|October Is For Members Self-Portrait. If You Have Not Submitted A Self-Portrait, This Is A Good Time To Do So. For Our Benefit, The Self-Portrait Does Not Have To Look Exactly Like You. It Can Be An Image To Represents You. It Can Be A New One Just For Us, Ore Something You Already Have.|
You Can Read The Self-Portrait Literature From Our Writers In The Members Self-Protraits Folder, HERE:humanconditions.deviantart.com…
|More Journal Entries|
A Pocket Full of SkyWhen I was young, my father would take me to the highest tower of Notre Dame precisely once a year. It would be cold. Freezing. But we'd stand there, and take deep breaths of air, and peer down, towards the tiny ants of people below. Down, towards the sprawling city beneath us. It was always winter, when we'd go. Always cold. Freezing, freezing. But however cold it was, and however dull and bleary the weather, my father would ask one thing, and one thing only: that we adhered to tradition.A Pocket Full of Sky by iridiana
"Lucie," he would say, with the fond smile and kind eyes I always remember. "Lucie, my peach. Whatever you become, and wherever your heart and mind leads you, you must always do for me one small, beautiful thing take a handful of the sky, and place it in your pocket. Take a handful of the sky, and remember, always, that your feet need not always be imprisoned to the ground. Anything you could ever wish for, Lucie, can be yours but only if you study hard, and always feel the freedom of t
|Welcome to Human Conditions! I see it as a combination of the two groups which inspired it, #So-Often-Bled and #Emotions-in-art. The edginess and imagination of #So-Often-Bled with the basic premise of #Emotions-in-art, capturing the range of emotions we experience as human beings.|
We are not for everyone. We are for serious artists of any media whose work deals with emotions and the condition of being human.
We would rather be a small, interactive group than a large group where everyone dumps their latest deviations. We want quality, not quantity.
~Original Founder Bark
Find The Rules And Group Standards On The About Page.
A run-in with RageThere’s an anger bubbling beneath my skin like a feverA run-in with Rage by synchrogrl4295
and a stream of infected words threatens to
but this poison in my mouth is held behind teeth clenched as tight as my fists
because even though this is only way I know how to protect myself,
I don’t want to hurt you.
Acid Girl 06The old dog knew I was dying, and aAcid Girl 06 by RussianTim
piss-soaked blanket relaxed me.
Summer rain in a Dali Heartland.
Where was the masturbating man?
Office male stuffed in a post box,
it took two hits of blow to shrink him out.
John, you said your own name for once,
like a stroke victim sipping from a tin cup.
It trickles slowly down the sides without rhythm.
Now we’re in casino country, then again,
I beg to differ. Stranded at sunrise without
the big dipper, maps no longer rule me.
I’m partly thought of as a florescent Sunday special.
Moth God in a subway gift shop, crossed over,
to the point where flakes no longer reference snow.
Don’t call the number on the bathroom stall.
(I called the number on the bathroom stall.)
Tonight means truck stop cologne and sex in Baton Rouge.
There’s nothing in the trash can except
an antique yearning. My Hands on those hips,
most people pray this way.
We tried the house special, a kosher life,
but the windows stayed foggy.
Even maggots can be
veinopenhe stands, the naked child of lustveinopen by photosynthetichuman
dull hungover, dimly-lit kitchen
window fog, grimy dark-yellow tiles
puzzling water-heater complexities
to scald himself clean of that life-encrusted
blood from the night before, when she, his
companion in the self-destruction art
wandered by sublime, in only white socks
stained thighs, with doe-like limbs turning it on
before tip-toeing back to bed, a ghost
InterventionEvery corner is swept clear, bathedIntervention by jade-pandora
in new light cutting through the air
with her purpose, as heavy drapes come down.
As a labor of love, she holds a candle
against the darkness, casting its long shadows
from his burdened soul.
The old waste, leaning walls are torn down.
She renovates each space with broad strokes
of her sunny beams.
To prepare the heart with compassion and grace;
a work of art takes form, where once was
an empty place, a fine house is open to receive.
Unwavering, the truth guides him to the edge,
pushing with divine intention, she will
catch him as he falls, to welcome him home.
downwolfnight-furreddownwolf by photosynthetichuman
cold sharp grin
howling for you
just for you
and your skin
is tangled straw
and your bones
are skinny twigs
you're not ready
you're not ready
but you have your heart
baked bricks brawl
against bullying storm
molded mortar melees
against your beating
his organs implode
surrender and retreat
if only he knew
time to rebuild
glasslookinglittle glass manglasslooking by photosynthetichuman
holding his stone
little glass man
with his glass suit
and his glass chair
in his glass room
in his glass house
with his glass yard
under his glass sky
holding glass stars
little glass man
throwing his stone
he never saw it coming
all the pieces
if you can
floodflashrumblingfloodflash by photosynthetichuman
howls for us
you sank fast
i am sorry
i could not
and it drowns
VoicesDisjointed doppler from my mind,Voices by jade-pandora
swirling vid clips behind eyes seeking
to connect with fatherless sounds long ago;
are any of them mine, or orphaned dreams.
