Welcome New People!

Sep 12, 201528 min read

Deviation Actions

Published: Sep 12, 2015

2.3K Views

RussianTim noted me recently with a query that's also been bothering me of late - what's with the sudden influx of watches from brand new deviants? After some note-passing and questions to a higher power, Ikue has provided an answer:

There have been some recent updates to the way new users are greeted during the signup process. To help acclimate them to the community they are encouraged to watch deviants which will then populate their Watch Feed with awesome content for them to interact with. Our Watch Recommendations feature includes a mix of community and artistically minded deviants. Because Watch Recommendations are only available to new deviants – those who’ve just joined DeviantArt.com – it was important for us to represent the depth and breadth of all DeviantArt.com has to offer. This includes deviants who have proven to be friendly and community-active, as well as deviants who have reached a standard of artistic excellence. As we move forward, the list of deviants included in Watch Recommendations will continue to be amended, to best reflect the community as a whole. I've checked a few of you that have noticed this watcher increase and found you fall under at least one of these categories, more specifically, you've had a DD recently (Artistic Excellence FTW!).

These new accounts seem like empty accounts, because… well… they are. There is no indication that they are fraudulent or bots in any way. They're simply new to the community and like your artwork! You may wish to reach out to them and welcome them to the community. Show them we can certainly be a friendly and inviting place for them to express their creativity. Be the Core of DeviantArt as we know you are!

So I'd like to take the time to say hello to all my new watchers! Hello! How are you? Welcome to deviantART! How do you like it so far?

I should give you a heads up - if you're not a reader, you're watching the wrong person. This is primarily a literature account, unless I've recently gone on a crafting spree

But if you are a reader, I'm glad you chose to check out my stuff! Allow me to point you to some more great writers:

grief on an answering machinechemistry tells us
matter cannot be destroyed
but changes
from one form to another.
i heard you today
on old voicemails;
the voice that kisses
the boundaries of being,
screaming the conservation of the soul,
tells me you are here
even when you are not
/ /
it is only a sound.
i have remembered a plethora of them; searching
for the moments i can remember your nervous humming, your raucous prayers.
but i only know the staccato breaths of a starting engine
i have spoken sotto voce into the mouths of unripe girls
i hear lawnmowers screaming in yards they burned down to build a shopping mall
i fuck a boy to the sound of passing trains.
these are sounds to throw away, sounds i do not need
but your voice is not one of them
/ /
mourning you is a second language
and i am stumbling through sentences.
i don’t know the word for ‘goodbye’
so teach m November ColdNovember sinks its icy fingers
Between my shoulder blades
And an ache blossoms inside of me.
I imagine a lacy white filigree of frost
Growing over my lungs,
Spidering over my veins
And up into my heart.
The cold crawls up my throat
So that when I breathe
I half expect snowflakes and hoarfrost
To fall from my lips.
I've got an ice-heavy heart in me
And I am breathing winter,
Wondering if my tears would freeze
If they even fell at all.
Help me shake November's chill.
Blaze passion and fire into me
And never let me pull away from the heat of you
Kiss away the rime of ice that coats me
Sink your fingers into my skin
So that cracks spiral crazily from your fingertips
So that finally, with a small shudder,
I splinter and sink into you
Burned and blackened,
I am only yours
And November will never touch me. You Can Keep September, As Long As I Can Keep YouSeptember is a death row
Sentence given to every
Set of June lovers.
September is an unneeded reminder
That your best is not wanted-
Perfection
And conformity
Are required of you.
September is the smothering
Of the last of May’s flowers-
The one’s that fought for life
Through July’s droughts
And August’s heat waves.
September is the first chill,
The first sign that the
Earth must hibernate
Or else it will die during
December’s frost.
September is an end.
September is when
I met you
And September is when
You reached your much-too feminine
Finger nails into my chest,
Misleading me with the gentle touch-
Not unlike the caresses of flesh
You taught me to enjoy-
As you reached your hand deeper,
Deeper, slowly inside of my chest
Before grasping whatever it was that you’d wanted
And tearing it from my chest with
The same sudden violence as the
45 mm that tore through
Every memory you had of me.
I don’t know what you
