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Sarah Lamphere
Down the Rabbit Hole
2025
Personal writings through observation and lived experiences, and stream of consciousness poetry authored by Sarah Lamphere.
05/01/2024
The feeling of recognizing the pattern—“ecognosis,” the strange feeling of the knowing that knows itself/begin anticipating/predicting of the outcome/art object through lived experience that realizes sensations. Can be erratic/chaotic, without purpose—I just waste my time. Rituals throughout history are linked to birth and death, along with the notion of sacrifice. Sacrifice is always a gratuitous act, squandering wealth or useful resources for other ends, bringing about an intimacy to life that is out of place in the everyday world of work—linking us to animals and transforming something purely destructive into something creative. Hyper-objects coming together as hybrid entities—chimeric. A farm of genetically modified livestock—spider-goats. Creating/fabricating our own environment/ecosystems—crosshatching.
05/05/2024
Jacob’s Ladder (a "Lateral Ladder"(?)—boundless finitude/horizons expanding, deconstructing a hierarchy by shifting perspective/laying the ladder onto its side through shadow/weight, making it accessible to all—the aftershock following the initial impact/historical reflection) through the lens of quantum physics relating to that reoccurring lucid dream (an out-of-body experience?) when I was really young (I want to say the dream first appeared before I had even started Elementary?), where I find catharsis and resolution. The dream begins in a cluttered/grimy/slightly uncomfortable/dark in-between space, but it feels cozy. There are people there (they’re all welcoming/warm), though I can’t recognize their faces (I can’t recognize faces even while awake, even my own… a blind spot). There is one figure, though their face is obscured and no words are spoken between us, that seems incredibly familiar/their smile is familiar and, although they’re older, they grow alongside me each time I experience this dream. They lead me out of the cluttered space, down some stairs, and into a pasture/farmland in which the farmer holding a hunting rifle (sometimes on a tractor, sometimes not) is guarding and will harm us if he found us. We cross the pasture fairly easily to the edge of the woods where a certain relief is found. We go further into the woods and come across the ruins of a stone church being overtaken by nature. And once inside, I am instantly fixated onto the "Komorebi"/dappling sunlight created by the tree canopies, where the arched ceiling previously was, onto the broken stone pews with foliage growing between the cracks. My spirit comes down as I look up in wonder to see an altar framed by ceiling-high windows, or what’s left of them. I am overwhelmed with intense relief/catharsis/peace and serenity/almost euphoria/uplift/but mostly quiet—and upon waking, that feeling remains for several days afterwards. (I’ve also had dreams of playing my violin with the same feeling [though not as intense] of relief and uplift in this church as well.) The figure in that dream—not necessarily representing another living person (perhaps it is though? Who would they be if so?), but rather an idea, such as hope. Sometimes finding hope through the beauty and inspiration, trust and vulnerability in others is the only thing allowing us to persist when we can no longer/struggle to survive for ourselves. It is truly humbling to witness the joy of others. I try to see the hope in others, and am learning to find that hope within myself. Hope is compassion, empathy, and humility. And art is survival—a reason for all this trouble/communication—nonverbal communication. Prime factors of 42=2,3,7...
05/05/2024
..."Tale-less coyote," a skinny tailless coyote attempting to survive by
following/observing the pack it was rejected/forbidden from; trying to sneak bites of the hunt only to have its fur
ripped out and ran off by the rest of the group—and so it learns to rip its own fur out. It was feared for being
perceived as sick, and it succumbed believing that it was sick. Branded into my thigh. God is the “collective” and art is my religion...
05/05/2024
...What is 6 to you? A blind spot. Again and again and again—written in thread. Smells sickly sweet/putrid/nauseating/like rotting meat—bubblegum-pink and muted-moss green. My brother and I used to drink ourselves sick to forget; we're both sober now. Spilling my guts.
There is no hierarchy in suffering—we can only recognize how that trauma has affected us in the aftershock after the initial impact. And sometimes it is safer to endure silently while in the know due to pattern recognition. The smile is always sincere, however.
Why am I now dreaming of apocalyptic bombs dropping onto us on the lawn of my childhood home? I will persist and I will see nature taking over that church. Reflect and interpret, and translate oneself.
