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FUN FACT I was filling this out then the Net went down so it is double overdue.


Because I hit up like three of you for features and then never did the journal roflcopter giraffipede.  

RULES:

1. For each of the 10 first people answering this journal, I will put their avatar and the three deviations I like most from their gallery on the list!

2. If you answer, you have to do the same in your journal, putting the tagger on the first place. The idea of this is not to get a free feature, it is to spread art around for everyone!

1.


The first time I filled this out I read that as Where Toilet Ghosts Spring and this time read it as Where Trolling Ghosts Spring.  Mmsrry, ghosts.


2. :iconskysongms:
Iron and SnowThey say New  York is beautiful this time of year.
They tell me the snow makes everything sparkle:
It covers dirty streets
and graffiti
and homeless men that nobody took inside.
Everything is smeared with white,
its truth gone,
like a chalkboard after lecture ends.
I ask what it looks like in spring,
When the buildings stand raw and unprotected
And the trees stretch barren, skeletal fingers to a sun that doesn't yet nourish.
They tell me to think less morbid thoughts.
It was snowing the night you died.
Did the flakes fall on your face?
Did you catch them on your tongue?
Or did you just put your hands in your pockets
And hunch your shoulders against the wind
And never once think that you were a target,
That your life was numbered in seconds, not decades or years or even days…
That every step took you farther away from the life you knew.
And I think of your body, broken and still.
And I think of what is left of myself.
And I think…
I think the best part of me lies ble

Calliope's ReckoningThe two girls are skinnier than I am, with light, deftly applied makeup and smiles like the ice sculpture on the drink table. The one who initiated the conversation holds her drink between two fingers almost as thin as the stem of her glass. "I don't think I caught your name earlier," she says, her eyes bright in a way that might be friendly in a different universe.
I smile. I don't want to get kicked out of the party before I get a chance to see Kally. Her parents like me, but only to a point, and they probably can't afford to offend whatever family these girls come from. Not for my sake.
"That's because I didn't tell you, sweetheart," I say. The smile hurts my teeth, so I sip my drink. "It's Alyssa." They could be talking to me because I'm the only other person at this party around their age, but I don't think so. I can tell they're both smirking underneath those stupid veils.
The girls glance at each other; I ignore it. At least they aren't tittering. That's what most of the

3.
This one in representaion of all the OG things she did, especially the crack I had a direct hand in, FrostxRhi, that graphote picture of Sending and so on.  Also because this was a ref with a lot of info that was fun to read.
Still come back to this one now and then and read the story.


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:thumb277368428: WHOOPS BIAS
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7. :icon kalyn-palak:




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help the dog is annoying me to death

I really should post more journals, being a paid member and all.
And it made me so happy reading Letsly and phantomeus's responses to my comments, I felt rather obliged to post


Anyone who comments on this I'll answer THESE QUESTIONS:

1.) Something I learned about you looking on your DA page for 13 seconds.

2.) What color do you remind me of.

3.) My first memory of you.

4.) Something I've always wondered about you.

5.) What I like the most of you.

6.) I'll give you a weird name.

7.) I'll tell you what I feel like doing right now.

8.) Tell you a creature you remind me of.

9.) I'll challenge you to post this in your journal as well.

EDIT: oh lordy, this color scheme! The zombies ATE Phantom and Aly! *swoon*

The year is almost up, and so many things are almost over.

In suppose it would be a lie to say I hate this school. I hate so many aspects of it; I hate that the art building is the college ghetto while everything else is pristine; I hate that entry classes are taught by grad students still unsure of how to teach. I hate sculpture, that soulsucked my inspiration out and twisted my beautiful, reverent character sculptures into nonfigurative, meaningless compromise art and I hate how the class stood around it and read meaning upon meaning into the sticks.

There are people here, that I met; one teacher I will miss. One teacher I will forever thank for teaching me that- No. For teaching me. That on its own enough.   I learned in that class that we do not go to art school to make beautiful things, but to learn how to.  I learned what it meant to care only that you are learning and not whether you are best in the class.  I learned what it meant to be a student, not an artist, and to be happy in this.