Stole from me that September,
But I
i'm sorry for only writing sad things,but saturday night i wanted to offend god
into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone
into hearing the roar between my ears with me.
i'd like to write something you can put music to-
lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.
but today what is most real to me
is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath.
empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long
for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only
in the slamming of my heart. an erratic beat
at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind
to someone throwing up in the bathroom
after too much beer pong and hard rock-
both are shameful to repeat in therapy
and i feel like i cannot stop ruining parties.
needing steady hands for these atlas shoulders
that will not relax. staircases white like
imagined hospitals. thinking i should say
call me an ambulance. crying. not calling
an ambulance. not calling a taxi, i can't call
a taxi, i don't have money for a taxi, holding
my breath. 4, 7, 4. 4, 7, 4. in.<da:thumb id="348870653"/> TeatimeIn January, Elsa got new neighbors.  She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.
It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas.  Snow had turned to mud in their front hall—an unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter.  Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen.  They were young; they had big plans.  Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out.  They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips.  The house filled with cinnamon.
In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door.  We're pregnant!  White tea in a china teacup; the taste of flower petals and champagne.  The last caffeine for the next eight months.  Elsa let her keep the cup.
In May, Steve bought a carseat and a crib.  Elsa helped him carry it inside.  Flat-packed, but heavy.  Sturd
morningssunday.
the croissant crumbles in my fingers
buttery flakes drift towards mismatched
china
and your lips are stained with
strawberry jam.
monday.
sleep clings to your eyes
like a shadow
and i watch you breathe, while
i trace your collarbone with
tired fingers.
tuesday.
we wake before the alarm
and count how many times the
neighbor's dog barks
before she finally lets him in.
your soft laugh blends perfectly into
the early morning sun.
wednesday.
your fingers trace the curve
of my spine
the old window rattles
in the wind
and i press my cold toes against your leg.
thursday.
half asleep
i mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaper
looks pretty in the sun.
you tell me i look prettier.
friday.
i tickle your cheek with my eyelashes
and make my fingers do
ski jumps
off your nose
and wonder out loud why
the room smells like oranges
[you tell me you ate some
         for a midnight snack.]
saturday.
linen Cyclical loveI see a beginning and an end
clasped within the lines of your palms, echoing
in the ripples of your irises;
I remember the apricot april morning
stumbling over your outstretched legs
in the park which I had never seen as
anything more than a cut-through, but
my life changed course and the park
became a destination and I still don’t know
when I noticed that I was waking up
twenty minutes earlier just to
talk to you before work, just to hear
your lilting voice flow through my ears and
fill my mouth with ideas;
And I remember the dew drops kissing my feet
when you convinced me that it was practically illegal
to wear shoes in june and I watched as
the grass pressed hatched patterns into your skin
and for a moment I wished that they were my fingers
holding you in eternal summer lawns, swan choruses,
whirring rollerskates, the smell of peach blossoms;
And I remember you blooming and shedding
the remnants of your cocoon as you pointed out
made-up constellations littering a swelling augu Just RightThey called me The White Whale.
I dreamed of carving off my blubber,
perhaps learning to breathe
for minutes at a time
so I could sing,
because whales are elusive.
The ocean is vast. I could have lived
without another pinch, another poke, another
he only loves you for your tits. Get a tan,
go for a jog, are you gonna eat
or assimilate?
Their harpoons were steady.
They had no remorse, a close friend told me,
"I just want you to be healthy." She braided my hair,
complimented the color, my eyes a drizzle,
said there was a mermaid
hiding in my shape,
I started smoking the next day.
I used to pace from the cabinet
to the basement with armfuls of confections,
I hid behind our yellow shed and guzzled
black coffee, nicotine, green tea, THC,
with giddiness turned vibrant,
all colors shook,
the first person to notice
said he didn't know I could look so good.
I found my cheekbones, polished my scales,
glittered and flitted and flirted and swam
in schools of gaping grou