The haunting cacophony of voices I hear
from all directions, like thunder
calling my name; endless rain
touching my soul as it starts to unfold,
seeing no peace
for as long as it needs to be told:
Put out your cigarette.
Get out of the car!
Please, get off me.
I can't breathe... I can't breathe...
They were so nice to me.
I almost changed my mind.
We forgive him.
GUNS“Gunssss” a single syllable dramatically lengthened andGUNS by jimfleming
reverently articulated by Charlton Heston
The first word intoned by the keynote speaker
National Rifle Association convention, Denver
Only ten days after the massacre at nearby Columbine
Charlton was always a great ham
An over-actor's over-actor
He did not disappoint the crowd of faithful
He was a trooper and “the show must go on”
The NRA show did go on, though abbreviated
Only one day instead of three.
Two days of gun show cancelled
Ten days after the massacre
“Gunssss” It was as if God himself was speaking the word.
“Gunssss” said as prayer…
Adam Lanza was seven years old when Charlton prayed in Denver
The age of the children he later murdered
Did Adam Lanza pray?
Did his 12-gauge semiautomatic shotgun answer his prayer?
His Bushmaster point 223-caliber semiautomatic rifle?
His Glock 10 mm or his Sig Sauer 9mm semiautomatics?
Did they speak TO him
What We Eat to SurviveAlone, the air starts smelling likeWhat We Eat to Survive by RussianTim
scrambled eggs and a rat that
died in the wall. Mayflower sons,
Puritan daughters, that kind of lineage.
Alone, their thoughts detach from mildewed
ceilings. Crashed and peering under doors
with lurching frames, someone speaks.
Until. But nothing ever opens.
Alone, one voice in particular, and the train
across town interrupts it. One in particular,
murmurs an old song about the leagues of
suffering that half a century can bring.
Alone, and the first thing he sees are his father’s bones.
What we eat to survive. Cast iron shadows,
a fishing rod in the corner, sister’s torn prom dress.
What we eat to survive.
Action and Reaction Secrets are rarely kept between two people. If you have a secret, it's best to tell no one.Action and Reaction by xlntwtch
I told someone, so mine was no longer a secret, it was just low-key information we tried to keep quiet.
I was easily embarrassed, and wished it hadn't happened in front of him, my new husband. Our bed was a futon, with walls on two sides and a dresser at the foot. I got up early and opened the drawer where my clothes were, and something leapt out at me. I ran for the door to the other room. My husband was laughing so hard when I returned, I wanted to pour cold water on him.
He said, "You and that mouse was both runnin neck and neck for the door. Funniest thing I ever seen!"
"It was awful. Please don't tell anyone. Keep it secret. Promise?"
"Okay, I promise. It's still the funniest thing I ever seen!"
"What's a mouse doing in the dresser anyway?"
"Makin a nest, probly," he said. "Look.
The Cousin in New Orleans The Christian kids were stalking me long before I knew it. It's true that I was distracted by many things. It was my first trip to New Orleans (pre-Katrina) and I found it delightful. I rode the trolley, which made me feel like I was inside a giant pinball machine because of all its bells and whistles.The Cousin in New Orleans by xlntwtch
Views of stately homes, hanging Spanish moss and green, green lawns completed the feeling of being in another realm. Well, I was in another state, having arrived from California about a month before. Before that, I'd been on the commune in Colorado, where I'd eventually return. But now I was in love with New Orleans.
I went often to the French Quarter to people-watch and listen to the music, all kinds of music. I never saw the other side of the Mississippi; it was foggy every time I tried. I also went to Tulane University, to sit in the student union and feel more at home.
Probably about now I should say I was under the influ
Shooting StarThey say the star has fallenShooting Star by prettyflour
and is now so far away
I say the star is shooting
showing us the way
Yes Virginia, There is an Infidelity ClauseBy myself and slightly drunk on hill whiskey,Yes Virginia, There is an Infidelity Clause by RussianTim
I slither through the meadows of your memory,
and imagine you as a spore on the breeze.
Quickly sober, my limbs acclimate to the truth, with
or without me. Knowing that somewhere, not far enough away,
you are spread over the pages of another man’s story.
Maybe I’m the chicken hawk floating over,
forced to look for home while watching a
calloused pair of hands explore the body I picked clean.
Birds of prey are born to mistake the tang of carrion
for the nostalgia of flesh. And like Winter told Wolfe,
“you can’t go home again”, but you still have to try.
Maybe I’m the one who has wasted their life.
Most of my memories are bootlegged scenes:
the smell of a solar eclipse, hot breath and sticky sheets,
blood dripping from my lips and pooling in her navel,
moths drowning in plastic cups while I crash my car in the rain.
(At the very least, it’s nothing sexual)
The taste of flesh fills my mouth. I pretend