Sima, and Sosse, and Michelle and Riley.  I think I will miss you.
That isn't true, though. I've been here two years, but I never knew you. Is your name even Michelle? I am too embarrassed to admit I forgot your name.  I would never have asked to meet any of you outside of class, I would have made an excuse if you had asked me. But we could talk. We could share things. You amused me and uplifted and challenged me. You taught me about Paganism, you told me about chickens, you smiled, unfazed, while Patrice flayed your painting.  You made me feel feminine for the first time in my life, with your height and your calm strength. It was not a bad feeling.
I listened to you explain love and religion and children; I resented your girlfriend for not being good enough for you. I am sorry if I offended her for not acknowledging her; I assure you I made no note of anyone in that English class and wasn't just ignoring her.  We talked about iguanas and paint, and we laughed at how long it took you to fill the canvas. I made you squirm with boldfaced vulgarities and wry grins. You met my rats, while they were alive, and you appreciated them. You rent the bad teachers with your words alongside me and praised the one I revered.  

I might not miss you, because I never knew you. I did not make friends here. But I am glad I met you. I am glad we interacted.  I am glad we shared pieces of our world.
We will never meet again, I am sure. And that does not even warrant a proper goodbye.  No exchange of numbers or emails.  No grief for the loss. But I am glad to have met you.  

Doctor Austin... I think you are my favorite. You never patronized me. You never made me feel stupid or childish, you never shared a suppressed smile when I spoke of my holistic father, you never pretended there was some common, unimportant reason for all of my pain. You cost a gorram metric ton, but you really do seem to care. You were a partner, helping and wanting to help. Not a leech. I will miss you, in that lovely hospital with its awkward bronze sculptures.
When they performed the EKG and the applied the electrodes around my heart, the technician was a man.  I don't care. I don't. I lost my modesty when I spent the summer and spring break at Lake Havasu and watched the girls and their bikinis and the debauchery on every cove.  But you ought not to have men working with young women's breasts. I'm sure many of them would appreciate the sentiment.
I think, Austin, we will meet for the last time, and I will have not a problem with my heart; another dead end. But that at least will be one less place to look, and better to know we explored the options.  Thank you so much for listening and taking me seriously and talking to me and not telling me about heartburn meds after I described the dizziness, numbness and shaking.  Thanks for prescribing me an inhaler when I couldn't breathe, even if I can't afford it and you didn't run any tests.  Thanks for making things happen and not vaguely throwing around some possibly solutions.

Patrice, I owe you flowers, don't let me forget.

Shotgun team, you were a terrible let down. But thank you for the shirt.

Wincheshire. I am so sorry. I... I am so, so sorry. Oh Christ, I am sorry.

Persepolis, you were the first fish I truly loved. I will never have a betta like you again.  Thanks for all the gill flaring and attitude.

Fenton; I almost forgot you. I don't know what it is, and I was so angry when you switched classes with Newton and I did not get your class again, but my God, you have a gift.  All of history, the world's history, came together when you spoke. You cared about what you said and you gave reasons and symbols to mundane things. You were so memorable, you ignited my old love of Egypt and made me laugh and gasp and I never would have imagined the complex history of every art image I had seen through my life. You did nothing overly exciting or noticeable but my God, man, you were a teacher.
Newton, I resented you for weeks, for your different curriculum, for not being Fenton, but I do love your class.  I love that you have that condition that makes you completely bald and that you dress like a Manitou Springs hipster.  Your commentaries cracked me up, your colorful opinions and mnemonics and allusions.  You were so bright and animated and understanding and you love art history, I can tell you do.

The last time I trusted my doctor's advice, my occasional, random heartburn exploded into daily, hour long pain.  I starved after eating, and before eating the heartburn corroded my insides, they said so, even, it was the only result on that thousand dollar endoscopy that found nothing of use.  These days I care nothing for food, it means nothing, but now I am hungry, I get so hungry, and I worry that I do not have the meal passes left to feed myself.  I hunger now for vinegar. Can you believe that? Vinegar. Diluted and sour and unpleasant; I crave it now, I pour it into my water and tea and slug it when my heartburn hurts or I have a sore throat or a belly ache.
Did you know the vinegar you buy- apple cider vinegar, white vinegar- is diluted to five percent? Go on, check. It is. And it burns. To taste it undiluted makes my skull hurt. I pour a tiny amount into a cup of water to be able to stand it. Can you imagine entirely undiluted vinegar?
The people who wrinkle their nose at the thought; oh sod you lot, I hurt enough to need this.

