This is the place where you can personalize your profile!
By moving, adding and personalizing widgets.
You can drag and drop to rearrange.
You can edit widgets to customize them.
The bottom has widgets you can add!
Some widgets you can only access when you get Core Membership.
Some widgets have options that are only available when you get Core Membership.
We've split the page into zones!
Certain widgets can only be added to certain zones.
"Why," you ask? Because we want profile pages to have freedom of customization, but also to have some consistency. This way, when anyone visits a deviant, they know they can always find the art in the top left, and personal info in the top right.
Don't forget, restraints can bring out the creativity in you!
Now go forth and astound us all with your devious profiles!
Twitter™ is also like this, her search through detritus layers of life; linear in procedure. Time as lines, the TL: a wanted sequence for us to cling to even knowing the quantum cosmology of particle and wave mechanics. Twitter does not randomly present us. Neglecting even the theme sequence groupings which is a more likely portrayal of our natures.
It is left to us to paint our own contrails.
Across her words lay themes, not necessarily unique or original, but hers. An underlying hum of message machinery, not to be heard but sensed, felt.
The longing for the extraneous 'power' to which we cling, adhere, our desire for belief.
- the reflected glow of golden light from a Twixt™ candy wrapper; how black sets off desire in contrast -
I am where morning glories savor drowning 'neath honey-suckle's flavor. The passing background noise of our belief in God's. I listen hard for it, this subsuming theme. I hear only six heat pumps laboring because children live behind seals. In distance I hear the blended swoosh of night thinned traffic on the 81. There is the constant chorus of sodium sleepless birds. The wind moves in waves, a sound of my departed sea shores, of our hazards. I hear no thematic purpose-laden sound of universality; no beneath-it-all whisper or music of a divinity.
It is through the expectoration of illness that health is regained and maintained; and so you, and I, must go. Isolation and elimination the only path to survival. Excretion.
The sidewalks and streets that we travel stained with our spit, our drool, our blood and shed skins. Broken masks litter beside crushed blue glass.
THE PASSING OF A FILL-IN-THE-BLANK
In a world where it is personally defined, even if shared, there remains no Truth.
I will speak only of what I saw, of that which I heard. That is my role, as I understand it. To provide description in a point for point. I am only observation, not clarity. I make no assumption regarding understandings.
I think about Heather's 30% heart. I think of you Heather. Yes.
There is a room, sealed off from the sun. A door only, which lets in the bright when opened.The room is a rectangle in shape. The door is on the left short length of wall and it lets you out directly on the pavement beside a street.
The room is lit by a variety of artificial sources. When only the staff for operations is resident, when the business is not Open, the light is that flickering strobe of electric blue-white buzz of fluorescent. It's inexpensive in comparisons.
Did There Come A Time?
She called the name of the wrong character, providing us with the comprehension that it was not love which she was in search of.
Che Guevara, a Peter Pan with hand grenades. The hopefully ignorant fed from image manipulation and inspiration. So few acknowledged an understanding of what violence truly is. Hook had a missing hand, the Croc a ticking along clock. The self of the sixties had waked again but only as seen by the managerial class that the Wild Children of the Sixties have become. Even they are ironic in their acknowledgement that violence, for and upon themselves, is not what they want in their envy and resentment of their own children and their grandchildren. They spread sardonically his black on red image. Money and revenge.
You've moved, I am sure, by long, intermediate, or short distances; intentionally unclear. You never shared your addresses, though I delivered mine in many venues. Always keeping you abreast. This is not a Guilt-by-Catholic or Jewess message. There was always that about the two of us. You adored my words, spoken to you. And I was always hungry. So your probable relocation is part of our equation.
I came across that final photo you'd sent me. It's lived on seven computer systems, six thumb drives, and still exists among the sixty-seven gigabytes of my email accounts maintained now for eleven years. You Heather, always beautiful in any guise.
People are rarely as clear as that @Rrrabbitrabbit girl when leaving my company; but I'd opened my share with you when you'd stated your enjoyment of exchanging scented stationary and pressed flowers.
Six-thirty PM and the sun is still above the horizon. It's not that it is daylight longer, it's that the sun is moving slower. I am convinced.
She never had the values to sense how far she'd fallen. She took her vows as plan's obligation for things done. Her husband took his from under the Maid-of-Honor's hems. She took oaths out of abandonment.
... and when she says "No harm done." you expect to believe it but the disaster of become denies any reason ...
I'm phrasing similes and metaphors differently, "as ifs" and "perhaps as"(s) since 'like' is a standalone meaningless and fuck-buddies are just another chore.
And of course we were Romantics, how else would it have happened? Raised upon Prisoner of Zenda, Count of Monte Cristo, Anna Karenina not Taxi Driver or Reservoir Dogs. I left Pulp Fiction off that last because hell, it's another Romance Vision in its Tarantino way. Concepts of Honor and Nobility laced with mountain views and castles and not Utility. There was something lost us in our Punk Rock, something about the line between that grassy slope in Ohio and Hippie Hill in the Park.
