I Honestly Don't Even Know,

Today I was.... Strange for me. I can't seem to think of any other way to describe it. Like it happened to someone else. Even know, I'm thinking back and trying to find the differences between what happened and a Law and Order episode. I keep remembering turning my head and seeing the car hit, feeling the sheer force of it all, and worst of all I just want to write it all down. I just find it really fake of myself to take the truth and turn it into fiction, but writing really is all about bringing yourself into your writing. I'd just be bringing something totally new to the table.

But the worst part I feel about writing it down is distancing myself even further from what happened. Writing it as if it didn't happen to me in the first place, which isn't the case. While I was there, I only started tearing up once from what I can recall, and that was only once my Mom showed up. Seeing her was bringing me back into it, and that was what scared me most about the entire thing that happened, putting myself there.

I guess it was stranger when the police and ambulences came, because I knew the cops and the ambulence workers..... And no one else in my group did. My mom making conversation about my older cousins with the kid taking my blood pressure who lives down the street, or the cop telling me when my Mom first got there because we all knew each other, the cop who grew up with my mother.

Sometimes I just feel out of place with how many roots I've grown in this town. I grew up here, my parents both grew up here, and my Grandparents will all die here, three already have and Nana is not going anywhere any time soon. And I have to face it, it could have been much worse and I could have died in this town today. It's mind boggling to me how many people I know who've grown up here, which is many, and yet how many of them have just moved here, which again is many. My mom went to school at the High School, and she had a friend in the seventies or eighties who died in a car crash.
I've heard so many stories... And yet none of them are stories to me. These were peoples lives. I don't know about what I intended for this blog post to do for me. Maybe to help me sleep, or just soothe my feelings. But now that I think I'm on the subject of Mortality, which I might have just been beating around the bush about the entire time, I think I'll save it for another day. I mean, there's all this time to talk about death during life, right? I guess I'm just one lucky Irish Lass, among other things.

Thanksgiving and my Difficulty with Thanks

So my Nana's House is currently buzzing with Aunts bickering, my brother telling people with pride that he's eating Turkey Testicles, and my Nana has absolutely no clue what's going on (about anything).

I was planning on spending the day reading on their couch, but I have turned to the internet for Tetris, adding Amendments to my Christmas List, and blogging.

I feel like Thanksgiving has always been the hardest holiday for me. I always get sick from eating too much, my Mom goes home angry that she had to deal with my arguing aunts, and my brother is usually on a sugar high. My mom and I didn't even want to go to my Nana's house this year, but my dad won by saying that it may be his mother's 'Last Thanksgiving'. This woman is going to outlive us all.

But it's not just the stomachaches and annoying family members, it's my inability to make conversation and actually show my thanks to the rest of my family. Christmas is probably even worse in that aspect, because I am the worst present receiver on the planet. But having an unrepresentable thanks for everyone just makes me uncomfortable. Someone saying that they love me in passing or talking about how lucky we all are to be together makes me uncomfortable. I have an inability to show others how I feel, like if I feel if I want to cry I shut down completely. My Mom and I have fights over it often, and being around a bunch of such overpowering personalities today is just pushing me into the corner.

But why should being myself be so hard? Surely it's not that way for everyone, putting yourself on display seems just so easy for others I know. But sitting around a table nibbling on a roll seems like a social limit for me.

They just called dinner. Wish me luck.

Stupid Vinyl Couch

So while my currently being sick might be a nuisance, I want to put up my reasoning as to how this happened, how you can keep this from happening to yourself, and what to do if this ever happens to you.

So to start, I went up to my cabin over the weekend which lead to me sleeping on the comfiest surface possible (the beige vinyl couch, not the bed my parents paid for) which lead to my allergies acting up WHICH LEAD TO A SINUS INFECTION. DUHDUHDUH.

1. I prefer the vinyl coach because I prefer sleeping with cool feet, not warmth which comes from beds and all their loveliness.

2. My allergies enjoy taunting me.

3. My allergies are evil and gave me lots of stuff stuck in my face which (I believe) led to my friggin' sinus infection. )

Well how can you keep this from happening to you? The only thing I can think of is if you have parents who enjoy 'The Wealth of Nature'/Bullshit, get emancipated. Sure, you may be homeless, but at least there's no vinyl couch in the way. AND THINK OF ALL OF THE BENEFITS OF LIVING ON THE STREET.

• Prostitution, drugs, std's, Jail (think of it as free housing, but still no vinyl couches), actors looking to improve their craft by method acting, rich snob children trying to 'break away' from their parents... See, these kids know about the dangers of Expensive couches.

I know all of this because of Law and Order : Special Victims Unit, and they always turn out okay!... Wait, no....

SO. Now you didn't take my (misguided) advice and now you're sick as well!
What can you do.... Oh Wait! I made a list!

