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About Literature / Artist KaeUnited States Group :iconexpose-lit: Expose-Lit
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Dawn :iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 3 1
Literature
The Things that Keep me Breathing
Vast office windows and shady oak trees,
soft ukulele tunes and the flow of black ink,
an overcast day and a melancholy yet content feeling.
The vintage bead necklace from India around my neck,
the thought of learning one more language,
and going back to Italy someday for more gelato.
Being surrounded by the books I've hoarded
and imagining I'll read them all eventually.
Making to-do lists and checking things off,
a collection of seashells,
my late grandmother's quilts,
and the knowledge that I get it all from her.
The cat napping somewhere
in the safe home I've provided to her
so she probably doesn't even remember the street
or the crowded animal shelter I found her in.
The ghost of a smile I have even on my worst days,
thanks to the people who give me a reason
to put on my shoes and get out of my head,
and being told my face transforms
when the corners of my mouth and eyes are lifted.
The awareness that although sometimes
I feel insignificant,
I am leaving my footprints in the dirt
a
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Literature
Charybdis
One perfect lie wells in your eye
and drips unreservedly from its center
like eye drops they give bad actors
so they don't have to really cry.
The day we met, I said you had ocean eyes:
blue-gray and so full of salt they could burst.
Now I see the utter stillness there
that exists in the eye of a hurricane.
The collective words you spout are alluring,
a whirlpool attempting to reel me back in,
each scripted apology a rip current
pulling me farther from the shoreline I cling to.
But I know they're just crocodile tears,
and I won't let you pull me under again.
:iconSurrealCachinnation:SurrealCachinnation
:iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 6 3
Literature
Chain-writer
I go through pens like
some people go through cigarettes,
holding each between two fingers
and wringing them for ink
until they're spent
and I'm back to Office Depot,
at the register with another pack.
Every time I un-cap a pen
and watch words billow from it
as I exhale all my migraines,
all I can think about is
how absolutely perfect this feels.
When you're a chain-writer
all you care about are those moments
between poems or stories or
whatever it is you write,
when there is nothing else on earth
but you and your 5-pack of pilots.
I can quit whenever I want to,
but I never want to quit.
:iconSurrealCachinnation:SurrealCachinnation
:iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 8 7
Literature
In Support of Permanence
That tattoo on your wrist is beautiful,
symbolic of the many battle scars,
you earned when you fought
and won, despite everything.
Some people don't understand
the lines of defiant poetry
scribbled in your notebook, and
on your heart, and the significance
of the ink scrawled on your wrist.
They don't understand
that some wars are unending
and every day you wake up
you're still fighting--they can't see it.
Your body is your masterpiece,
a testament to your fortitude,
your resilience;
If you want to adorn it
with ink and glinting bits of metal,
it's your call and yours alone.
Nobody can tell you not to;
They have no control
over a body that isn't theirs.
A tattoo is eternal, and some things
are worth committing to memory,
so wear your stripes with pride,
and let them hear you roar.
:iconSurrealCachinnation:SurrealCachinnation
:iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 9 12
Literature
Memory #002: Snowball Fight
Snow days in Georgia were rare, and rarer still were the kind where we’d be let out of school early.  We all wore socks on our hands, claimed countries, and forged alliances.  You’d think we were small children, but I’d recently turned 17.  While Leah and Natalie waited to ambush us, Raven and I retreated from the battlefield, snowflakes clinging to our clothes and hair.  Raven was newest to the group, but there was something about her I was immediately and inexplicably drawn to.  I told her things I’d never told another soul as we explored the neighborhood.  We traded secrets that condensed and floated in the cold night air and decided to just stop being flightless humans for a while.
:iconSurrealCachinnation:SurrealCachinnation
:iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 3 5
Literature
I am Not a Season
Do not compare my face to an even blanket of snow,
for my lips are not a pair of cardinals
standing still on a glassy, frozen lake.
I am not so cold; there's a warmth inside me
that's greater than any log cabin's hearth.
Nothing about my smile resembles wildflowers
