|More Journal Entries|
The Melting PotThey sat me down on Easter morningThe Melting Pot by =QuiEstInLiteris
and said that I had to see
the dry-old-man-skin cracked photograph
in shades of fawn and taupe,
smiling faces, waterpaint pink, and blue eyes
over Polish noses, crinkled, laughing.
"He died in the woods."
Katyn (morning fog, red spray, small calibre).
"She died in the fires."
Warszawa (breaking bones, crumbled churches, yellow stars).
"They starved, alone."
Children in the shattering night (a crystal night, sounds so nice).
One blunt finger comes to rest
on a pretty face with a quiet mouth,
one I saw once beneath oxygen tubes
and crepe skin, still able to smile at ninety-eight years.
Hush-shush clicking respirator,
not a word of English left.
Grandmother sweet (never talked about her youth).
They sat me down on Easter morning
and said that I had to see
the young faces laughing in a sepia garden,
with only a year left to smile,
gardenia and hyacinth and lavender,
so I would know where I came from.
To LearnI wish I could paint. Which is stupid, because if I really wanted to paint, I would do it. Just paint. So I guess I wish I could paint well. But I can't do that without first painting badly, and I don't want to have to do that I don't actually know how to enjoy the painting, because I'm so focused on the "quality." And there's the problem. I'm always so concerned with appearances that I don't ever actually understand things or enjoy life, and I'm too self-conscious to let go of appearances.To Learn by ~Lazuleaf
I wish I didn't know how to think, and could just be.
I wish I liked to paint.
And since wishing is stupid and doesn't change anything, I'm going to change myself and go out tomorrow to the fireroads and start to paint. And it won't matter how terrible my paintings look because I will have had fun painting them. And maybe then I will like to paint.
And maybe then I can be happy.
Because wishing doesn't do anything. Nothing.
I read a book today about a boy who becomes a heron. He changes hi
|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.
Question and Answers"Where did the time go?" you asked me.Question and Answers by =RichardLeach
Oh so very many places.
Some to the vinyl of an LP record
you may never play again but would
not part with, and if you played it now,
side one then two, and let the needle run
in from the last groove of music toward the label,
to rest there as the record spun,
you would hear time tick.
Some learned to play the guitar and is in a subway
station in Boston playing and singing with an open
guitar case at its feet; most people pass by,
but some listen briefly and toss money
and a few stop to listen for a while -
it is then time plays its own songs
and you can hear time sing.
Some has never left your side, it goes with you
where you go and when you go to bed at night
it lies down on the floor beside the bed
to rest its great head on its immense paws
and watch over you without sleeping -
if you woke in the night and listened
you would hear time breathe.
Some made its way to the last page
of the last book in your bookshelves,
and it will always be on the
SuncaseMemories bleach, and we Technicolor them.Suncase by *neonxaos
Wild forests grow from the heads of loved ones, and the fields that were
will go on forever. Faces become mirror halls of mostly humans,
smiling, snarling, sleeping in diamond refractions. All still there, trailing
a nanosecond behind every conscious thought, shining inward,
obliterating their own features like monuments eroding into sand.
Feelings fade, and we hurt ourselves to force them to stay.
The ingestion of foreign poisons makes us laugh and dance like fools
for a while, and when you think about it, that is funny in itself.
Shortcuts to happiness are paid for in chunks of life, you decide.
Maybe our hearts beat themselves to death because
there is only so much you can feel. Maybe this is a lie.
I don't want to know.
I once built a box for my ambitions, locked it deep
where no memories and emotions could seep in,
no corrosion of the contents,
no challenge of the possible.
But that was not living.
That was a dream in primary colors
|%HumanConditions is here to feature the best of the best of your deviations. Each deviation must portray a human condition or emotion; therefore, all submissions are up for approval before they are accepted into the gallery. |
If your deviation is declined or removed from the gallery, you will receive a comment or a note telling you why. At times, you are able to make corrections to your deviation and resubmit. Arguing in a rude manner will get you banned!