Sometimes when I breathe my lungs don't seem to expand, and in the middle of sentences I suck desperately at the air to get a proper breath and a sharp pain in my chest responds.  It's scary. And it makes me shake. I cannot draw or ink.   Sometimes when I walk up from the basement my energy levels implode and I stagger, dizzy and vision-skewed, back to my room and stare through one functioning eye at the hand that's lost all sensation.  Sometimes things just hurt.
Sometimes people try to play on their hurts, and they hyperbole and parade them, so proud to be the most pitiful. They make me so angry. Go ditter on about your migraines, you don't know what migraines are. Scatter your literature and your similes, but mine have nothing to prove.
And don't everyone be quiet when I mention these things. I don't want your pity. These are parts of me.  These are elements of me. Flaws and imperfections I have lived with for so long.  And have your pains, and problems, too; I am not on some illness throne, spiting you for having a tummy ache.  But don't challenge mine, either, please. I believe you if you have maladies. But I have them, too. I'll believe you if you believe yours are worse. This shouldn't be a contest.  

We've been looking through the old things, the comics, the SEs, the tournaments. Look at how far we have come, all of us! Look at the mistakes we made, so bad as to make us sick and in that sickness we know we have risen above it.  Never hide those things. Never delete them. Forgive yourself, but do not forget. And remember how far you have come.

I'm almost done with Fragile Things, and Neil is so wonderful a writer. I have the Fairie Reel memorized, you know. It's such a powerful poem. But do not interrupt me. I cannot start again if it's broken.  All those stories are so horrible and wonderful. I was sick over Susan. I wish you hadn't polluted that. But I was so charmed by the day the saucers came.  I love these characters of yours, and these anecdotes and I love how each story has a story behind it and sometimes those are just as interesting and uplifting.

Robin, I have Anansi Boys. Don't let me forget.

I have made so much progress on my little universe. It started with... Hmm. And now I forget. Was it Jello, first, or G-Files? My first alien stories. One silly and childlike, one stupid and cartoony.  And now a background race, a plot device, a people with a silly name have emerged and monopolized my mind, and I am making planets and gods and rumors and parables and peoples.  To create. To create without humans. Without ties to this sober reality. It has been two years. It had been too long.

I am so thankful for you three, and you two. My little circle of best friends. My soul mate, my wife, and my best bro. You remake me every day. We save our lives in the most unlikely ways.  How can the six of us have met in one place, in four states and two countries, through the same event? It's phenomenal. It's why I can believe in gods.

I'm so worried about money. The school needs so much of it. But I will get there. I must get there, this is not up for debate, I will get there, and I will be Fourteen because I do believe in omens.  I do believe in God.  
And I will be the best goddamn story crafter any of you will ever hear of.

Stop calling me, you; stop texting me. Don't send me gifts. Don't pretend we're friends. You might be my brother, but my love of you is cold, and you are so deep in my dept you should be ashamed to know me.  Keep fighting. Keep trying. Perhaps some day you will learn from your consequences, and you'll realize my pain, our pain, that you put us in. And you'll apologize to Dad and Mom and Nana and maybe, one day, you will prove that you do deserve my forgiveness, one last time, and things will all be better.  Go to prison, and stop lying to yourself. Don't tell me you've read the whole Bible, you couldn't even read Harry Potter. Don't tell me you've getting everything right. I'll believe it when I see it. Prove it for years and I will forgive you.
In the meantime, I don't want your gifts and your calls.

Dad, stop bringing up The Treasure on the Train. That's one of my least favorite stories of mine.  Getting it published doesn't make me fond of it. I love you.

Some days I really miss the taste of flesh, but I am so happy I don't eat meat. I will again, when I have earned it. When I deserve it.
Or if I ever go to Scotland.




I love all of you, do you know that? You can't imagine my capacity to love.
Thank you for being there. Thank you for caring and being patient. Thank you for being the one who made my stories feel loved. Who reinforced that Materna was truly beautiful. That Book of Lies isn't awkward and badly formed.  Thank you for inspiring me to take care of myself and to be clean and efficient.
I do love you.
We'll get through this together.
The white alligator will come, some day.
We just have to wait, and believe, and be there for each other.