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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lauren25/Female/United States Group :iconthetitlepage: TheTitlePage
 
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Deviant for 8 Years
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SilverInkblot's Silver Box



The Good Stuff

I have a big gallery. If you're going to read anything from me, make it something from this box.

SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
Tangential AsymptotesI think about falling in math class.
The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.
The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.
As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.
I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. T
Types of IntimacyHe told me he sleeps in a t-shirt –
and only a t-shirt. The image
won’t leave my head; this body,
so familiar to me, yet barricaded
by layers of fabric – I have never seen
the joints of his elbows, the slope
of his spine, the terrain of his
stomach – but I have felt their presence
through wool and cotton, known
their warmth in brief moments
of contact. And there’s a strange
intrigue to modesty, knowing his
psychology but not his physique.
I have found strength in his words
and wisdom in his hands; I have plunged
these depths past fondness and into
familiarity and found, here, in the dark
of his ocean, that I can see better
than ever before.
SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision i.
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
ii.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. You checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
iii.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than
Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
September blues,
chasing airplanes,
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss
TealTeal
waters worry the pristine
sand, washing blank paper
into a bevy of tidepools.
The hush of the surge whispers
its song into conch shells;
the tinge of brine mingles
with coconut milk and dried
seaweed clumping the beach.
Hermit crabs dot the strand
like constellations, waiting
for soothsayers to read meaning
into their trails before the waves
wash them away like comets.
Old SoulsDoc says I’m an old
soul, with my postcards
and letters, and waste-no-words
policy. Doc says old souls still make eye
contact instead of playing with iPhones,
mirrors that stare back, and tell
us who we are by knowing
who they are.
Doc tells me I’m an old
soul in a young body, taming
wild Internets and bringing my words
to heel like a triple score
in a game of Scrabble.
That I was born in the wrong
decade, that I was meant to punch
typewriter keys like a boxer,
that the twenty-first century
wasn’t made for old souls like mine.
Doc thinks I’m too old
to be twenty-three, constantly forgetting
the barriers of my few years.
Like that I never wrote about myself
until he gave me moments
worth writing down, and cared
about the person behind the words.
That I learned who I was by learning
who he was, and drew a timeline
of intersection points where each
node became a poem, and each poem
became a stepping stone.
Doc unearthed an old
soul in my notebook.
Old like a favori
Turn my words against me.I want my words to take
root in your stomach and grow
up your esophagus, the calyx
of your tongue brushing the edge
of your teeth until the words blossom
from your lips in a slow
explosion of elegance, jawline
trickled with nectar, charming
hummingbirds and honeybees
with the promise of butterfly kisses.

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News Articles I've Written


The Visual Novel: Video Games as a Literary MediumWhat is it?


A visual novel is more or less exactly what it sounds like. It's a novel that can be played. While the form has been popular in Japan for decades, they have only recently reached Western audiences, thanks largely in part to the influx of anime, manga, and Japanese Role Playing Games (JRPGs) saturating the market. Consequently, many games of this type have anime influences in the design.
The visual novel is most easily compared to interactive fiction or the Choose Your Own Adventure series - at various points, the player is prompted to make some sort of choice that has the potential to affect the outcome of the game.  A typical game usually has at least three endings; a Bad, Neutral, and Good (also called the "Perfect" or "True" ending). However, this is not necessarily standard - most seem to fall somewhere between 4 and 10 unique endings. Often
Foreign Words the English Language NeedsOh hello. I’m finally getting around to making this news article that I said I might do, like, a month ago. Sorry, I’m not used to writing news articles. Bear with me.
Back in August, I started a series in my forums for cool foreign words. It went over extremely well and numerous people requested that I combine them into a handy-dandy news article for deviantART at large to enjoy. So, here you are: fifteen foreign words that the English language needs to steal appropriate.
Hiraeth (Welsh)
What it means: A feeling of longing associated with displacement, but not necessarily displacement from one’s original home. An intense yearning to be somewhere you are not. Hiraeth also expresses a sort of ache or longing for something of the past, somewhat similar to the notion of "golden" or "good old days," but with more ancient connotations.
Why it needs to be a thing in English: I speak as someone from a country
Untitled is just a synonym for lazy.Well, the color poem form I introduced to dA was a rousing success, but interest of late seems to have died down. So I'm back with a new form for you all, something exciting and new, something different, something that I will probably make into a contest once I get some points in the bank. You ready?
EDIT
There's a group now - feel free to head over to TheTitlePage! We're still in set-up mode, so excuse the plainness for now.