Translating the transcribes held in our DNA (double helix)/mRNA (instructs protein synthesis)—the codons map the beginning and ending of these protein sequences. Why am I tapping 3 sixes (and now 3 nines) deconstructed by 1/2—3taps+3taps*3taps (almost like a triangle?)—onto each temple, as if I have horns or Mark of the Beast? It is trauma and seeking to control oneself (intrusive thoughts and externalized OCD)/EMDR. To search for the memories lost in-between the violence acted upon your body as they are occurring. It is Sisyphean—it takes effort and strength to trust and care, and to find hope again (also, Dande’s Inferno, punishment of rolling a boulder). And sometimes we have shared traumas. It is okay to acknowledge that you are uncomfortable with certain shared pain, and it is beyond painful to not be believed/to have your personal experiences taken from you. You shouldn’t continue to carry those punishments unto yourself for not knowing boundaries and in turn, needing boundaries for yourself. Torturous kneeling for hours in a feigned act of worship/finding quiet defiance in having unrelenting passion for my own art/showing my body in perverse and grotesque contortions in an effort to externally display and how I carry this violence with me/how I experience and perceive my body as a separate and uncontrollable entity—bestial. Why did my voice exit my mouth like that, as if I can no longer control my vocal tone? Yet, I am beyond thankful to the body as my instrument and tool, celebrating/revering our imperfections and limitations/mortality. We're all just borrowed mud. Treat and tune the body in the same way you would your cherished violin/heirloom, and keep its melody alive for as long as you can. Those unwilling to look under the hide will not recognize all of the hues within your gradient, and that is okay. You should not punish yourself in the instance you’ve accidentally hurt someone, even if you are terrified of hurting anything.
Codons—the start and end of a protein sequence. Singing a song in the morning; singing it again at night. Deconstructing the DNA into a single strand of mRNA, histones unraveling and re-winding tightly as epigenetic mechanisms leave chemical burns amid generations. Histamines act as neurotransmitters connecting the gut to the brain, spinal cord, and uterus—allowing neurons to communicate with each other throughout the body/nervous system, creating direct gut feelings, and can also lead to physical immune responses sometimes caused by stress. A gradient of thought...
05/05/2024
...Carving away at the boulder. Give it time. That is a form of self-love and endurance, looping forwards. Dynamics of quality. Discerning a quality/an iconoclastic person—simultaneously existing as both attracted/repelled, subjective/objective, static/dynamic, dead-end/breakthrough. Approach it with sincerity and kindness, and care yet directly/friends call each other out. We live heaven and hell concurrently—purgatory (or perhaps a breakthrough/going through hell/a transient moment of endurance/suffering, like Christ, we return to the vessel before ascending into the transcendental/descending into the void(?)). To look down/descending head-first down the rabbit hole before seeing yourself on the ceiling (a detachment/disconnect, looking down onto yourself from above before reconciling with the body through repetition/repetitive actions demonstrated through craft processes that are inherently cathartic)—looking up at yourself after seeing yourself in the mirror on the floor, repetition extrapolated into infinity in both directions/"Lateral Ladder." A de-acceleration of time where one moment becomes disconnected from the next as well as from the former/previous moments—deconstructing/dismantling the continuum of space and time in which each moment exists purely as hyper-present—wavelengths aligning/merging/uniting and becoming entirely quiet in its harmonized frequencies. Allowing oneself forgiveness when taking accountability; forgiving others...
05/05/2024
...I feel as if I can no longer distinguish my memories from my dreams, to such an extent that they have been overwritten. I’m terrified that I am no longer connected to a single reality… but the shadows anchor me to this reality. On the other hand, shadows help me recognize my waking reality from my sleeping realm. I (visually, spatially, and narratively) think; therefore I am/I get to and am allowed to be. How many lives have I lived? Let there be light, and shadows echo existence/matter/objects/existence of trauma upon the body. Echoes of trauma and violence acted upon the bodies of both human and non-human participants. Shadows worn on the body—behavioral patterns repeating/internalization(?). Repetitive actions become worn on the body—objects of grief and effort, and tending/care. Bodies as objects/instruments/tools. Bodies as a map of lived experiences. Muscle memory remains while the mind wanders/is no longer here. Slipping from my mind. How do I translate these patterns in order to grow/improve/mature? How does trauma skew perception of these patterns? How does trauma skew morals/instincts in order to survive? I don’t know what is right from wrong, heaven and hell—it is no longer a matter of morals but of survival, becoming feral...