blooming in timeless mountain meadows
under skies dotted with clouds and laced with sunshine.
Although I delight in time spent beneath the wisteria,
I am nothing compared to a bright, fresh bouquet.
While the sun kisses my freckled shoulders,
I long to retreat to the shade; the cicadas
are better suited to this easy kind of tune than I.
I am not youthful innocence personified,
and like ice cream, I melt in the scorching heat.
My curls are not a cascade of falling leaves,
and though I have irises the color of moss,
I am not the brittle crunching underfoot.
While I love the crispness of the azure sky,
I'm hardly equal to pumpkin pie or a twilight hay ride.
I am not a year you can dissect and dissect again,
and I am not a seaso
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:iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 8 14
Literature
Memory #001: Advice from my Mom
“Why are you so pale?” Max asked with an ugly sneer.  “Do you ever go outside?”
I usually sat by myself on the school bus; the other kids on it were hardly potential friends.  Most of them were older than I was, and the ones in my grade still remembered me from elementary school as “Crybaby Kaelyn.”
Max shoved my backpack out of the way and plopped down beside me.  I warned him that he better move, and he didn’t, so I shoved him with all my might—which, for a preteen girl, really wasn’t a lot.  I yelled, he yelled, and the bus driver, a usually quiet and friendly black man with salt and pepper hair, raised his voice and told me to come sit up front.
When I got home, I told my mom what happened.  She lectured me for resorting to violence, but then she gave me a piece of advice I’d (mostly) never forget: Everyone has something good about them.  She told me to remember that the next time someone was
:iconSurrealCachinnation:SurrealCachinnation
:iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 3 6
Literature
Red, Yellow, and Blue
Too poor to purchase more art supplies, I learned to paint only with primary colors; I covered canvas after canvas--or reclaimed wood when it was a choice between painting or eating--with saturated sentiment.  Canary yellow was the color of the dress you wore the day we met--and it harmonized perfectly with your straw colored hair--while cadmium red matched both your tempting scarlet lips and the fire I saw in your eyes.  But ultramarine blue didn't suit you, and I never once used it until the day God or Guilt or some Guy stole you from me.
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:iconsurrealcachinnation:SurrealCachinnation 17 22
Literature
The Things We Never Outgrow
Growing up, my brother Max and I spent hours every summer evening chasing and catching fireflies.  We'd poke holes in the lids of mason jars, grab our nets, and run outside the moment the sun had set.  Sometimes we'd compete and see who could catch the most by the time our mom called us inside.  They meant everything to me; I even had white Christmas lights strung along the canopy over my bed and pretended they were fireflies.  And every year when the summer ended and the fireflies stopped coming, we'd be so disappointed, but then he'd suggest we start planning for Halloween, and I'd perk right up.
I wanted to do everything like Max--I struggled to learn to write with my right hand like he did, I pushed myself until I could keep up with him when we rode our bikes, and Mom swears I threw an absolute fit when dad had to explain to me why Max could pee standing up and I couldn't.
Max was three years older than me.  When we were both still kids, you'd never know it
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Literature
My Most Unflattering Sonnet
My last girlfriend broke up with me because I compared her to an elephant.
In retrospect, I can see why she may have been upset; girls are really sensitive about their bodies because of the media's obsession with anorexia and thigh gaps and whatnot, and when most people think of elephants, I guess the first thing that comes to mind is "large."  But she was too good for clichés, so instead of comparing her neck to a swan's, I said it was like the trunk of an elephant, and like Shakespeare in Sonnet 130, I didn't go on about anything as superficial as her looks, I wrote instead of her intelligence and undying compassion.
Then again, maybe she was just a stupid, selfish bitch who wouldn't know poetry if freaking Walt Whitman rose from his grave, jotted something down, and shouted it in her face.
:iconSurrealCachinnation:SurrealCachinnation
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Literature
Narelle's New Pet
One day when Narelle was walking through the woods, she happened upon a most curious thing: there was a little dragon curled up under a big oak tree.  The dragon looked quite sad; its large, golden eyes stared at the ground, and it barely stirred as she approached it.