We accept all media, including photography, photo-manipulation, digital painting/airbrushing, traditional art, artisan crafts, and the written word.
All art must be completed works of art that portray a human condition or emotion.
We will only accept quality work.
No: incomplete works, sketches, or works in progress.
We will deny certain deviation themes.
No: anime, fan art/literature, eyes, flowers, fairies, or simple fantasy themes, unless exceptionally executed and emotes a human condition.
References to religion, either visual or in writing, will be considered on a case by case basis.
Artistic nudity is okay BUT is up to the discretion of the staff.
Submit directly to the Human Conditions theme folder that applies to your work. For a definition and description of each human condition, look inside of the gallery folder.
Limit: two (2) submissions per day.
Favorites limit: three (3) per day.
Members cannot submit other deviant's deviations to the gallery.
If you place a deviation in the storage after it has been accepted, we have the right to remove it.
Photo-manipulations must give credit to stock providers. It's okay to submit older deviations; just make sure the stock provider is listed.
If you're a writer, please read over the "Literary Guidelines". This will let you know what we're looking for in your poetry and prose submissions.
|We look for well-crafted poetry and prose that is in keeping with our group theme, "human conditions." We want literature that evokes a potent human emotion, and we seek writing that is intriguing and original. Proper spelling, punctuation, grammar, and syntax are a must. |
A couple of notes:
Pieces must able to stand alone; we don't accept chapters of novels and such.
In prose, especially, briefer is better, although we draw the line at six-word stories.
We rarely accept rhymed poetry. Too often, something else (such as syntax or rhythm) is sacrificed in search of the "perfect rhyme."
Works that are judgmental will be declined.
Keep in mind, if you aren't happy with your piece, we probably won't be, either. So please don't send in poetry or prose that you know is in progress or that has the equivalent of "This is lousy!" or "I hate this!" written in the artist's comments.
Also, please consider type size and formatting. We understand the draw of being able to format your work—but if we can't read your piece on a laptop screen, it won't be accepted.
We hope these guidelines help. If you have any questions, please feel free to note us.
December Is For Joy And ContestContest Reminder!December Is For Joy And Contest by `thefantasim
Did you know we're having our last contest of the year? Well, it started on November 10th, and I've planed to have it end on December 30th. It's called the "Joys Of The Season".
But I haven't had a single entry. What's up with that? If you don't get your entry in soon, the month will be over.
I know some of you may hate the Holiday season, and that's no problem. Why not write or do a visual interpretation on how you really feel around this time of year with all of it's cheers. Yes, show us your "Bah, humbug" instead.
There are some wonderful prizes for three visual members, and three literature writers, so go read all of the information here: http://thefantasim.deviantart.com/journal/New-Contest-Starts-Today-412832658
Members Of The Month
A BIG congratulations to our visual member, :devmimlulux:, and our lituratu
but happiness, too, was a river in egypt.she’d beg of you to leave him be.but happiness, too, was a river in egypt. by ~MindlessThinker
if she believed it would do him good,
she’d take him out to dinner—the nasty old man.
there is a routine, here. she’ll deny him his vodka,
deny you his war crimes.
(deny herself human,
dance herself dry.)
"Live and let live." she says with a flourish of bubblegum in her throat,
and all without missing the irony where her voice crouches down
tight to a whisper because these days pacifist maxims
just make him cry. she holds tight to them anyway,
still just a child at heart.
