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About Varied / Hobbyist My precious...does not know...Female/United States Group :iconrealizing-fantasy: Realizing-Fantasy
 
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Another wacko dramatic sort of dream:

There is a man, a man somewhat like James Bond, somewhat like Lawrence of Arabia ('Awrence!!!!), with the useful addition of magical healing capabilities. He is a Byronic hero: tall, dark, and handsome, also moody and untalkative. This will be his downfall. He has just completed a daring secret mission (which you are free to imagine), which entailed stealing a powerful relic that sucks up all forms of magic, including our hero's healing powers as long as it is nearby. He's a little scraped up. Upon escaping the evil former owners of this object, he nonchalantly steals a convenient motorcycle and speeds across the country with his ill-but-also-nobly-gotten gains. He arrives unexpectedly at the secret Collective of Vigilantes (magical and non-magical, fighters and scientists alike), and doesn't bother to report to anyone where he was and what he was doing and what he brought back with him. He arrogantly believes he doesn't need to, not until the Other arrives, the one to whom he will give the Magic-Eater to use for all that is Good.

He stands upon the steps to the building that houses the Collective, talking with one of the more intellectually-inclined members, when they are very rudely interrupted by someone on the street. This person is a middle-aged man with a love of Harley Davidson and a history of petty crimes, who was quite saddened by the sorry state of our hero's "borrowed" bike when he came across it, abandoned, in an alley nearby. Therefore, he rescued the poor thing, discovered the owner's contact information on vehicle, called, and learned that it had been stolen from a young man on the other side of the country who had just inherited it from his dead father; and he learned the description of the thief, and realized that he had in fact seen this very thief frequenting the unassuming building which, unbeknownst to him, was the secret headquarters of the Collective. He decided this vagabond deserved to be punished, so he called the police, of course, and it all worked out through official channels. But actually, no, he did not call the police. Instead, he has come to confront the transgressor, our Byronic hero, in person.

When faced with accusations of gross immorality with regards to stealing personal property, our hero is unimpressed. He laughs. He does not care about the accusations, because there are no consequences that he fears, and, after all, what he did was for both his own good and for the good of the world. What does it matter if some grieving no-longer-a-child a thousand miles away is slightly more bereaved? The middle-aged lover of motorcycles is not amused by this cavalier attitude. He draws a handgun and shoots the thief, striking him in the side of the neck, before leaping onto his own bike and speeding away. The intellectually-inclined vigilante conversationalist, who had been silent throughout this tense exchange except for shrieking as he was sprayed with his friend's blood, kneels down to help the fallen Byronic victim of his own hubris, who inexplicably is not healing as is his wont. Instead, he is bleeding profusely, one arm nearly paralyzed from the gunshot, the other feebly working to detach a pouch at his waist. Unfortunately for our hero, his intellectually-inclined companion does not know that the pouch contains the Magic Eater, and that all that is required is to throw the thing far away. Instead, the significantly panicked intellectually-inclined companion attempts to apply pressure to the wound while a bystander calls for help and himself searches the inside of the proffered pouch one-handedly, looking for something helpful. There is a strange, unidentifiable metal object that is not helpful (except it would have been, had it been relocated to someplace that is not here, but there is no one around who knows to do that, because no one has been told what it is). There are some other objects that are not helpful. There is also a roll of duct tape, which the intellectually-inclined but not medically-trained man uses to stick a wad of cloth over the wound. This is not helpful. Our hero dies.

Thus, my child, when you are flirting with the shadow of death, tell someone, so that they may help you when you are helpless.

The end.

I wasn't actually listening to John Lennon's "God" recently, but it seems highly appropriate.

For anyone who likes reading this sort of thing, let it be known that there is actually a mini-series of my bizarrely cinematic dream-related journals here--all the more recent ones have the word "dream" in the title.

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I sorted the journals: all the ones in the "Featured" folder are dream-related.  And then there's the "all journal entries" folder with everything.
Another wacko dramatic sort of dream:

There is a man, a man somewhat like James Bond, somewhat like Lawrence of Arabia ('Awrence!!!!), with the useful addition of magical healing capabilities. He is a Byronic hero: tall, dark, and handsome, also moody and untalkative. This will be his downfall. He has just completed a daring secret mission (which you are free to imagine), which entailed stealing a powerful relic that sucks up all forms of magic, including our hero's healing powers as long as it is nearby. He's a little scraped up. Upon escaping the evil former owners of this object, he nonchalantly steals a convenient motorcycle and speeds across the country with his ill-but-also-nobly-gotten gains. He arrives unexpectedly at the secret Collective of Vigilantes (magical and non-magical, fighters and scientists alike), and doesn't bother to report to anyone where he was and what he was doing and what he brought back with him. He arrogantly believes he doesn't need to, not until the Other arrives, the one to whom he will give the Magic-Eater to use for all that is Good.