And what's become of it? We were all religious, what could possibly rely more upon the scanty grasp of lacy hope than that? The reversal of that glow is what is left to us now. Empty churches in the EU, the fucking EU itself, if you will. The unilateral sum of Progressiveness which would, and does, smother defective babies at their mother's breasts. Avoid having to carry any load.
I don't know if the Occupiers and demonstrators of today are seeking what was had in the Sixties, but I think not. How could they? They are the Anti-Set, We were the practitioners of Glory's apex and end, the benign victims of Mad Men marketing paired with the psychiatric operant conditioned belief that M&Ms were actual rewards. TV dinner by the pool.
"Your heart nearly stops."
Because if your heart had actually stopped it means it would have reached you.You would have it now, folded inside of you. You would finally have gotten there.
Do you actually know them? Are they present now? These "he"s and "she"s you speak of so often. Loving and observing and turning upon in anger. They, unlike mine, carry no identifying UPC, no labels other than surmised. No proper names which, as you know, spell histories bound by psychologies for one such as I.
There is the sound of things in the air before entering the whirling maw of the wood chipper - a chair leg - a Zima blue bottle its bee-sting lips catching the air flow "woooouuuuuu" - an old tube radio, the whip of it's two prong power cord - an eight month sapling, root ball still attached - loose leaves in mixtures green brown yellow brown black rot and just spring sprung - crackle branches bark in tatters
Hear the cartoon sound-track shell whistle as they fly.
"And then she left them behind. Again and again she left them. It was only hard for a minute."
I never saw Mina again. I stayed at her apartment. Every day I slept in her bed on sheets that I washed and dried each morning. I cleaned, I ate as much of the remaining food as I could but kept thinning. Losing myself. At the end I simply threw the rest away with clothing and mementos of who I'd been.
I didn't sleep at all the night before I left, that last border to cross. Where the guards had been warned and I was to be captured. I exercised what I saw as my right, my final ritual and poured almost the entire contents of my Miracle Forever upon her bare mattress. I knew that when she finally did return she'd bring him with her. The emptied bottle I threw into the bin outside while her brother, the informer, waited to give me the ride. I was exhausted.
have I left this for your unlikely encounter Heather? Well, because. Because you, as every other one whom I have loved told me of your attachment to, your enjoyment of, my words. Of how you felt hearing and reading my voice. I have no way of knowing your meaning, you were circumspect about revealing.
It is for that reason, your appreciation and perhaps admiration, that I close these messages. And, because of the array of others that I have told you of, my openness. Of all, Heather, due to your age, and shape, and nature I enjoy thinking of other paths and timings ... but you and I know better, that's just my historical nature. You always knew better.
. YOU want it to be over so that you can say "Wow that was something." "Wow that was fun." I want it to go on and on until closing time because every moment has always been "Wow!" to me. .
Three novels by Jennifer Egan in three days and I am of want to point at passages saying "See this of me! Do you see?" And wanting to query you because you've been here to. "What do you think? Could that happen?" Wanting to hear your voice, to listen 'til all hours and you fall into my arms wanting to be had.
I pause to re-light a cigarette, take a puff or two and stub it out again. I go on.
Image "." bycopyright 2016 Some quotations from works by Jennifer Egan the rest is me darling.
I became a loom ... a work of wood and oils and flesh and pain ... I became words, woven together to impart myself, an offering of memory and love ... I became a crowd of voices longing for that final color that might complete ... I am Amanda here to open, here to pound loud and set you upon a journey ...
Favorite visual artistNatalie Shau. (long list of DA photographers and manipulation freaks)(Leana*kiss)Favorite moviesHigh Art, La Femme NikitaFavorite TV showsCarnivale, Walking Dead, Two Broke Girls, NOVA, Discovery Channel (anything)Favorite bands / musical artistsCollide, Apocalyptica, Blonde Redhead, DIE ANTWOORD!Favorite booksKissing Dead Girls, Look at Me, The Keep, Ghost WalkFavorite writersJennifer Eagen, Daphne Gottlieb, Marina Tsvetqeva, Sofia Parnok, S.PlathFavorite gamesspin the bottle, whack a trollFavorite gaming platformpool table, bar topTools of the TradeMac Book Air, Windoze 7 crate of crap, Nikon D200, Epson Perfection V750 ProOther Interestsphotography, modeling, kleptomania, screaming at strangers and then stun gunning them
For the ensconced demented deviants among us!
Yes, I AM a gay American woman; and damn proud of that. I flirt shamelessly with females, males, and photos of kittens. Anyone who let’s that go to their heads (eyes.the.homophobic.female.artist) is not only stupid but arrogant.