Found Poetry Project - Titles as Art

One of my favorite things about the creative process is coming up with a good title. The title can make or break a piece; it can give context not provided in the piece itself, set a tone or mood, or just give that little extra something you can't put a name on.
You know I'm right. How many times have you stumbled into an ordinary piece with a beautifully creative title? And it's not something
Managing Your Inbox: Some Tips on StreamliningI'm not really an organized person. Yeah, sure, I like to TRY to be one, but most of my attempts to clean house don't stick. The one exception, however, is in my online life. I keep everything to do with the computer tabbed and organized and that includes my dA life.  
I posted a poll asking visitors what their inbox looked like on a typical day. As of this writing, of the 52 responses, 35 have full inboxes that is, somewhere between 200 and up to (or over) 1000 messages to sort through. So about 70% of the voters have quite a lot to page over.
 
I hear horror stories quite frequently from deviants who are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things passing through their inbox. My personal inbox rarely reaches three digit numbers, and the few times it has, it's always been because something of mine has made the footer. While I can't promise that my personal methods will work for everyone, it n



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Bookmarked



Click to see what I'm reading! I love recommendations and chatting about books :la: I should start a book club sometime.


I make bookmarks for pretty much anyone who asks. Just give that flourish a click, and you'll find instructions on how to request your own!

Meme: Alternate SelfiesI've been bored around dA lately, so I decided to start a meme :lol:
I see those long Q&A lists floating around all the time, and they're boring. They all ask roughly the same questions over and over, so I don't tend to do many. But it got me thinking - how I can spice up a tired meme? What's another way to learn about a person? And this is the solution I found.
You can tell a lot about a person by what they write, but there are lots of other ways to get an idea of who they are. What they wear; what they read; what their room looks like; what posters they hang on their walls; what they keep in their bedside drawer. If you're like me, bored with answering the same questions, then feel free to jump in and show your watchers who you are in a different way :D
1. Post a selfie.
Yeah, this is still a pretty standard one, but it's nice to put a face to the words :P
2. Post a photo of your bed.
Your sleeping area says a surprising amount. For instance, mine says I don't like to make the be
Holographic ResonanceAll things will be in everything;
nor is it possible for them to be apart,
but all things have a portion of everything.
— Anaxagoras c. 500 bce

  

When a holographic plate is cut several times, each fragment contains the entire image. In other words, the whole can be found in every part and the notion of separation becomes impossible. Even the idea of separation is contained in the all.

  

To make a hologram, a laser light is split into two beams. The first beam bounces off the object and is reflected onto the holographic plate, or recording medium. A second projected beam creates an interference pattern that contains the information of the object spread throughout
Kafka's Joke Book
Regarded as one of the most influential writers of the 20th century, Franz Kafka is best known today as "that guy who wrote a story about some dude turning into a cockroach." Working with themes of alienation, the fantastic made mundane, and parent-child conflict, his works are populated with well meaning characters caught in the crossroads of tragedy, surrealism, and existentialism.
And yet, Kafka himself considered his works funny, supposedly laughing out loud among friends when reading and sharing his work. Indeed, when read in the right mindframe, the ironic circumstances and black comedy of Kafka's nightmarish worlds can and will provoke a chuckle of two, even as events continue spiraling out of control.
Thus, I will be presenting you today with Kafka's Joke Book, a McSweeny's article written by comic and stand-up comedian John McNamee, who you may know for his work, Pie.

Cooking a StoryToday I decided to make roasted carrot soup, which got me thinking that writing and cooking are particularly ripe for comparison. At first glance, both seem easy. Buy these ingredients and prepare them, and voila, dinner.  Come up with a plot, write it out, and voila, novel. Both cooking and writing seem like tasks than can be planned and executed through clarity of thinking, fidelity of execution, and sheer force of will. Maybe this apparent simplicity is why everyone you meet on an airplane is writing a book. (Why is it always people on airplanes? Maybe that’s the only place I talk to strangers.) Of course the reality is that there is a fair bit of magic to both good cooking and good writing.