He stands upon the steps to the building that houses the Collective, talking with one of the more intellectually-inclined members, when they are very rudely interrupted by someone on the street. This person is a middle-aged man with a love of Harley Davidson and a history of petty crimes, who was quite saddened by the sorry state of our hero's "borrowed" bike when he came across it, abandoned, in an alley nearby. Therefore, he rescued the poor thing, discovered the owner's contact information on vehicle, called, and learned that it had been stolen from a young man on the other side of the country who had just inherited it from his dead father; and he learned the description of the thief, and realized that he had in fact seen this very thief frequenting the unassuming building which, unbeknownst to him, was the secret headquarters of the Collective. He decided this vagabond deserved to be punished, so he called the police, of course, and it all worked out through official channels. But actually, no, he did not call the police. Instead, he has come to confront the transgressor, our Byronic hero, in person.

When faced with accusations of gross immorality with regards to stealing personal property, our hero is unimpressed. He laughs. He does not care about the accusations, because there are no consequences that he fears, and, after all, what he did was for both his own good and for the good of the world. What does it matter if some grieving no-longer-a-child a thousand miles away is slightly more bereaved? The middle-aged lover of motorcycles is not amused by this cavalier attitude. He draws a handgun and shoots the thief, striking him in the side of the neck, before leaping onto his own bike and speeding away. The intellectually-inclined vigilante conversationalist, who had been silent throughout this tense exchange except for shrieking as he was sprayed with his friend's blood, kneels down to help the fallen Byronic victim of his own hubris, who inexplicably is not healing as is his wont. Instead, he is bleeding profusely, one arm nearly paralyzed from the gunshot, the other feebly working to detach a pouch at his waist. Unfortunately for our hero, his intellectually-inclined companion does not know that the pouch contains the Magic Eater, and that all that is required is to throw the thing far away. Instead, the significantly panicked intellectually-inclined companion attempts to apply pressure to the wound while a bystander calls for help and himself searches the inside of the proffered pouch one-handedly, looking for something helpful. There is a strange, unidentifiable metal object that is not helpful (except it would have been, had it been relocated to someplace that is not here, but there is no one around who knows to do that, because no one has been told what it is). There are some other objects that are not helpful. There is also a roll of duct tape, which the intellectually-inclined but not medically-trained man uses to stick a wad of cloth over the wound. This is not helpful. Our hero dies.

Thus, my child, when you are flirting with the shadow of death, tell someone, so that they may help you when you are helpless.

The end.

I wasn't actually listening to John Lennon's "God" recently, but it seems highly appropriate.

For anyone who likes reading this sort of thing, let it be known that there is actually a mini-series of my bizarrely cinematic dream-related journals here--all the more recent ones have the word "dream" in the title.
In the latest of my utterly bizarre dreams, my sister and I were some sort of demon fairies on a mission to do some magical gobbledegook for official End of Times business.  But we looked exactly like regular people, except for some flickering behind the eyes.  In order to complete our business, we required a safe space outdoors or a room with a large south-facing window.  We also required lots of food.  The other equipment we already had.  Unfortunately, due to other official End of Times business, outdoors wasn't really shaping up to be the best workspace with 70 mph wind and sinister green sky, and we were deprived of the necessary funds to legally acquire a room with a large south-facing window or lots of food.  Fortunately, since it was the End of Times, we didn't figure these hurdles were that important.  So, as we were walking around looking for suitable spaces, we casually stole the candy and snacks and so on that people keep in opportune places.  We went into a hotel and magically unlocked random rooms to see if they were suitable.  They generally weren't, until we came to the pool room attached to a large lounge area, with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, including south.  It was perfect.  So we set up shop on an unoccupied couch near the corner and got to work--we had a contraption to set up to facilitate the opening of a Mystical Portal, which was probably going to rain fiery death over the land, or else let in some immortal ruler, who knows?

The only drawback from our perspective was the friendly humans.  You see, friendly humans can get curious about and interfere with demon fairy business, and if they get too close, they can recognize us, or just get contaminated with demon fairy magic and spontaneously combust.  And humans nowadays are trained to recognize when they have been contaminated; it's a public health mandate.  So, some random girl comes over from the other side of the room to see what we're up to.  She pokes around for a bit.  She says chatty things.  She eats one of our cookies.  She gets contaminated.  She realizes what has happened, recognizes what we are and that we're probably up to no good, and does the only sensible thing--she breaks through a window and runs out into the howling wind in search of a fire hydrant.  We see she is starting to glow on the edges.  Now everyone in the room is staring out at her, and at us.  We try to blend in, staring around in mock-confusion and fear, but we also pick up the pace with the portal contraption.  As soon as another human gets up from his table and starts walking in our direction with a less friendly look on his face, all bets are off.  We cram as much energy into ourselves as possible in seconds, littering the floors with candy wrappers.  My sister melds her hands into the portal to complete the necessary spells, while I get up to intercept our visitor.  I don't want to hurt him or contaminate him or anything like that.  I just want him to leave us alone long enough to welcome the demon overlords from beyond the portal.  Is that so much to ask?
“You know how in Harry Potter book three Ron gets all worked up because Harry saw a ‘Grim,’ a big black shaggy dog, which of course turned out to be Sirius, but Ron said was a death omen?”

