1/23/26 - 1/25/26: Blood Falls, Lou Reed, & Hot Pockets
1/23/26
I saw an extremely decayed pumpkin today. It was broken open on the ground and had these very light green blobs of furry mold surrounding it. I would’ve loved to see a time-lapse of its decay. The pumpkin gave me an idea for an art exhibit. Let’s say you’re a Fluxus artist who views death as part of life, and life as art. So, in your Fluxus-forward will you’d have it stipulated that cameras film your decay upon death, and that this is then shown as a time-lapse in a gallery. This video would be projected across every wall, and would be the only thing in the gallery. It’s a pretty gruesome idea and I doubt many would flock to go see this exhibit.
I was listening to a podcast today where they were recounting someone’s last moments before dying. And sometimes when people talk about death you can deeply feel the reality of it. You’re there with them, holding their hand as they take their last breath. And it makes you cry. In the face of my mother’s cancer diagnosis, and now treatment, I’ve gone out of my way to try to avoid thinking about death. But it found a way to colonize my psyche, regardless of my avoidance attempts. And there came a point where I had to adjust how I thought of it in order to survive its restless existence in me. Mainly, it just feels differently in my body. I don’t really know how to talk about it out loud yet.
Speaking of death, I was thinking today about a rollercoaster at Knott’s Berry Farm I remember being afraid of as a kid. It was called Montezuma’s Revenge. It had “randomized launch sequences”. Why would anyone volunteer themselves to take part in randomized launch sequences? That is one of the worst grouping of words I have ever heard in my life. The guy I was last dating was into rollercoasters. I said maybe I’d try it with the right person but, in reality, I would never fucking try it and I don’t know why I said that to him. Rollercoasters are my nightmare. Life is enough of a rollercoaster for me. And I can barely handle that.
I met a dog today and they instantly made me feel better. They were part Chow Chow and reminded me of my dog growing up who got hit by an SUV that was being driven by a veterinarian. That was a very sad day.
I was internally spiraling today and it’s like this dog knew I needed them. Dogs know they’re a panacea. Cats, too. I got to add to my very simple list of “things that relax Sam”:
-reading the dictionary
-clay
-cats and dogs
I have this fantasy of a day where my dog and cat are sleeping and I’m making clay sculptures of them nearby at my work table. And I simply can’t stop. There are thousands of clay sculptures of both of them, and they are all a lil' bit unique and creepy, as that is my tendency. This will surely be the most perfect moment. A girl can dream.
My mother’s catchphrase is “stay hydrated”. And also “are you warm enough?” She’s obsessed with my warmth levels at all times.
I’m going to an exhibit of the work of Theresa Hak Kyung Cha in a few days. She died at 31, only 2 months after her first book, Dictee, was published. She was raped and murdered. In response to the amount of influence the book had posthumously, her brother said “I’m very happy - it keeps her alive for me.” The book opens with an image of graffiti created by Korean coal miners that translates to “Mother, I miss you / I am hungry / I want to go home.”
I keep thinking about the idea of being forgotten. Whose memory do you still live in even years later? Who can’t stop thinking about you and never will? What would this information look like in graph form? I'm guessing it would probably look like an overwhelming, abstract painting. When I first experienced a break-up with someone, I was so disturbed by the ending of it all, and I immediately panicked about forgetting our memories together. I had so much anxiety about forgetting anything when it came to them. I was so scared. I hated thinking about losing even a millimeter of the memory of them. It made me endlessly melancholic. I don’t recover well from endings. And I know it helps to not think of endings as endings, but rather as just part of an ongoing continuing. But I still have trouble with this.
I was just made aware of a place called Blood Falls in East Antarctica. The red waterfall flowing against a backdrop of white snow, and the blue ocean below. People thought at first it was from red algae, but it’s proven to be due to iron oxides. It makes it look like the Earth has a wound and is gushing blood, and no one is tending to it properly or bringing a bandage of any kind to the scene. I enjoy the visual harshness.
I’m Laurie Anderson and I’m looking for my Lou Reed. This is a line I didn’t put on my online dating profile before it expired a few days ago. Maybe that would’ve helped protect me from all the not-right-for-me people that swarmed me in this type of online environment. I begin to think that it’s too much to ask for. “Universe, I’d like my Lou Reed please! Thanks!” People love talking to the Universe and asking it for things, and also blaming it for their misfortune. The Universe is probably like “Shut the hell up already. I’m just trying to chill over here.”
Maybe I’ll have the kind of luck in love that Georgia O’Keefe and Marisol had. They remained a million miles away from ever finding their person. I only have this despondent an outlook, though, on my most pessimistic days.
1/24/25
I impulse bought ham and cheese Hot Pockets today. I used to eat them at my dad’s various apartments after my parent’s divorce.
The nicknames I’ve been called recently have included Velma from Scooby-Doo, and Big Dog. I enjoy the latter one since I’m neither big, nor am I a dog. Velma, originating because of my haircut and glasses, is starting to annoy me.
These young kids on bikes came up to me and asked if they could pet my car. I agreed, but judgmentally. Then, as quickly as they seemed to appear, they were gone, biking off into the sunset. I told someone about this and they said “are they on Molly? Or is that ecstasy? What’s the petting drug?”
I read an essay today that made reference to Dylan Thomas’ green fuse. I had never heard of this. Apparently it’s from the poem that made him famous called The force that through the green fuse drives the flower. These are some of my favorite lines from the poem:
-“And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose / My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.”
-“The hand that whirls the water in the pool / Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind / Hauls my shroud sail.”
-“And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb / How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.”
I’ve noticed recently that rabbit statues seem to be one of the most ubiquitous front yard/porch adornments in suburban neighborhoods. At least in the ones I find myself wandering around in lately.
The moon looks like the Chesire Cat’s smile tonight.
1/25/26
7:12am:
The day begins to reveal itself in two strips of color. A thick, light pink stripe on the bottom, gracefully melted into a top stripe of light blue.
I enjoy poetry because it feels like it lives free of the rules of language. And often feelings feel more like a poem in my body rather than a coherent sentence.
This is a poem of mine I wrote back in November. It’s called Water Hands:
What if every moment
I exploded in perfect language?
What if the soft branches of my
insides always knew what I wanted,
and held me gently with guidance
usually only preserved for the blind?
What if I wasn’t allowed to kiss you?
What if there was a moment I could
square away all our circles?
What if my hands blanketing your
body were made of water, warm to
your liking?
Would you sleep all night in my
water hands? Would you hold me in
yours,
A whole lifetime?