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SilverInkblot

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About Literature / Hobbyist Senior Member Lauren28/Female/United States Groups :iconthetitlepage: TheTitlePage
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Find Your Way

Find Your Way

Thu Jul 24, 2014, 8:17 PM


About Me
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2 Comments
Find Your Way July 24, 2014 2 comments 1 favourite

SilverInkblot's Silver Box



The Good Stuff

I have a big gallery. If you're going to read anything from me, make it something from this box.

SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi Tangential AsymptotesI think about falling in math class.
The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.
The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.
As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.
I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. T Types of IntimacyHe told me he sleeps in a t-shirt –
and only a t-shirt. The image
won’t leave my head; this body,
so familiar to me, yet barricaded
by layers of fabric – I have never seen
the joints of his elbows, the slope
of his spine, the terrain of his
stomach – but I have felt their presence
through wool and cotton, known
their warmth in brief moments
of contact. And there’s a strange
intrigue to modesty, knowing his
psychology but not his physique.
I have found strength in his words
and wisdom in his hands; I have plunged
these depths past fondness and into
familiarity and found, here, in the dark
of his ocean, that I can see better
than ever before. SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up. He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does. Stories of feelings with no names - Revision   i.
   The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
    ii.
    You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. You checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
   iii.
   A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -
from the magic lights of New York
to moonshines in Georgia,
until the colors dissolve.
The anxious poetry of autumn
made a memory of me.
Here’s to things I take for granted:
September blues,
chasing airplanes,
country road thunderstorms.
Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.
October, I follow you;
I thought I saw you on the shore
where the river runs through gold
on the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -
or perhaps Pittsburgh
(it was the lights I guess).
Here’s to the things we leave behind:
sunbeams in November,
letters addressed to no one,
poems, wounds, dead birds.
I’ve got that summertime sadness.
Maybe you’re gonna come back;
we’re changing our ways, taking different roads
and loneliness knows me by name
but October, I follow you;
without you I’m a winter heart,
a love story you don’t want,
a November shade of grey hunting ghosts
in cities that sleep inside our heads.
You told me you lied the night you kiss TealTeal
waters worry the pristine
sand, washing blank paper
into a bevy of tidepools.
The hush of the surge whispers
its song into conch shells;
the tinge of brine mingles
with coconut milk and dried
seaweed clumping the beach.
Hermit crabs dot the strand
like constellations, waiting
for soothsayers to read meaning
into their trails before the waves
wash them away like comets. Old SoulsDoc says I’m an old
soul, with my postcards
and letters, and waste-no-words
policy. Doc says old souls still make eye
contact instead of playing with iPhones,
mirrors that stare back, and tell
us who we are by knowing
who they are.
Doc tells me I’m an old
soul in a young body, taming
wild Internets and bringing my words
to heel like a triple score
in a game of Scrabble.
That I was born in the wrong
decade, that I was meant to punch
typewriter keys like a boxer,
that the twenty-first century
wasn’t made for old souls like mine.
Doc thinks I’m too old
to be twenty-three, constantly forgetting
the barriers of my few years.
Like that I never wrote about myself
until he gave me moments
worth writing down, and cared
about the person behind the words.
That I learned who I was by learning
who he was, and drew a timeline
of intersection points where each
node became a poem, and each poem
became a stepping stone.
Doc unearthed an old
soul in my notebook.
Old like a favori Turn my words against me.I want my words to take
root in your stomach and grow
up your esophagus, the calyx
of your tongue brushing the edge
of your teeth until the words blossom
from your lips in a slow
explosion of elegance, jawline
trickled with nectar, charming
hummingbirds and honeybees
with the promise of butterfly kisses.

Helpful Stuff





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Getting Started in the Lit Community
dA making for feel small? Need help finding your writing peeps? Start right here, baby.

Donate Points!
I'd like to be able to have enough points to make donations to contests, help people extend their Premiumships - I love being helpful :D

All You need to know about DD's
Suggest one today! :D

Calm Down
I have anxiety - these are some links that help me keep it at a distance, or at least distract me for a while.

Using HTML on dA
On of the most helpful resources I've found. I refer back to it frequently :)

Using Font on dA
Because I'm a sucker for formatting :XD:

StyleOverSubstance
An alternate account dedicated to playing literature games! Come join in the fun!