"Are you okay?" Narelle asked, carefully approaching the dragon.  "Did you lose your mother?"
The dragon turned its head toward Narelle and let out a sigh, smoke rising from its nostrils.  It didn't frown--that would be silly, dragons can't frown, after all--but Narelle could tell it was lonely.  It opened its mouth and made a groaning sound.
"Are you hungry?" Narelle asked, tilting her head to the side.
The dragon groaned again and a bit more smoke rose from its nostrils.
Narelle patted its head and smiled.
"I'll be right back, okay?  Stay right here."
She ran through the woods, weaving her way between the trees, until she came to its edge and saw her house.  Her father was carrying firewood
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Literature
The Ideal Bookshelf
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland would sit on the end, propped up by an ampersand.  We read it together when we were eight, if you recall.  Some of the words were unfamiliar, but the riddles and poems made us giggle, and we dreamed of Cheshire cats and had our mad tea parties in the attic.  We longed for our own Wonderland where anything impossible would be.
Next would be The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which helped us through that awful transition period between childhood and adulthood.  You were the mysterious someone I wrote to, always sending my love, even though we'd never meet face to face.
Beside Perks--you hated it when I called it that--would be Memoirs of a Geisha, the book that changed our lives.  We became homesick for places we'd never been, wanting to experience it all--dance like a geisha, hunt exotic animals in Africa, storm the Bastille.  After that book, we'd nev
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Literature
Hairball the Clown
My job is one people like to joke about, but it’s not half as easy as it looks.  I’m a clown.  White face paint, red nose, crazy, rainbow wig, the works.  I wear humungous shoes, slip on banana peels, and do the most difficult thing in the world to do: make people laugh.
When I was a kid, my teachers would ask us what we wanted to be when we grew up.  I’d always say I wanted to be a clown.  I’d get teased—“Oh, perfect, you already have the frizzy red hair!”—or people wouldn’t believe me—“Aren’t you a little too serious to be a clown?”
But, what could I say?  It was my dream.  I grew up going to the circus year after year, attending fairs and carnivals, watching all the different clowns’ styles as they made me giggle.  I yearned for the opportunity to go to clown school and learn all the secrets to comedy—everything from timing to the art of falling flat on y
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Literature
Gone with the Tide
Her footprints remained in the sand long after she left, like her voice remained in my heart.  It’s been two years; the tide erased her a long time ago, but I can still see her there when I smell the salt of the sea and feel the wind whipping through my hair.
Charisma took me by the hand and I thought she’d never let go.  We were children on a playdate, tagging along with our mothers to the beach.  We shared sticks of rock candy and she showed me the beauty of sea glass.
“It’s formed by pieces of broken glass tumbling around in the ocean,” she explained.  “The best kind is from shipwrecks.  The glass is really old, and it’s the prettiest.  And there’s something so tragic about it.”
Our mothers would pace up and down the boardwalk, keeping an eye on us as we played in the sand and foamy waves.  As we grew up, they gave us more freedom.  Sometimes I’d have spending money and buy us ice cre
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Literature
The Final Battle
I was cooking myself some dinner when the world ended.  The pork chops sizzled on the stove, slowly turning from hot pink to golden, and nightfall was fast approaching.  Through the kitchen window, I watched the sun sink lower and lower, closer and closer to the horizon.
Scraps sat by the door, barking occasionally as if trying to talk to me.  He watched me cook, his head cocked to the side, silently begging me for a taste--I did name him Scraps for a reason.  When the pork chops were done, I removed them from the stove and inhaled their delicious scent.
"Oh, all right, boy," I said and tossed him one.
My stomach began to growl angrily with hunger.  I quickly devoured two pork chops and stored the rest in my fridge.  Scraps had begun barking again, but his barks took on a different tone; he thought something was out there.
I approached the window and peered through it.  Nothing looked out of place; birch trees dotted the yard, a light placed un
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Favourites