11/09/2024-Today
November in Iowa:
A patchwork of yellow ochre and dark tyrian purple, with veins of deep pine green.
Before the Sky Wakes Up in Iowa:
Dark scarlet gradient along the horizon bleeding into a savory beryl, and into a royal indigo, with neurons of city lights mapping the ground.
The Last Night Befalling California:
Rich vermilion hugging the edges of mountainous silhouettes and blushing salmon reflecting off the underside of waves, with a tight layer of authentic sunlight where a pastel blonde and neutral teal overlap.
Beach Picnic at a Haunted Water's Edge:
Dancing colors bubbling in my vision as if it’s boiling, imitating the slick of oil upon water’s surface as I gaze out into the ocean of wool batting draped over the Sun, yet its UV permeates/penetrates—perhaps this is where my visual illusions derive from... staring into the Sun.
Between Passing Thunderstorms on the Shore of North Carolina:
A fortified aquamarine stripe at the belt of the horizon, melting into a rusty/murky yellow ochre lapping at the bottom of cerulean-blue dissected by man-made incisions. Woolen stuffing veil the colorful giants collecting the remnants/crushed skeletons at the overlap of one life spent ontop of mountains and another below the sea.
Wind-bitten Skin on the Verge at Midnight:
Abrupt/crackling capillaries illuminate beachfront dwellings in the world behind me. Accompanied by glittering white nerve-endings puncturing the dark sea stretching skywards—frothing at its mouth as thunderstorms bring the stink of its breath inland. I crane my neck until the sand turns above me to see sea-grass grinning like Cheshire fangs.
Dearly Beloved, We Are Gathered Here in a Gradient of Gray:
Rejoicing in the holy matrimony between deep teals and slate blues in union with golden ambers and rusty reds, marrying upon nature's palette against a harsh sepulchral-contrast at the center of its painting—broken only by the foaming phlegm collecting at the sand with kaleidoscopic/florid mermaids freckling a gray shore.
07/04/2024
Let There be Light:
The Big Bang/thought/ideas/perception/inspiration.
Prism:
Refraction/fragmentation/deconstruction/schism—creating something beautiful and cathartic from something destructive. When women were dragons.
05/05/2024
...Why does something make you laugh? What exactly is a joke? Absurdity and humor, and a good Irish-banter/saying the exact opposite of what you know—apophatic... and paradoxical laughter. Alignment, balance, a shift/translation into transition. What exactly is a dream? I would really like to display my art in an abandoned barn… or a church being overtaken by nature. I truly am a hypocrite. It’s not personal. A frenzied festival in the wilderness wrought by madness. Bring the shadows into the light. Weight in shadow.
There is no acceptance/sacrifice/gratitude without submission/bravery/humility.
Perception warps and obscures with nurture, and your nature predicts. Our perception is akin to a laser—light is measured in nanometers, the length/distance between a wavelength. Photons exist simultaneously as particles and waves, and a crystal prism deconstructs/fragment/refracts. Coherent white light=all of the wave lengths—light refracts through the prism at different angles/different wave lengths move slower than the speed of light—>this is why the light splits/refracts/creates a schism. The human eye can roughly perceive between 700(red)-400(violet) nanometers. 700 nanometers=less energy, 400 nanometers=high energy. Additive light: teal(~490nm)+yellow/yellow ochre(~575nm)=white light. Teal and yellow resemble the luminous butterflyfish—watching them in the crystal blue water, turning from the bright lemon yellow to a subdued yellow ochre the deeper they swim, had been the most intensely peaceful/quiet experience I’ve felt in the waking realm.
Trust and vulnerability without judgement; loving in the same direction, looping forwards together—seen as whole. This is really strange.
03/18/2025
During a Stirring Mushroom Trip When Finding Contentment Free of Ego:
Having found genuine and honest peace, serenity, and uplift/achieving Nirvana when being fully perceived while completely bared before a higher dimensional observer in the form of a detached-eye oscillating between realms. Quietly perceiving this being in return while existing alongside each other within an empty, expansive, surreal/parallel realm with a sunless-haze that opens into clear cobalt skies, mirrored only by the shallow fountain beneath my feet. Feeling warmth, profound love, and overwhelming joy fill my core/spirit when I am blinked at once, being wholly seen. As I emerge from this vision, that intense relief/peace and serenity/extreme quiet remains, and I am able to evoke that same sense of calm each time I reminisce upon the scene.