News Articles I've Written


The Visual Novel: Video Games as a Literary MediumWhat is it?


A visual novel is more or less exactly what it sounds like. It's a novel that can be played. While the form has been popular in Japan for decades, they have only recently reached Western audiences, thanks largely in part to the influx of anime, manga, and Japanese Role Playing Games (JRPGs) saturating the market. Consequently, many games of this type have anime influences in the design.
The visual novel is most easily compared to interactive fiction or the Choose Your Own Adventure series - at various points, the player is prompted to make some sort of choice that has the potential to affect the outcome of the game.  A typical game usually has at least three endings; a Bad, Neutral, and Good (also called the "Perfect" or "True" ending). However, this is not necessarily standard - most seem to fall somewhere between 4 and 10 unique endings. Ofte Foreign Words the English Language NeedsOh hello. I’m finally getting around to making this news article that I said I might do, like, a month ago. Sorry, I’m not used to writing news articles. Bear with me.
Back in August, I started a series in my forums for cool foreign words. It went over extremely well and numerous people requested that I combine them into a handy-dandy news article for deviantART at large to enjoy. So, here you are: fifteen foreign words that the English language needs to steal appropriate.
Hiraeth (Welsh)
What it means: A feeling of longing associated with displacement, but not necessarily displacement from one’s original home. An intense yearning to be somewhere you are not. Hiraeth also expresses a sort of ache or longing for something of the past, somewhat similar to the notion of "golden" or "good old days," but with more ancient connotations.
Why it needs to be a thing in English: I speak as someone from a country Untitled is just a synonym for lazy.Well, the color poem form I introduced to dA was a rousing success, but interest of late seems to have died down. So I'm back with a new form for you all, something exciting and new, something different, something that I will probably make into a contest once I get some points in the bank. You ready?
EDIT
There's a group now - feel free to head over to TheTitlePage! We're still in set-up mode, so excuse the plainness for now.

Found Poetry Project - Titles as Art

One of my favorite things about the creative process is coming up with a good title. The title can make or break a piece; it can give context not provided in the piece itself, set a tone or mood, or just give that little extra something you can't put a name on.
You know I'm right. How many times have you stumbled into an ordinary piece with a beautifully creative title? And it's not something Managing Your Inbox: Some Tips on StreamliningI'm not really an organized person. Yeah, sure, I like to TRY to be one, but most of my attempts to clean house don't stick. The one exception, however, is in my online life. I keep everything to do with the computer tabbed and organized and that includes my dA life.  
I posted a poll asking visitors what their inbox looked like on a typical day. As of this writing, of the 52 responses, 35 have full inboxes – that is, somewhere between 200 and up to (or over) 1000 messages to sort through. So about 70% of the voters have quite a lot to page over.
 
I hear horror stories quite frequently from deviants who are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things passing through their inbox. My personal inbox rarely reaches three digit numbers, and the few times it has, it's always been because something of mine has made the footer. While I can't promise that my personal methods will work for everyone, it

For My Own Sanity



DD Stuff!



doughboycafe

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I'm trying to get into the habit of suggesting DD's - having the links on my page is easier than hunting them down everytime :XD: Links go to the respective DD guideline pages :D











Fun Stuff




Bookmarked




Looking for something new to read? Click on the crown to be taken to The List - my labor of love to the dA literature community. I guarantee you'll find a new writer to love.


Click to see what I'm reading! I love recommendations and chatting about books :la: I should start a book club sometime.


I make bookmarks for pretty much anyone who asks. Just give that flourish a click, and you'll find instructions on how to request your own!

Meme: Alternate SelfiesI've been bored around dA lately, so I decided to start a meme :lol:
I see those long Q&A lists floating around all the time, and they're boring. They all ask roughly the same questions over and over, so I don't tend to do many. But it got me thinking - how I can spice up a tired meme? What's another way to learn about a person? And this is the solution I found.
You can tell a lot about a person by what they write, but there are lots of other ways to get an idea of who they are. What they wear; what they read; what their room looks like; what posters they hang on their walls; what they keep in their bedside drawer. If you're like me, bored with answering the same questions, then feel free to jump in and show your watchers who you are in a different way :D
1. Post a selfie.
Yeah, this is still a pretty standard one, but it's nice to put a face to the words :P
2. Post a photo of your bed.
Your sleeping area says a surprising amount. For instance, mine says I don't like to make the be Holographic ResonanceAll things will be in everything;
nor is it possible for them to be apart,
but all things have a portion of everything.
— Anaxagoras c. 500 bce

  

When a holographic plate is cut several times, each fragment contains the entire image. In other words, the whole can be found in every part and the notion of separation becomes impossible. Even the idea of separation is contained in the all.