Kiki's Delivery Service by Yoncco Kiki's Delivery Service :iconyoncco:Yoncco 1,854 65 Meili Snow Mountain - Shangri-La by Furiousxr Meili Snow Mountain - Shangri-La :iconfuriousxr:Furiousxr 496 26 Dove by LeeshaHannigan Dove :iconleeshahannigan:LeeshaHannigan 429 16 Ides by autumnicity Ides :iconautumnicity:autumnicity 69 4
Literature
the preoccupation of st. lament
knives eager,
not-quite-spine tasting.
curvature in goddess thirst
flirts with betrayal
of skin tension.
already rasping
in platelet tones, darling
my aches are no
unknowns, my patiences
prone to dangerous
roams.
rain, be ancient
and droning. wash
this clamor from
bastard canals
with no preciousness.
i am exigent, meager,
not close to comfort
nor correction. did i mention
the relent of my
bled lips?
said this
in blank verse
to match my stare.
puncture now
while i am
elsewhere.
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 21 6
Literature
synapse lapse
i am no part;
your breaths keep
time and space
ragged.
you are arriving:
smirk on your shadow
speaks, dirt in the meadow
leaps up from earth.
i see the ivy
meet, twist off your undersized
sandals, keep pressure where
preciousness flew.
you like the way
the path echoes,
i am no part.
you are held:
cold in the woozy eve
freaking out, wondering how
the barks constrict.
i see the scent
tempt, soft in the creases
of devotion, of pure
indiscretion, of hemp.
you like the waver
of constellations,
i am no part.
you are left:
gasping, contorting,
rashly prying, stung
like dying is the best love.
I see symmetry
hoping this holds,
beckoning slow waves
and unkempt sheets.
you like the raise
under your grip,
i am no part.
you are one
part of a
ghost sting,
arch over where
i should be
and dismantle
my humanity.
you, like the wraith
of my petrichor,
silently part.
i am not art;
my breast seeps
while my face
is gagged.
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord
:icongliitchlord:gliitchlord 20 5
Journal
The Numbers That Define You
Ever since WeirdAndLovely got me started with the Sex-Positive movement, I've been gobbling up a lot of the media it's generated. Recently, a new show was picked up on one of my favorite cable channels, Comedy Central, called Not Safe, hosted by comedienne Nikki Glaser. On the show there is a recurring segment about numbers based around the idea that people put too much importance on the numbers that don't matter (how many partners someone has had, how fast/slow someone does something, etc), so the host of the show went out and asked people questions (how many orgasms in a day, how many times have you injured yourself during sex, how many etc). The guest comedians would only see a clip of what the number that person was on the show then would guess from a pool of answers and a picture of the person, before finding out which answer was correct.
I liked this premise because as we go through life, we rack up statistics, and some of these numbers people aren't necessarily proud of and som
:iconNichrysalis:Nichrysalis
:iconnichrysalis:Nichrysalis 1 69
Red Pathway III by Aenea-Jones Red Pathway III :iconaenea-jones:Aenea-Jones 1,205 33 Kira by NerySoul Kira :iconnerysoul:NerySoul 391 25 Spaghetti by RoyalNoir Spaghetti :iconroyalnoir:RoyalNoir 3,816 312 HubCat detail by HubcapCreatures HubCat detail :iconhubcapcreatures:HubcapCreatures 301 38
Journal
Ranting about Race in MLP Humanizations
Hiya, folks. So I've been pretty into doodling humanized ponies lately, and I've also been looking through a lot of humanized art. And I've noticed a few things about the way people comment on humanizations. Particularly when it comes to the way that artists might interpret a canon pony character's race or nationality. Strap in, this is gonna get rant-y.
Ready? Okay. First off:
None of the ponies have an assigned human race or design. No fan interpretation is more correct than another.
Lauren Faust herself has said that the ponies' fur color has no significance in assigning a human race for them. And of course, the mane six have the exact same pony model, so possibilities are endless when imagining human body types to give them. So if that's true, why do I see so many fans getting outright hostile when an artist humanizes a pony in a way they don't like? Especially when the humanization isn't White. Or fat, or just a bit curvy. Or wearing clothes the commenter doesn't lik
:iconLopoddity:Lopoddity
:iconlopoddity:Lopoddity 518 657
Where are you, Rachel? by MityaDemitsky Where are you, Rachel? :iconmityademitsky:MityaDemitsky 1,565 98 Skyfire by Aenea-Jones Skyfire :iconaenea-jones:Aenea-Jones 692 18