12/09/2024
Continuation of age/growing even after the slaughter. Capturing the strict geometry/adhering to the harsh square
of a microscope slide—oscillating between micro/macro—in and out. Forced to hide/remain quiet. An interruption in narratives. "Fovea”—the phenomenon of perceiving light/lasers more accurately through your peripheral vision. Existing on unstable foundations.
04/12/2025
Just keep going… or you’ll lose all your hair to the fright. 09/02, I’m nine too. Be considerate and think carefully of those undergoing Descartes’ “Demon Possession” theorem/the modernized brain-in-a-vat—space-demons. Challenge their altered-perceptions with compassion/kindness, yet unswervingly, and inspire them to the opening of their Cave. Light is penetrating/inter-dimensional/perceivable and accessible from worlds/light years away, only to be refracted/interrupted by shadows echoing objects/ matter/existence... I dream in vivid chromaticity, and I often see patterns of color/light and shadows upon bare surfaces. Folklore/tales/lessons written upon cave walls brought to life through lived experiences. That is my reality.
04/29/2025
Quite literally tracing nature. A conduit/differently alive. Polished mud balls—Hikaru Dorodango. Why do I often detect another presence when I’m completely alone in a room? No fair, you can’t hear me but I can you. What need for today's date as there is seemingly no beginning nor ending, forever looping when taking on numerous forms/artworks becoming more relevant today than when created. Our minds shot together—fusion energy.
05/29/2025
Spiders that once pretended to be the pilled fibers upon the pillowcase in an ER bed, dancing to life as the sacrificial Titan perceives their celebration and being descried/recognized in return; becoming the subject of their attention in its quiet observation. It can hear them communicating alongside the popping/snapping of electricity jumping between synapses, singing in their shrill ardor as they vibrate in their festivities where life and death begin to merge. The bulb overhead acting as their Sun luminesces brilliantly/lucidly in a supernova as it undergoes its stellar demise before the giant is left in a film of shadow and the remnants of the neutron star are dispersed into space. Time comes to a halt as the giant watches the scene from its position on the ceiling while its body violently seizes below it. Its heart succumbs to the pain and comes undone upon seeing its parents holding each other, bearing witness to their child’s own doing. And rather than protecting/retaining its last breath, its wind is lost to beg in apology between each convulsing fit. Then it goes black… but it is brought back not quite like it was before (the night I nearly died—05/28/2018).
06/06/2025
A continuum between life and death, unable to untangle/reveal upon exactly where the transition of one life to the next occurred as the arbitrary boundaries are no longer evident when becoming blurred and disrupted/perforated with the passing of wayward forces—jumping between worlds. A quiet way of being loud—on our own frequencies.
I found my mother’s womb in the cabinet of the downstairs bathroom in my childhood home. Inspiring all of my breath when planing my chest—mimicking a lizard spreading itself flat across the sunned-surface of a stone-slab—and with considerable discomfort, I lay my head/mind sideways to align with my shoulders and hips as I drag/stretch myself through the narrow passageway, pushing into a cubic curve that muffles the noise/acute voices and fears of the outside/external world. And I found my mother’s womb in the canopied-bed of a dear friend; an unacquainted vessel finally meeting with an old soul again.
06/09/2025
Structured as though resembling towers/skyscrapers cut like gems. Infrared wavelengths in the vein of a sonic boom being absorbed by the moisture inside my skin—burning nerves buried under the subcutaneous tissue seemingly being set on fire. Baring my teeth in pleasure with excruciating/stimulating/sensual weaponry. Turning my back to the beacon/splendor, orbiting a street-lamp mistaken for the Moon.
06/22/2025
Always digging holes. Bring your spirit down and we'll all rise in our wonder. There's nothing wrong with loving something that can't even stand on its own; I oughta practice what I preach. I am here and you are where you are. We cannot sleep and fear what we dream—and I hope someday that you'll understand, there's something of charm to have nothing to say. And sometimes it's better to not say anything at all. I dreamt of long embraces and the vestige of broken railroads beyond an intimate gateway lined with lush/overgrown timbered-countryside. A walk along a bubbling crick that I spent a childhood with. There is no order here, rhythmic lightning-bug gently pulsing in the dark—and I love you.