As someone who has outlined two novels, and then written two totally different books than the ones I’d so carefully plotted, I can testify that simply writing down the jou

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SilverInkblot
Lauren
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States


Autumn Brontide

I bleed ink. I have unusual taste in music. I have a giant top hat. I have been featured multiple times by DailyLitDeviations / DailyLitRecognition (and a DD! (or seven!) :la:) and consider that the highest achievement of my life.

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Interests

Feeling the Heat

Sun Jun 19, 2016, 12:54 PM


Personal



The seasons have changed, so here's the honorary journal skin change of acknowledgement :B

Really though, it's just started to heat up and I've already gotten my first sunburn. Russ wouldn't help me with the sunscreen when I took him to Magic Springs, so my back and shoulders ended up pretty red. But, I am getting myself tanned up pretty quickly, so there's always that. I went for a dip in the river yesterday; I didn't burn this time, but I was a bit red when I got home. Good time though - I spent much of it helping this little girl follow her brothers upstream. Let me tell yall, don't mess with a river current. We got near the bend and the pressure was incredible.

https://scontent-dfw1-1.cdninstagram.com/t51.2885-15/e35/13402739_1559848500985977_2071126731_n.jpg?ig_cache_key=MTI3NDkwNjUzMTc1NDgxMjQ2OQ%3D%3D.2
Gonna need a new bathing suit soon though.

I've been out and about when it's not too hot and humid. I woke up around 6:00 one morning and it was nice enough I decided to go for a walk. Another day, I went to a local pet store, where I met this little guy:

https://scontent-dfw1-1.cdninstagram.com/t51.2885-15/s640x640/sh0.08/e35/13395161_1121718864551393_1647075598_n.jpg?ig_cache_key=MTI3MzQ3NDAyMzMwMTQ1NzA3MQ%3D%3D.2
I swear, this gecko's tail felt exactly like a gummi bear.

Russ is with his dad for the week, so I had to go to Magic Springs by myself on Friday. I like being able to swim without worrying about him, but it's more fun when he's there.

https://scontent-dfw1-1.cdninstagram.com/t51.2885-15/s480x480/e35/13408855_1631442627172639_1858971082_n.jpg?ig_cache_key=MTI3NDkwODM3Mzk2ODYyNjgwNw%3D%3D.2
Had a great view on the way back though.

Mostly though, I've been reading. A lot:

https://scontent-dfw1-1.cdninstagram.com/t51.2885-15/s640x640/sh0.08/e35/13385896_1703846589883088_1104209954_n.jpg?ig_cache_key=MTI3MDUwNTgyODkyMzg3NjU4NA%3D%3D.2

There are 25 books in that pile, and that's not even all of them. Since this was taken, I've read four more (three of which were from the library). I set a goal of 50 for the year, and I'm halfway there now. Not yet sure which one I plan to read next: I'm thinking one of the Lanagann collection of shorts, of maybe The Night Tourist. Feel free to send me recommendations, especially YA stuff - I've been reading a lot of that, preparing to give them to Russ when the time comes.

That's about it, aside from the usual job hunting. Doc is in Pittsburgh right now, so I haven't talked with him as much of late. Missing his stupid face <3

Oh, I also got a DD recently:

Types of IntimacyHe told me he sleeps in a t-shirt –
and only a t-shirt. The image
won’t leave my head; this body,
so familiar to me, yet barricaded
by layers of fabric – I have never seen
the joints of his elbows, the slope
of his spine, the terrain of his
stomach – but I have felt their presence
through wool and cotton, known
their warmth in brief moments
of contact. And there’s a strange
intrigue to modesty, knowing his
psychology but not his physique.
I have found strength in his words
and wisdom in his hands; I have plunged
these depths past fondness and into
familiarity and found, here, in the dark
of his ocean, that I can see better
than ever before.

Number seven :D

And the final game in the Zero Escape trilogy comes out this month! :excited: Been playing Pokemon Yellow in the meantime, but I can't wait much longer for this one.

Features!