(“And aren’t we all.” he’d snarl,
knowing that children too
that night, he cries into her gut. sleeps fearful. when she tells him he is safe now
she becomes a liar and a lover. he knows her for neither—
the next morning there is a bruise on her forehead,
the size and shape of a spatula.
it is her third eye. it makes her wise. it makes you humbled.
and when she gives him sass it is her own little form
of rapture. her sk
Joys of the SeasonEvery year she’d bring out that ratty little Christmas treeJoys of the Season by =Bark
Every year I’d pretend to hate it, the season, her efforts
But I was only pretending, then; watching her was like
Watching a child, all excited and bubbly-happy
Now each year my disdain is real; the season holds no joy
Not without her
Damn, I miss that little Christmas tree
A Long End to a Brief Life I didn't know it was illegal to move a person's ashes from the spot you said they'd be (my garage) to multiple others. I put Mom-in-ashes in the trunk of my car because I thought we'd find a place for her soon, but Mom and I went hither and yon while my sister looked for a real "resting place."A Long End to a Brief Life by *xlntwtch
I even forgot Mom was there, and we went shopping, to the movies, out to eat. Was it disrespectful? It didn't feel illegal.
When I thought about it, it seemed kind of cozy.
There came the day though, when my sister Jocelyn found a good mausoleum to put Mom at a full stop, the final resting place. I went with Jo, and that's how I found out it was illegal to move Mom beyond the shelf in the garage to the mausoleum -- it was supposed to be a direct line between the two places. Of course I didn't tell the man Mom had been all over town with me.
We had to pick out an urn to put at least part of Mom in (the whole of her was too big,
pause, unpauseI want you beneath mypause, unpause by *toxic-nebulae
fingertips, flushed skin like a hushed
I want the enjambment of your
sighs, the rhythm
of your each exhale—
I want your breath
in my chest and your arms
in my arms
and I want to make you
love poem for a pianistyou make me think aboutlove poem for a pianist by *toxic-nebulae
how heavy negative space can be.
the space between your fingers,
the space between notes,
the space between us
in this small, soundproof room;
every empty millimetre
in my chest
love poem for a linguistI love youlove poem for a linguist by *toxic-nebulae
like the skeleton
of a sentence,
the essentials of meaning.
I love you
with nouns and verbs
with the barest
a paring down
a grammar of my own design
in which everything
BurnShe turned up dead along the Seine.Burn by ~bloedzuigerbloed
No one was surprised.
Everyone who knew her
Knew her only dream was to see Paris.
She sat in the back of
Bars. And paid the bar tab for strangers.
She always sat in the back to hide in the shadows
And look mysterious
And possibly get cast in a movie
By a freelance movie director
With a beret
Looking for a girl who
Worked well with a dark face.
Born partially deformed,
She hated to smile
Because it was greasy and thin and dug into her mouth.
Born partially deformed,
She laughed without smiling at handicap jokes
Because those drunks had no idea what they were talking about.
She hoped to burn her lungs.
Partially the work of cigarettes and
Partially the work of arsonists
Who burned her low-paying boss’s house down.
He never liked her lip and
Burned to a crisp in his armchair.
It wasn't fair, she thought, that he got to burn his lungs
Instead of her.
She had no cousins
She had no sisters
She had no brothers
the chasethe waves chased usthe chase by *prettyflour
and we ran
squealing when the icy Atlantic caught up to our toes
the sea-foam lingered
and she watched it
touching what she called the ocean’s bubble bath
the sand stuck to our feet
and we smiled at each other
racing back toward the water in a chase of our own
You Are HereI am here, here and nowYou Are Here by *jimfleming
A miraculous mix of science and chance
Every single one of my thousands of ancestors had to couple and reproduce
prior to their expiration to create the endpoint that is me
One minor alteration in this randomness and there would be no me
When I am feeling insignificant, which of course I am,
these thoughts lessen the sting
Ratcheting up this thought to another level
Everything in the known and unknown Universe is here, now
in this moment, due to all that came before
It is simply true and truly simple
The greatest miracle of all is that you and I, are here and now
The Shy House on the Corner On the outside, their house looked like any house on the same street. In fact, it looked like hundreds in that area. It was a ranch house, too shy to show much of itself behind a few trees, shrubs and a lot of lawn. Mainly, all a person saw was the front porch and the few concrete steps leading up to it. It was a shy house on the outside, but never on the inside.The Shy House on the Corner by *xlntwtch
Everyone in the little family who lived there had the same accent, which was the same accent most often heard on TV -- on nightly news, in movies, on talk shows and more. The mother (and homemaker) came from deep in Louisiana, and so did the father (and missile designer). Both had no Southern accent left, but their upbringing showed in what they said about others.