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Summer, Plans, and Inspiration

Journal Entry: Sat Jul 30, 2016, 1:23 PM


I can't believe that July is almost over.

I can't believe that it will be August in two days.

I can't believe that I'm going back to college in a couple weeks.

And most of all, I can't believe how happy I've been.

I've submitted two poems this week (one a couple of days ago, the other just a moment ago) and I'm working on more writing.  Both poetry and prose, and I have a big, long-term project planned that I'll talk about pretty soon.  Like, it's huge.  It will probably take at least a couple of years.  And it will keep me active on dA while I work on it, because I will be submitting a large quantity of things and I will want feedback.

I have a general idea of what classes I'll be taking my first semester back--just the minimum twelve hours (well, probably thirteen because I need to take a science + lab course).  I don't get to sign up until a couple of days before classes begin, which is NUTS, but that's how they do it, apparently.  I'm a little worried about getting textbooks on time so that I don't fall behind, but worst case scenario, there are probably e-books I could buy and access instantly.  I prefer physical copies, but mostly I want to start the year right.

When I finish typing this, I'm off to Alabama for the weekend.  We're visiting some space center tomorrow, and I guess tonight we're just going to spend time with some family.  I feel more and more, the older I get, that travel is a need.  If I stay put, I don't feel inspired, I sink into a boring routine, and I get restless legs.  Even a short trip to a neighboring state is something worth doing, though I'd prefer to be seeing other regions, other countries.  Someday.

I've been thinking about inspiration this week--mostly what inspires me, what inspires other artists, how art is this huge collaborative thing because an artist can't work in total isolation.

I noticed that one of the last poems I submitted before my year long hiatus was influenced by another poem I had read.  The title of my last journal entry was a line from a famous poem that I thought was relevant.  I'm collecting a lot of art, though I'm being more picky about what I favorite because I'm trying to curate an inspiring collection.

I read a poem by gliitchlord that was inspired by a drawing by autumnicity and loved to see how their pieces compliment each other.

the preoccupation of st. lamentknives eager,
not-quite-spine tasting.
curvature in goddess thirst
flirts with betrayal
of skin tension.
already rasping
in platelet tones, darling
my aches are no
unknowns, my patiences
prone to dangerous
roams.
rain, be ancient
and droning. wash
this clamor from
bastard canals
with no preciousness.
i am exigent, meager,
not close to comfort
nor correction. did i mention
the relent of my
bled lips?
said this
in blank verse
to match my stare.
puncture now
while i am
elsewhere.
  Ides by autumnicity

I have a challenge for anyone reading this (and for myself, of course).  I want you to go find a piece of art somewhere on dA that really grabs you, and I want you to let it inspire you to create something new.  If you do it, comment here with your piece and your source of inspiration.

Skin by SimplySilent
  • Reading: Harry Potter series (reread)
  • Playing: Fallout 4 DLC

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SurrealCachinnation's Profile Picture
SurrealCachinnation
Kae
Artist | Literature
United States
I am currently pursuing a double major in Psychology and Spanish as a college student in her mid-twenties, and writing in my copious free time. I think of myself as a Renaissance woman--pretty good at a lot of different things, but perhaps not a true master of anything.
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:iconincadincadoo:
IncaDincaDoo Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2017
Hey there. Happy Birthday! :)
Reply
:iconlarathain:
Larathain Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2016
Happy birthday! May it be a day of perfect weather and joyful bliss! One you'll enjoy to often offer reminisce.
Reply
:iconstarlightshoals:
StarlightShoals Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday!!!! :happybounce::squee::party:
Reply
:iconhopeburnsblue:
hopeburnsblue Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2015  Professional Writer
Thanks for the :+fav: on "Letters to Myself," Kaelyn! :iconheartglompplz:
Reply
:iconsurrealcachinnation:
SurrealCachinnation Featured By Owner Mar 10, 2015   Writer
You're very welcome, Mel! :heart:
Reply
:iconclockchat:
Clockchat Featured By Owner Nov 15, 2014
Hello! Thank you so much for making a favorite out of my deviation "Remover!" That was a looong time ago, but I've been practically extinct from dA up until yesterday, and couldn't recall if I had thanked you...Better safe than sorry! Thanks a plenty, friend!
Reply
:iconbetwixtthepages:
betwixtthepages Featured By Owner Oct 13, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
We all know you're wonderful, but in case you've forgotten for a moment, here's a reminder--

YOU DID SOMETHING AWESOME TODAY! 

:eager: by darkmoon3636 :squee: Party High-five! Party :squee: :eager: by darkmoon3636

To see what nice thing you've been accused of doing (and who else is being recognized), find the widget by the same name on my profile page!

Helpful hint:  It's above the Stamp Box of Doom!

Have a wonderful rest of your day!
Reply
:iconjade-pandora:
Jade-Pandora Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2014
:iconcakeplx: mmmm, Happy Birthday, Kaelyn! :lmao: "all 5 of you" 2 funny!
Reply
:iconsurrealcachinnation:
SurrealCachinnation Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014   Writer
Thank you!  :giggle:
Reply
:iconautumnleaf167:
AutumnLeaf167 Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday to you!
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