Summer Poemsummer pulls
the curling
length
of her hair
leaves whisper
with a blossomed
voice
tonight the moon
has a fingernail's
edge
green teapouring the green tea
into a perfect calm brim;
grass to amber gold
  Michael in Spanishi finally figured it out: you remind me of
those nineties poets in the book on my dresser.
they were all so pissed-off at everything--
racism and war. politics. sexism, genocide and
more than anything,
themselves. they tore out their hearts
and said, dirty nails digging crescents in ventricles
until the surface of the muscle looked like a lost moon
(which explains the brain's superiority): look at this, you fucking cunt.
this is the real war here. flesh and fantasy are tearing each other to shreads
and you think it matters which hood ornament gleams
on the governmental car? fuck all of you, and yes
you too. especially you.
their blood still seeps from cuts left by grunge rockers
in the grooves of forgotten stages, brick coffee houses
and an answering machine.
i learned my lesson from the nineties poets,
that the truth is we're all pussies flinching from our own power
and shadows, hoping smoke will someday tell the truth
or maybe cancer will.
and i learn my lesson again from you: that t

twenty-five. supernovas don't visit very often; I'm
sure they exist elsewhere -- they just
don't want to be trapped in one eerily
desolate place within the universe that
we inhabit.
they tell us that our Milky Way will
collide one day. "it'll be the end of
humanity, but don't worry, it'll only
be in four billion years. plenty of time
to live
". I feel the need to specify
that I've lived here long enough, and
humanity will be gone long before
the Earth is. 
sometimes, I gaze up to the ceiling of
violets and hues of indigo and I wonder
what it will be like in a few thousand 
years. will our stars still exist? or do they
fizzle out the same way us humans do?
no. that's not true. they won't just coalesce
with the rest of the universe. they'll be
remembered within the hearts of mapmakers
and sailors. the truest Jack Sparrows the
world needs. 
I'd like to think of myself as a
c     n         e
Insteadoh gods, asphalt between
your toes and graffiti tattoos like
body art was a siren and you were screamin' for help
with fluorescent scrawls,
and you do your make-up
like a world war survivor
and you smile
like a nuclear bomb's aftermath but
your eyes are a mess of
drying rivers and sediment fish and
oh you've just wanted to be loved and beautiful
but that didn't work the way it should've
so now you go fishing and
skin tuna against your own shredded thighs with
a greasy butter knife, and you
feed the fish to your cats
and stick the scales to your skin
because you couldn't be anyone's princess
so now you want to be
a dragon.
  to love a mockingbirdi cannot stand the          gaps of silence,
comma is the antecedent of _____1
apostrophe is the downstairs comma
if you're trapped in parallels
      punkrockghostt said:
                             goodbye
                             please don't forget about me
remember me in twenty
years at your engineering
company holding pictures
of your model wife and
remember what i said i'd
give you, the flames in
the factory reaching higher
than you got at thirteen
without me even though you
promised me you'd never
leave,
now i can't remember why
i called you god
                                       i hope in five years you see me
                   



I'm in a critical mood. 

79%
11 deviants said Link me your literature!
21%
3 deviants said In fact, keep any prose to the shorter side plz.
0%
No deviants said No novels/ novel excerpts.

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Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconmeizono:
meizono Featured By Owner 6 days ago
Gahhhh
I really like your writing! I've been investigating for only a few minutes and I'm already intrigued by Doc.
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you! :heart:

Haha, everyone loves Doc - he's got something of a fanclub among my watchers :XD: There's a whole folder of stuff I've written about him in my gallery if you care to feed your intrigue. He's my best friend, and one of my favorite people to write about.
Reply
:icononewiththestars:
OneWithTheStars Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the llama! :)
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime!
Reply
:iconxchasingcarsx:
xChasingCarsx Featured By Owner May 31, 2016
thank you for the llama <3
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
No problem :)
Reply
:iconbarefoot123:
barefoot123 Featured By Owner May 31, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the llama!:3THE CUTEST PERIDOT!!! US!Sans((icon 2/2)) hey there bb Intensifies Peridot Grin 
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner May 31, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime :)
Reply
:iconchiharusmoon:
ChiharusMoon Featured By Owner May 30, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
thank you for the llama :D
I love your book dA ID!!!!!! :) how'd you do it? :wow:
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner May 30, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime!

I found the image on Google somewhere, then I opened the image in Word to add the text. Pretty simple really :XD:
Reply
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