  

To make a hologram, a laser light is split into two beams. The first beam bounces off the object and is reflected onto the holographic plate, or recording medium. A second projected beam creates an interference pattern that contains the information of the object spread throughout Kafka's Joke Book
Regarded as one of the most influential writers of the 20th century, Franz Kafka is best known today as "that guy who wrote a story about some dude turning into a cockroach." Working with themes of alienation, the fantastic made mundane, and parent-child conflict, his works are populated with well meaning characters caught in the crossroads of tragedy, surrealism, and existentialism.
And yet, Kafka himself considered his works funny, supposedly laughing out loud among friends when reading and sharing his work. Indeed, when read in the right mindframe, the ironic circumstances and black comedy of Kafka's nightmarish worlds can and will provoke a chuckle of two, even as events continue spiraling out of control.
Thus, I will be presenting you today with Kafka's Joke Book, a McSweeny's article written by comic and stand-up comedian John McNamee, who you may know for his work, Pie.

 Cooking a StoryToday I decided to make roasted carrot soup, which got me thinking that writing and cooking are particularly ripe for comparison. At first glance, both seem easy. Buy these ingredients and prepare them, and voila, dinner.  Come up with a plot, write it out, and voila, novel. Both cooking and writing seem like tasks than can be planned and executed through clarity of thinking, fidelity of execution, and sheer force of will. Maybe this apparent simplicity is why everyone you meet on an airplane is writing a book. (Why is it always people on airplanes? Maybe that’s the only place I talk to strangers.) Of course the reality is that there is a fair bit of magic to both good cooking and good writing.


As someone who has outlined two novels, and then written two totally different books than the ones I’d so carefully plotted, I can testify that simply writing down the jou

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Deviousness Award

Deviousness Award
A pillar of the literature community, SilverInkblot has taken it upon herself to spearhead several amazing initiatives for the DeviantArt literature community. From leading DailyLitRecognition for many years to creating TheTitlePage, which has inspired many wonderful deviations, this self-described traditionalist handwrites journals that she gives away, in the hopes it will inspire others. A champion of the community, she both routinely promotes the work of others and provides honest, friendly, feedback. We are delighted to award Deviousness to SilverInkblot for July 2017.
-awarded July 2017

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SilverInkblot
Lauren
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States


Autumn Brontide

I bleed ink. I have unusual taste in music. I have a giant top hat. I have been featured multiple times by DailyLitDeviations / DailyLitRecognition (and a DD! (or seven!) :la:) and consider that the highest achievement of my life.

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Do Your Best
Interests

The Middle of September

Mon Sep 17, 2018, 11:12 PM


Commissions|
Prices|
Instagram|
Etsy


Personal


Another year down brings me to 28. Still feel the same as ever. Doing adulty things like going to work, buying cat food, staying up too late watching Youtube videos on creepy phenomenon. The usual.

Been sorta kinda halfway writing - I have some stuff floating around upstairs, but it's not ready to be put on paper yet. It'll come when it's ready. I have another story for the still-missing Norma Jean in the works, this time in a desert canyon setting. I like the notion of developing a series of alternate universes where the defining characteristic is the lack of a character, rather than the presence. I may never solve this mystery :P

