3/4/26 - 3/7/26: Snails have teeth.
3/4/26
The other day I almost absentmindedly put salsa in the freezer.
Another undoubtedly intriguing, Sam-in-the-kitchen update is that I keep dropping things lately: the lid to the yogurt, every piece of silverware I touch, the salsa, the bag of peas, coffee filters, coffee grounds, a whole smoothie. Sky's the limit. Your classic case of clumsyhand-itis. There’s no known cure.
I truly wasn’t expecting to fall in love with clay as much as I have. I look at a bag of clay now and say to it “you complete me.” I also ask my clay, “What was my life before you? Pointless as far as I can tell.” But why did it take me so long to find clay? It’s absolutely infuriating how long it can take to find your true love.
I applied to a part-time job the other day that I wouldn’t even hate I don’t think. The loud negative Nelly in my head is screaming that I’m not going to get it. I’d prefer to hear the classic 2002 song “Hot In Herre” from Nelly rather than negativity. I always want it to be as simple as applying to one job and getting it. I do always crave simplicity.
I have this thumb callus that I think is from all the clay carving I’ve been doing. It’s maybe like 60% caused by the intense embroidery work I’ve been doing, too. Just embroidering right through my current existential crisis. Some of the main ingredients of the current crisis are love and purpose and health. As in, “why did it take me so long to figure out that I want to finish my degree and teach and pursue my art more seriously?” “Is cancer going to kill my mom?” “Why did I have to feel this connection with someone and just have it vanish? Why was I so hopeful and stupid? Am I going to be alone forever?” This is the tip of the iceberg in regards to what's sleeplessly swirling around in my Sam brain
There’s a spiral staircase of thoughts in my head. At a certain point they turn into Escher stairs. Escher stairs mean I have to go for a very long walk or uphill hike. I have to breathe. I have to swim. I have to do furious fabric collage with my sewing machine. I have to drive to the studio to wheel-throw and hand-build. I have to be active when my mind-stairs turn Escher, and release all these feelings into action. I have to think about the solid things I can touch that are in my life. Not the things I can’t have. The people I can’t be with. I have to think about right now: I have my creativity and my mom’s cancer treatment is working and I found a new clay studio that I love and I’m slowly making new friends.
I’ve been getting really obsessive about creating perfect playlists. Meticulous organizing is one of the ways I deal with intense anxiety. These playlists have specific time stamps of usually 3-4 hours which tends to be the stretch of time I’m making art for, ideally uninterrupted, before I remember to eat something. Though, I wouldn’t hate it if someone interrupted me to bring me food, or kiss me.
Upon my unwanted, 6 a.m. wake up today I was in fantasizing mode. It washed over me pleasantly. The fantasy was me waking up next to my lovely boyfriend and I have an actual art career and Gothmog is the perfect cat and they just jumped on the bed. Is our dog Engelbert Humperdink in the picture yet? No, he hasn’t quite been adopted yet. A kid? Not quite yet. Not sure if we’ve even had that conversation yet. The sun is coming in through the curtains. A gentle blast of daytime. I can relax in that moment, and feel cozy and safe.
Feels good to feel more clear about the things I really want in my life. Those things that feel simple and right. I’m going to keep this fantasy playing in my head ferociously until it becomes real. Now, is it sad if it never comes true? Probably. Maybe. But I’m much too exhausted to ponder this pessimism.
Right now it’s still cancer and disarray that are the stars of the show, and boy are they really taking up stage time.
I fear no one will seriously date me right now while I’m still caregiving for my mom. People just don’t want cancer anywhere near them. They act like it’s contagious. Which is just as well because there aren’t many people anyway that I’d want to be around more than I want to be around clay. And I’ve also already decided I’m done looking for love. For now. Too tired. If it wants me it knows where to find me: drinking my thermos of coffee while reading a well-written nun autobiography.
I have all this annoying school-related stuff I have to do in my attempts to finally finish my degree. It involves distance, driving, and waiting in a line, and talking to someone in person. What a hassle. But it’ll feel good to finally do this annoying-as-hell task. I have to remind myself that.
Since it feels like I’ve been digging myself out of an abysmal chasm sans light for the last two and half years, I think a lot about the animals that live underground. I imagine their lives, scurrying around with bad eyesight and stellar digging abilities. And there's that glorious moment their heads poke up out of the ground after all the digging through the dirt. I like that moment.