• Do your Homework Look around your house for strange memorabilia.
  I found a Family Crest post card, some Edinburgh Salt and Pepper shakers, giant crystal containers of alcohol, anchor book ends, an unhealthy amount of painted ceramic plates on walls, a buch of recipe books that no one uses, an entire shelf of encyclopedias, and a rag-tag bunch of photographs from my parent's respective childhoods.
• Teach your Puppy who is scared of heights how to climb stairs.
• Do your Homework Watch videos of Animals giving birth
  Live snake birth is the scariest, Dog birth looks the least painful.
• Watch Dancing with the Stars
  COME ON. IT ISN'T THAT BAD
  CHAZ BONO THIS SEASON WHOOOOOO
  AND NANCY GRACE! WHAT MORE COULD YOU ASK.
• Do your Homework See how long you can sleep at one time.
• Create lists of things to do next time you're sick.
• And maybe, just maybe, Do your Homework reorganize your bookshelves. They deserve it.

In-Depth Art and Shallow Mindsets

So alas, I've realized that Blogging is a lot like eating Chocolate Bars... If I eat too many I become sick of it and henceforth do not want to continue doing it.

BUT THIS MUST BE STOPPED. So I'll bring y'all up to speed.

So working on the Dada Art really... Got me out of my zone. My mojo, if you will. I even consider myself for the most part an 'abstract-type artist', but it kept pinching at me that I wouldn't do something like this in my own time. Last year I made this GORGEOUS print poster that I spend about a month on in Art Class with Ms. Friedman. And I would have never, ever have felt disconnected from it. I think that's it, I feel disconnected from the Dada Art. We had two in class art days with it, and the stuff that I do is usually unique because of how in depth and how much that I truly love it because I spend so much time on it.

This whole acting business is a bit daunting and more vague on my part, apologies. But seriously, seventh grade Jessica would probably have fainted from the idea of an improv class. I want to be clear that it's not that I don't LIKE acting, it's that I am as self conscious as a turtle and deserve to be treated as such. And my strike-a-pose nature tends to always look the same, and my dialogue usually has to do with what's on my mind. It's harder to get through to it because my mind is such a messy, funked up place. I want to be able to do all this groovy stuff, when in reality I'm just stuck in my head. So there you go.

Writing on the Walls and Why I Like it.

So Graffiti has always been one of my biggest inspirations for my art, and I've always wanted to just write on the walls and go relatively crazy. But today was more of a controlled expression, which is always interesting because testing my limits of creativity versus control always ends with a burst of me. I think seeing everyone's maps of themselves around me while I was working definitely gave me ideas and let me have a physical representation of a person's mind and soul. And definitely the different way people interpreted what we were supposed to do was interesting, they way everyone's hand led them to something different. No one was the exact same. I saw one that looked vaguely like a spider's web, while mine looked more like a bunch of diamonds and interconnected words that all led me to repetition.

The word I kept going back to three or four times was 'Human'. That one word means more to me than any other word in my dictionary, because I can find any way back to it. I think everyone has their one word that just has a connection unlike any other. And any constellation on those walls outside the classroom could not compare to that one word, because it's what brings people together. We're all human.

Well that was off topic, but I liked it. Anyway, I really enjoyed today. It helped take my mind off of everything and just focusing on what mattered to me, and then inking it, left a reminder to myself that what I love is important. And no matter how many layers of paint go over it or if I forget about it over time... It'll still be there. A standing reminder of Me. Au Revoir, mes amis.

I just Realized that Writing the Title is the Hardest Part

Well, this is new. They don't have my favorite font here... So that's a bummer. I can't seem to type my words in a correct, flowing sequence without Garamond.

Now let's have a one sided conversation about latin. And why I do not find it a dead language. Now, I'm planning on wearing one of my favorite tee shirts tomorrow, that says 'Memento Mori' (which means don't forget to die but we'll get into that later.) But I have had multiple conversations with Emily about how she believes that Latin, Gaelic, etc. are all dead languages, and I can't even comprehend that.

HERE. IS. WHY.

Now, when I hear someone say that someone or something is dead, I think, 'Well um like no it uh hasn't because well um if you remember it then how can it be dead? How can like um this person be dead when they are still in your head and they changed you enough that you remember them?' My thought process is quirky, unique, but a tad slow with on-the-spot wit. Which brings me to latin. Latin has so drastically changed how we communicate with it being the basis of so many languages, and it is rather gorgeous to be honest. But even if no one speaks 'pure latin' anymore, whatever that is, that doesn't mean it's dead. 

You remember latin. You know of latin. It did something important.

So question time.

Do you want to die along with your body, or do you want to be remembered for something?

Do you want to really do something that makes a difference, so much so that people will speak of you with great honor and nobility and sheer awe?

I want you to forget to die. Remember to live and be remembered for it.

You aren't dead when you're alive with others. And vice versa. A great buddhist belief I'm in love with is to be present in every moment of your life. Be an avid contributor to your life and who you share it with.

And with that, I'll bid you Adieu.