No BodyThere’s no body in Ripple Creek. We combed every inch of the place, from the old, greying chapel at the top of the hill to the bottom of the creek bed our great-great-grandparents named this town for. There’s no body in the forest; no body in the caverns; no body in the folly Crazy Dan built from old bricks and spare lumber.
That’s the thing in the end, isn’t it? There’s no body, so where’s the crime? If Norma Jean’s still alive, she pulled one hell of a vanishing act. No one’s seen so much as a gleam of those blonde corkscrews in six months. Lotta people think she ran off, and that’s that; washed their hands of the whole thing and clapped them together, ready to move on. Too bad they still keep their eyes narrowed.
The rest of us – well, something happened. Dammed if we know what. Her car was parked out on the road near the diner, but Beth swears up and down she never came in for a bite. The cops found her wallet in th WendigoNorma Jean drew a heart on the back of my hand in hoop snake blood.
“When that fades,” she said, tapping the center of her work, “you may forget about me.”
Norma Jean and I dated on and off through high school and then some. We grew up wandering the forest and exploring the caverns surrounding Ripple Creek, running from the hidebehinds and hodags when we stumbled too far into their territory.
The day Norma Jean disappeared, I saw a teakettler scuttling around the shed behind my place. It walked backwards, like they do, and bumped right into the pile of wood I spent all day chopping. Teakettlers don’t ever stray so far from the woods; they’re very shy. It was actually kind of cute – it looked more or less like a cat, but huskier. I had planned to see about trapping it the next day, to show Norma Jean – course, that didn’t happen after all.
I heard about Norma Jean the next morning, on my way to the general store for a new axe; the ax CandlesIt started with Norma Jean. She up and disappeared six years ago, and the whole town left too, one by one. First, it was people moving away from the stares and whispers, looking for a place without shadows. Three hundred became two hundred. Then Crazy Dan shot himself. Then it was people moving away from a dying town.
Then it was locked houses, locked stores, owners stepping out for a break and never coming back. Two hundred became one hundred. Beth just left the water running in the diner, dishes piled high in the sink. They’re still there. Grammy Maple went down the road to buy an extra skein of yarn – no one knows what happened to her. Flint Jackman left his denim coat at the post office, and his mail just piles up in the box now. I kept the coat.
Then, it was just me and the mail.
It’s been long enough now that some of the mailboxes are completely stuffed. The Janeies still get letters and catalogues from somewhere. That fancy shaving kit Alder ordered finally cam
The saga thus far.

I'm also working on a creative essay concerning liminality and liminal spaces, so that should be fun once I find my way in.

Been hanging out on Reddit lately - it started with this dumb dress-up game that I honestly don't know why I downloaded in the first place. I was looking up how to get past a certain level when I found the Reddit community and discovered it was hilarious. Then the game killed a main character, war broke out, and now I actually want to know what happens :XD:

https://i.imgur.com/deE35Zb.jpg
Look at this frilly girlishness, what was I thinking

https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/lovenikki/images/d/d1/Nidhogg_%26_Louis.jpeg/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/345?cb=20180724233917
YOU HAVE MY ATTENTION.

From there, I discovered a few other places, including a card exchange group that I've been playing around in. I'm a complete sucker for snail mail :heart:

Went to the food truck festival for my birthday - not worth it. Lines were outta control, and I didn't even get any good food >.< Didn't like either one of the taco places I tried. Dad did buy me a bag of kettle corn, so not a total loss :D Really should have gone to the farmer's market instead though.

Work is work. Sometimes it's slow, sometimes the pace picks up. I usually have time to read during the latter half of my shift, so that's nice. And it gives me a good reason to go to Waffle House in the middle of the night (strange hours are the best time to visit Waffle House).


Coding by SimplySilent
6 Comments
The Middle of September September 17 6 Comments No Favourites
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Thinking about playing with my profile page again. 

52%
13 deviants said I'm just here to click a button.
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3 deviants said You need a new color scheme.
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:iconadrianecasini:
AdrianeCasini Featured By Owner 2 days ago
Thank you so much for the Llama! Please feel yourself invited to take a look at my gallery anytime! Consider checking out my commission info and watching me, so you can get a FREE ticket to my Art Raffle that will be coming this October! 
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:iconatlantima:
Atlantima Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
Happ Birf!!
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:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thk Yu!! :XD:
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:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018   Writer
:iconhappybirthdaycakeplz: <-omg. can't find what i want, but you get the idea. :sing: happy happy!
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:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Cake is cake is good :lol:
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:iconsparkydjm1:
SparkyDJM1 Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday Lauren :hug: :heart: :cake:
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:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you!
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:iconsparkydjm1:
SparkyDJM1 Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome :huggle:
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:iconguardianmajor:
GuardianMajor Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018  Professional General Artist
:party: Happy Birthday!
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:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you :D
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