Their two children heard a lot about "beaners, niggers, spics, wops" and the like. These words were thrown around in the shy house with impunity and scarcely a thought. The father never spoke that way at work, and the mother rarely used them unless she sa
what I forgot to sayto the girl who lives like a hurricane:what I forgot to say by *intricately-ordinary
don’t expect to tell me about
your addiction to self-harm and
Nyquil and have me smile;
although, as I shiver from lakewater
and things less tangible, I seem to
acquire a talent for glossing over the list
of things I need to tell you--
is an asshole. California does not
begin and end in a tiny town where
people operate like clockwork around
the same happy working song. I am not
a fountain of wisdom, and, to be honest,
I can barely understand you over the
thunderstorms in my own brain.
you are beautiful and you are
to the girl I left back in time:
purpose is not a given. I am
the same teenage angst who used
to wear too much eyeliner and
complain about my future
as I’d foretold it-- loveless and whiny,
like me. I am her plus a few more
self destructions and minus
a lot more days to continue striving
alongside you for simple goals and
simple friends and simple memories
I won’t remember.
to the girl who see
Jest In TimeDid anyone get the joke?Jest In Time by *AlecBell
If ever there was any laughter,
all of it was canned.
Could there be laughter still,
in the light of the sinking sun?
Look out, the laugh might be landing,
it might settle on you
Yeah, didn't we laugh,
howling and groaning,
we just didn't know, cluelessly
for the last laugh, cut short
when the coin jangled
on the hardwood floor.
Ride 'em, Indian I didn't want to admit it, but it would be my first time on a horse. My brother Rory's girlfriend had two of the beasts, and wanted me to share a short ride around her property. Daisy was the girlfriend's name. "Granny" was the placid white mare I was to ride and Daisy's dynamo horse was named Dynamo.Ride 'em, Indian by *xlntwtch
Sometimes I think horse people can smell a greenhorn before introductions. Daisy was very sweet and promised me Granny would follow Dynamo wherever he went. My unasked question was what pace he would set and Daisy saw it in my eyes.
"I'll keep Dynamo at a walk the first part and we can skip right to a canter if you like," she said. "Some folks find a trot hard to manage at first. We're riding Western and there's a saddle horn to grab, don't worry."
She grinned, this one not a very nice grin, and said, "I know you've been around horses, especially staying with your brother and all, but I want to be sure this is fun for you, okay? So,
The Phone Call - A Sexy SatireIt was after her first aural sexual dalliance that Sue got an earache. She and Kevin had been going steady for a while, and she'd decided it was time to take their relationship to a more intimate level. It had never occurred to her to question him on his priors. His aural activity. His airwave past. Those late-night whispers. The number of adult phone entertaining partners littering his phone bill. Just how many girls had he talked to prior to their little fling? If he'd changed phones between them.The Phone Call - A Sexy Satire by =RosaryOfSighsx
She'd talked with him late at night before, twirling the phone chord around her fingertips, listening for the sound of his deep baritone down the line. That night his voice mixed in with her soft moans, and when it was over, with the end
the dial tone.
They talked about the weather, the neighbours, whatever gossip was going around. It seemed that she'd gotten something else that might have been going around now too.
But that had just been foreplay. They'd both known what they we
re: chromesthesiaon the body and proprioceptionre: chromesthesia by *disrhythmic
as subjected to
upon inspection of varying souls
and sounds, this
that at a certain frequency
the ribs expand to make
more room for reverberations--
that the sternum shakes
as pillars do--
that the chest lifts in an attitude
of breathless expectation--
and that at a particular, powerful wavelength,
all subjects reported that they had never felt more impaled
upon their own spines.