06/28/2025
What we witnessed/recognized on that day, was needless to say yet another climacteric in the accumulation of an always-expanding universe. A man who collects the Virgin Mary and another who collects dreams. Perhaps it's the reverse; what if it is you bound by me, rather than me with you? But in truth, it is we, breaking free from that white room with shadows playing upon bare walls. Look outside and maybe you’ll see, that it turned out to be your performer who deceived you. And if you're going to draw level to the limit/periphery, you oughta be quicker than the speed of light. What you forgot to consider was: what exactly is a joke? But then again, I understand, that I am indeed a hypocrite… and I’m sorry.
06/29/2025
Turbulent—is how I would describe the state of my mind for some time now. The simulation is decaying just as the social fabric proceeds to unravel. Disillusioned; freed from an error. I snarl with a grin and then I dig in. The mystic and the scientific unite/combine and intertwine at the pointed-head of a pyramid. Drive a needle into my eye and push it in deep. Though, I cannot promise that I will cry. Because here's the thing, you see, I manage to smile when I weep—I cannot help that I'm a sucker for punishment. But please don't forget to throw a bone my way every once in a while, won't you? Despite it all, you've read me wrong... I may be a masochist, but I'm human too.
06/28/2025
Eyes on me, little beast—thrust my medicine down my throat. Muzzle me because I nip, I can't stand to see you spit. Give me incentive to sit-pretty and I would rather be held in place. Biting into the back of my wrists when my eyes roll back to face the bottom of my cerebrum. I probe at the Midbrain, Pons, and Medulla oblongata—exercising my expression, esophagus, and vestubule-ocular reflex. Opening my mouth wide; why did my voice spill like that? Pupils dilating with wakefulness, heartbeat increasing in titillating/exhilarating frisson. My hair stands on end as I devour the air around me, before howling: "I am alive!"
07/07/2025
You do recognize what I am, don't you—have you got it yet? I am the phenomenology and breath that breathes life into my art; I let there be light. I find unity at the overlap when I act as my own meister and my scythe synchronously. Only art can make me submit/compliant as it is reflected back to me; I am capable of making time stand still. I am the poltergeist that exceeds mere expansiveness—I command 9 dimensions. I tasted Nirvana; I've achieved eternity and timelessness in that stone church being overtaken by nature—and now I replicate it. What exactly is a dream? But please empathize that I've also experienced Hell when I yank the chain that is at your throat from ultraviolet reaching infrared. I harmonize and quiet the wavelengths as I am the tone/vocabulary and bridge that blends these frequencies. I am a stellar black-hole driving dark-energy and I alchemize it into the dawn of a universe. That is my design.
06/30/2025
I could hear you, you know—I listened the entire time. And I'm not insinuating in the traditional sense either, I had been attuned to a peculiar frequency in mind. Fingers pinching and piercing into my epigastrium to reveal crystalline-gold. I am shrouded in honey with laughter that goes into my eyes. And I’ve always said that I tend to gravitate towards blue—from a pale-cerulean thunderstorm above to capri-seas beneath, with a number of hues in-between. But ultraviolet must be my language, because I was not discerned; and my skin is in infrared, because my pain had been misheard. I just want attention, or so I've been made up to be. I've been told I'm gifted with a smile so bright, but I hope I have made it clear what exactly bubblegum-pink and muted-moss green is to me—it’s damage to the core. Still, I struggle to say the "word" that has caused my end. And I can laugh no more. Nevertheless, I loved with all my heart, yet it just wasn't adequate. I'll always offer to carry your weight alongside mine, I promise I can handle it. Even so, art is what kept me tethered here and a reason for all this trouble; that dream had betrayed that I still strive to see the light. I wish I could say my story looked up rather than forever descending. But wouldn't you say drowning is a lot better than caving the side of my head in? As it turns out to be, I hope it isn't too late... Funnily enough, I smile and I smile. And I apologize tremendously for my hide. I plainly do not have the guts to say it aloud; I would rather be forgotten and my skin not identified.
(Please don’t allow me to make you worry, this is my way of transforming something purely destructive into something creative.)
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