Me, I'm primarily a poetry writer these days. It was prose for a long time, then it started morphing over to poetry, but I like prose poetry best of all. Once, I was a writing machine, but I don't seem to write as much since graduating college. I did my best work while ignoring a lecture

I still write of course, but it's much longer between deviations these days. To make up for the lack, I create memes or write articles.

If you need help navigating dA, feel free to drop me a line. Here are a few links that I've found helpful (or written to be helpful!):

How to get started with the lit community!

Using HTML on deviantART

dA Font Formatting Guide

Managing Your Inbox: Some Tips on Streamlining

The Chat Network :: Lesson 1

PE: Decorating Your Profile

Sexify Your Page: Custom Boxes

And here's some more cool people, and a few peeps of mine:

Only as Old"Frail bones predict what fragile minds can't detect,"
He trailed off slowly, "And my bones are achin'."
The air around me hung low and depressed,
Sticking to the back of my throat like a stormy syrup
I'd tried to swallow down.
I peered out the kitchen window
And caught an inklet of patched-over-grey sky;
I wondered what was in store for the day.
Impartial to the gloom outside, we stepped out onto the back porch;
Grandpa wobbled out with his cane in hand and we waited.
In the hushed stillness the trees traded birds—
Robins, swallows, whippoorwills, and cardinals.
If you squinted hard enough at the sullen shrubbery,
You could spot the caterpillar creeping to the underside of the leaf.
That's when I looked at Grandpa,
And saw through his eyes nature receding
At his prescience of a storm.
"Grandpa, how do you always know?"
He chuckled and simply said: "The world tells me."
It was left at that, but years later I have found
That the world is only as old as the person to whom you speak. distinctionThis is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe until we don't. We live until we die. There is no gray area, no matter what the talk of doctors and comas and life support and brain death might say. Your heart beats until it doesn't.
This goes beyond just life and death. Emotions are until they aren't. As are moments, definitions, seasons. Two people falling in love, well, some of them inevitably cra Parentheses(I wonder if parentheses
ever see all the letters
caught in between them
and feel that distance
as though it is tangible;
if they ever crave
to be close enough together
so they could intertwine
until their inkscratches
collide to incoherence;
if you’ve ever noticed
how your right hand ellipses
and curves just like a parenthesis,
and how my left hand is its opposite.)
PlowIt's finally snowing again,
blankets of peace falling
with a freshness that lacks innocence.
Nearly forgotten, they're here as expected,
clearing the streets,
trying to push aside all the worry
that makes things unsafe, but
the steel mouth askew grates against my heart;
its thick bass scrape pushing more than piles of white aside,
it pushes my blood aside too,
piling it up in the corner of this pumping vessel that falters,
ice-caked and bitten, stiffened,
and keeps faltering,
again,
and again,
and again,
until the air is silent
and the street no longer shivers in torture.
The only evidence is the blanket of white
that keeps falling,
like fluffy stuffing that's been yanked out.
All is silent,
except the fond memories that peel away
from my heart in little shreds,
and the plows, scraping fresh wounds again.
--
1/20/2012, 1/22/2012
Copyright © 2012 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved love poem from a pillar of saltthe words 'i love you'
have always tasted like forbidden fruit
an apple offered by a helpful serpent-
sweet and fleeting but
the words 'i loved you'
just taste of
finality.
i always thought that leaving you would be like leaving gomorrah
that i couldn't help looking back
and when i did i'd feel an ocean dry itself beneath my skin
but this is so much quieter
and so much worse.
my knuckles taste of blood,
not salt.
there is no new testament here
just old testament fire
just lot's wife standing on a forgotten hill
rocksalt freezing her outstretched hands
watching her hometown burn below her.
there is no forgiveness here
just mutual loneliness
just a lost religion and a broken girl
far too tired to play pretend
watching you fall apart behind me. Myrtle Tressesno matter
how harshly
you pull this
incised corset
closer to my skin
it will be
pointless
when I am
always unable
to pull into
myself enough
to make you satisfied.
and curls and
mutely
adorable ornaments
will be ineffective
when I am
being suffocated
by the layers of
my own skin.
any pair of your
petite gloves
are far too thin
to hide my
morbid revulsion
for fellow
human contact
or to conceal these
unsightly souvenirs
you have endowed
upon my skin.
and all your
embroidered handkerchiefs
will be useless
when I am
weeping behind
paper mache fans
that so easily
tear
and burn.
where will your
high laced boots
and elaborate
embellished tights
be,
when I am
running from
the clutches
of men
who wish to dishonor
and sully me?
therefore I hope your
funeral clothes
are sufficiently extravagant
so when you are required
to attend my obsequies
you can look
pleasing to
men’s eyes.
I trust you have
plenty of
seams
to tuck
your compunction into
and necessary
ruffles
on your pettico
love, TedDear Toyota Cruise owner,
first of all, don't sue me. I'm too afraid to pass you by in the parking structure because I think you'll punch me. I'm sorry for the dent in your car, I was going to explain in person but I'm scared. so, hi. I'm Ted, and I ruined your car door.
thing is, I have a horrible habit to reason and deflect from the actual point, hence the strike-outs, I need to keep taking my meds with me at all times and I get super anxious when the bottle cap doesn't open, oh dear god, it's open. thank god. thank god.
the point. yes. I'm a terrible driver after midnight. I close my eyes and my body thinks better of this so it doesn't stop me. I am not a rash driver, sir. I, however, am a rash person to myself. or at least that's what my therapist says. or said, I haven’t exactly seen him in two weeks.
but I suppose I am a rash driver after midnight. I seem to forget a lot of things. like, last night I found my meds in my socks and I think After Midnight Me was fucking with m i just really don't care about climate changei am fourteen.
i am fourteen years old and they tell me
to take on the world, to hold the globe
like a precious creature in my palms
and to balance the continents
between my fingers.
i don't want to suck the toxins from
the atmosphere and pollute young
lungs, the exposition of explicit
curriculum drives me crazy.
it may be compulsory but having
it drummed into your ears and weaved
into your innards is not the way that
(i want to live).
i am fourteen years old,
and they tell us that kids are growing up way too fast
in a world that's self destructing by the second,
but ignorance is bliss - weren't they the ones
who taught us so? Street RatsDenim
is faded seams on summer skin,
your watered-down eyes beneath streetlamps
as the city-rain slicks our hair.
A rustle in the alley
makes our hearts gallop,
sly grins slipping silently across parched lips.
Starchy on the tongue,
the bleach of doubt on trembling fingertips
makes the air stale: are you here with me, or just here?
Blustery,
breathless nights
could never intrude on the weight
of your palm through my jeans.

I'm not as active as I used to be here, but I still bustle about. Here are a few projects of mine that you can check out:

Book Reading Meme

Meme: Alternate Selfies

RANDUM QIZ REVELS YOU'RE TRU PERSONALITY 4REAL!!1!

Handwritten

Also, I make bookmarks:

For a limited time, I will mail any of my new watchers willing to note me an address a bookmark

I'm 100% discreet with personal information - I've taken a number of orders in the past, and you can read what others have said about it here: Trust Me, I'm an Anonymous Stranger

Annnnd.... yeah, I think that's about it for now. This journal is long enough as it is