It’s weird when humans think they’re not animals.
3/5/26
I really do not understand why I seem to remain hopeful even when the only normal response would be completely unrecoverable melancholy. Of all the defects to possess, it seems to be one of the more advantageous ones. Demented for sure, but regardless, quite beneficial. My hopefulness is like a body builder that works out at the gym seven days a week. Terrifyingly resilient.
I keep thinking about a situation with someone that got complicated. It bothered me that it did because at the core of it I don’t think it was complicated. It felt like compatibility to me. It just felt really good. In my experiences thus far, I have actually never felt that compatible with someone before. “Maybe I’ll find it again in another 35 years when I’m 70” I say to myself to be discouraging and melodramatic.
I ruminate over all the times I’ve embarrassed myself. There have been so many.
I definitely embarrass myself with how much I text when I feel like I might be losing someone. I have this clinging moment. The fear in my belly kicks in when I perceive even a hint of abandonment from someone. This is of course because of my father leaving at such an early age and starting an entirely different family and making me feel like a huge afterthought. I see now how deeply these abandonment issues are set in me, and how delicate it makes me feel when I start having feelings for someone. But I don’t want to have this fear of abandonment anymore. If people don’t want to be with me, why fight it? Why freak out? I don’t have the energy anymore anyway.
There’s this plant I really adore. It’s called the Llareta. It stands out. It blankets the landscape of the Andes in seemingly random moments of bulbously picturesque curvature, and the most pulchritudinous shade of green. It’s an old plant. It’s been through it. The Llareta grows ever so slowly at about 1-2mm per year. It takes its time. Some of the larger plants are estimated to be over 3,000 years old. Old and visually out of place, as if it doesn’t quite fit into its surroundings in the most beautiful way possible. It looks to me like an accidental sneak peek into a different dimension that somehow got stuck inside this one.
I wonder what it would feel like to be a 3,000 year old plant. I think, as a person, I might need at least 3,000 years to figure all this out and actually create the life I want. 100 years is just not enough, if I even get that lucky.
I feel like I’m being sanded down or something. Carved away at. But into what? It’s hard to write about depression and feeling trapped. I often just don’t have the words.
The Llareta plant feels a part of me. Its slowness feels especially familiar. I ponder slowly, I process slowly, I overcome fears slowly, I change things slowly. I make art slowly. Everything is slow with me. When something actually works in my life I can’t tell you how excited I feel, because getting there took awhile. “Finally.” I’m clocking even the little things that work. Making note.
3/6/26
Snails can regrow their eyes. But, more startlingly, they have teeth. Upwards of 20,000 teeth arranged on a tongue-like ribbon. Another animal, other than the shark, for me to be dentally envious of. Snails don’t have to see the dentist. They don’t have to make appointments and then keep canceling and rescheduling for a future date, in what becomes an ongoing cycle of avoidance. Instead, snails just wear down their teeth through eating and then grow new ones. Easy peasy.
Today I stood looking down at a little river gliding over rocks. I closed my eyes and listened to it for a minute. There is nothing like that sound. It was my favorite part of the day. That, and the blue Slurpee I got tonight. In the aftermath of drinking one, I’m always annoyed that my tongue can’t stay blue forever. They had an extra sour grape flavor I was tempted by, but sadly I was not courageous enough to go there. The extra sour realm is a realm all it's own. I have to be in the right mood for it.
I cannot stop thinking about snail teeth. There’s my life before I knew about snail teeth, and now there’s my life after.
3/7/26
Do you ever really notice this empty space in your life where a person once took residence before vanishing from it? The specifications of this empty space depend on the architecture of your feelings for them. The only words I can think of right now at 1:40 a.m. are big, happy, good, joy. Easy words. I felt the bighappygoodjoy with this person. Buoyant and soft. And then it just got yanked away and I’m still reeling from the yank. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it.
The very first time we met I thought, "wow...this feels right." "How can just talking with someone make me so goddamn happy?" It caught me off guard. I felt safe to be myself instantly with them. It felt cozy and hopeful. I was on cloud 9.
To calm my brain, I try to think about the gibbons being gibbons, and the snails with teeth, and the lemurs I’ve seen sunning themselves, warming their belly fur. Gesturing so openly to the sun like they’re trying to give it a big hug.