still.

The couch exists with inertness.

A blanket sits on a chair, displaying the last position it was forced into.

Rugs lay on the floor.

On the shelves, books wait to be read.

Trinkets prop frozen on the fireplace mantle.

No wonder she is bored. Surrounded by lifeless nouns and stagnant verbs.

When the sun emerges from behind the busy clouds and the rain reduces to a sprinkle,

she runs to the door and fills her meow with a hopeful demand. An eager demand.

I meet it.

She perches herself on the porch and watches.

Cardinals chirp and zip through the sky.

Oak leaves rustle with the changing wind.

A cicada vibrates an electric buzz.

Flurries of gnats float up from the drying grass.

A moth hovers in a sunbeam and a bumblebee hops from flower-to-flower.

Outside she lets the motion of life fill her soul. Nurturing verbs and significant nouns.

A person’s life rises and falls with currents of action and inaction, ultimately creating a momentum that carries one to an inevitable passage. Some currents are rough and harsh like the waves of an ocean’s storm, while others are as calm and quiet as snow falling in a forest. As of late, Eberly Wilson’s life was a current that disrupted the laws of science—a stagnant spot in the middle of a rushing river--her life was filled with only inaction and she liked it that way—well, she got used to it anyways.

To give you fair warning, this will not be brief. Because in order to survive a Kirmil family Thanksgiving it is extremely important that you come well prepared. Or at least well informed.

Upon arrival of Grandma Kirmil’s house, make sure you walk up the stone pathway on the right of the house. Not on the grass. Never on the grass. Not even if the grass looks healthy and lush, tempting to touch. Never. As you reach the large wooden front door, to the right rests a green ceramic frog, rub its head. Believe me, Grandma Kirmil will question if you did and will know if you didn’t. There is no eating until everyone has rubbed the little green frog’s head. Knock three times. That’s it. Three. It doesn’t matter if you don’t hear anyone coming to the door. She will come. And if she does not come, you will wait until she does. Once she opens the door, make your eyes smile. Let them glisten like they have never glistened before. Take a deep breath in and put your hand to your heart and say “Oh my, Grandma. You’re just as beautiful as the last time I saw you.” Then, compliment her on her outfit. Whether she is wearing her old musty grey cardigan or her beaded evening dress, it is always the most beautiful thing you have ever seen her wear. As grandma steps aside to let you into her home, silently congratulate yourself. Getting into the home is half the battle. And since you have taken the time to prepare, you are already ahead of the rest.

Next is Uncle Larry. Remember Uncle Larry. He is a safe zone. If there is ever a time where you feel faint or exhausted from relentlessly defending your life choices to the rest of the family, find Uncle Larry. His hair is silver and has been since he was sixteen. He is a quiet man and he usually likes to keep to himself. Which is good for you. He will not say much; use this time to rest. But use him sparingly--only in times of desperate need. Once Uncle Larry pulls out his Cuban cigars and pours himself a glass of single malt whiskey, he will change. Beware the change. He turns into quite the talker after three glasses. Be sure to keep track. After you have made contact with Uncle Larry, find a place to sit.

Oh my, I almost forgot, you must remember to comment on grandma’s furniture. The sooner the better, just don’t forget. Yes, you will notice that the furniture never changes, that she has had the same viridian green velvet couches since 1985, and that the sun bleached burnt orange curtains are now a peach color. But it doesn’t matter; say you idolize her interior design capabilities. After you find a seat, sit there and wait. Most likely, Aunt Tammie will come up to you first. You can spot her by her short curly brown hair and her hard east coast accent. Do yourself a favor and let her talk. If she asks you a question, simply answer it and ask her a question back. The key to her heart is to let her talk about herself. Aunt Tammie is a nice hang if you really don’t feel like talking to anyone else. You can keep her going for at least 45 minutes.

Dinner is usually served around 6pm and since there are about 20 people at the Kirmil Family Thanksgiving, you will most likely be waiting in line. If you can orchestrate it, stand in line by Uncle Rick. He has light brown hair with a white splotch on the back of his head—it’s a birthmark. Uncle Rick is the most humorous right before he eats. Don’t eat the key lime pie. Every year Aunt Kathy makes key lime pie, and every year she adds salt instead of sugar. It is unsure if she has just mislabeled her salt and sugar jars or if she really prefers a salty key lime pie, but just bypass it. Say you are allergic to limes. You may have to keep this lie up for the rest of your life, but it’s worth it. If you follow this guide, you will have a slight chance of surviving a Kirmil Family Thanksgiving. At the very least, you may go home with a tear stained face, but you will have survived. Count your blessings and remember Uncle Larry.

I dip my toes into the pool of boredom and quiver with fear. My mind runs—sprints—gallops away at the first sign of silence, the first sign of inaction. I must find something to do. I bite my nails in a desperate act to feel accomplished. I must find something to do. Scanning the world for something to read: a billboard, an irrelevant pamphlet, anything to keep my mind from settling. I must find something to do. Someone please help, I can feel it happening; my stirring mind is missing its spoon and the chaotic contents are settling. Don’t let them touch the bottom of the pot; don’t let them awaken to ask where they are. Because surely they will realize they are bored. Oh no, It’s too late. I’ve transformed.

Rippling water sparkles with movement. Stalks of wild flowers waver in the spring breeze. The art of boredom is provoked and the stagnant world awakens with life when the mind settles into inaction. When there is nothing of interest surrounding the self, once the fear of boredom has gone, the mind works hard to find amusement in the mundane. The illusive mundane. Subtleties of life begin to emerge and a new world offers itself to the still.

An inactive mind begins to stroll the path of purpose, alerting the Self to the overlooked actions of others, like a hawk searching the ground for prey. The book wavers in her delicate grasp. His voice whispers with his thoughts. His fingers connect with an itch on his face. Her heels stomp with authority as she progresses towards her destination. The library rustles with human action, breathing life into the settled mind.