“Yes”

“Traditionally, ravens are like that in the real world.  They’re supposed to be death omens.  Because they scavenge I guess.  ‘Battlefield birds’ and all that.  When you see one, it is a memento mori.  You should automatically stop what you’re doing and contemplate mortality.  All your life, everything you do, is eventually going to come to a screeching halt in one instant of blank futility.  Any and all preparation will be meaningless.  There is nothing you can do.  Whatever you want is immaterial.  You are helpless.  ‘Quoth the raven, Nevermore.’”

“…Why do you come up with these things?  We were talking about ice cream flavors.  It was a much more pleasant conversation.”

“Well, I’m a writer, don’t you know.  It’s part of the job to be constantly thinking about weird stuff, going on inspired tangents, seeing symbolism—that’s how you make a new story.  And there was a big black bird back there.”

“Whatever.  This is my street anyways.  See you later.”

The two friends parted ways, one to her night job in the local Irish Pub as a bartender, one to her night job in a cramped studio apartment as an aspiring novelist.  They both were low-level paper-pushers during the day at an insurance office.  After a long day of utter boredom, the novelist was ready to write.  She had daydreamed her way through the sticking point in the plot today, she was certain.  When she got home, the words would flow onto the page like so much water in a spring flood.

The novelist pounded up the three flights of stairs to the top of the building, jammed her key in the lock, and flung open the creaky door to her attic-cum-apartment.  She kicked off her shoes into one messy corner, started the kettle, and changed out of her uncomfortable office attire into T-shirt and jeans.  She hastily grabbed tea and cold pizza, then settled down at her tiny writing desk by the window and booted up the computer.  There was her book, all five completed chapters and thirty pages of outlining.  She took a gulp of tea, cracked her knuckles, clicked the cursor down the page, and set her fingers to the keys.  And she was off, fingers flying:

“Chapter six.”  Wait, backspace, backspace, backspace, “6.”  Enter.  Enter.

Wait.

Shit.

Everything, all her thoughts and preparation through all the day, came to a screeching halt.  She had the Plot in her mind, but no words to put to page.  She hissed in frustration, then grimly, determinedly, painstakingly, began to write.  She wrote sentences.  But that’s about all they were.  Sentences.  Divided into paragraphs.  Slow.  Clunky.  Constantly reworked, with many deletions, many hesitations.  After half an hour of anguished struggle, the novelist took a bite of pizza and reread the paltry two pages she had created.  The words were meaningless, magicless.  Sighing, she deleted the worthless script and started the chapter anew, taking another bite of pizza and gulp of tea first.  After half an hour, she leaned back to stare helplessly at the single page she had completed.  It was worthless.  

She turned the computer off for a bit.  Finished her tasteless food.  Straightened up a bit around the room, cast frowns and glares and looks of pleading back at the uncaring desk and smug computer sitting on it.  After a while, there was nothing left to do in this tiny attic space.  No dishes to clean, no clothes to fold, no furniture to dust, no books to read, no words to write.  She sat on her bed and stared across the room at the writing desk.  Every night, it seemed, no matter what she did during the day, when she was finally home and ready to write, the damn desk only offered one word.  “Nevermore.”
Sorry for the lack of artsing lately--busy-ness has been busy, and I've been doing more writing sorts of things.

deviantID

Neferneferuaten
My precious...does not know...
Artist | Hobbyist | Varied
United States
Neferneferaten means "beautiful are the beauties of Aten," which I know sounds a little conceited. Let it be known, though, that I chose that name for its historical value rather than to describe myself. I wrote a paper on the Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaten, and I very much enjoyed his daughter's names.

I do better landscapes than anything else. I don't have the patience or the finesse to do fine detail on a complicated foreground element.
I enjoy anatomy, Medieval history, fantasy, Medieval poetry, and doing things outside.

Current Residence: where I am
deviantWEAR sizing preference: medium
Favourite genre of music: classical
Favourite style of art: I like to draw and paint, but I like looking at sculpture
Favourite cartoon character: The Professor from Futurama
Personal Quote: "It is important to cultivate a sense of whimsey"----me
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:iconcakecatlady:
Cakecatlady Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the fav!Meow :3 
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:iconneferneferuaten:
Neferneferuaten Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
No problem!
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:iconthedaemonic:
TheDaemonic Featured By Owner Sep 18, 2013
Thanks for faving my piece 'Turning the Tide'! <3
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:iconneferneferuaten:
Neferneferuaten Featured By Owner Sep 19, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome.  Just gotta love decent Jennifer Fallon Fanfic!
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:iconyasminamihaylovna:
YasminaMihaylovna Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
I have decided that I should draw Strell being menacing.  It shall happen when I next have a chance.
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:iconneferneferuaten:
Neferneferuaten Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist

Good idea.  Who shall he be menacing?

 

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:iconyasminamihaylovna:
YasminaMihaylovna Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
The masters, maybe.  Or just generally menacing.
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:iconstirzocular:
Stirzocular Featured By Owner Sep 8, 2013
thanks for faving Tol Sirion!
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:iconneferneferuaten:
Neferneferuaten Featured By Owner Sep 8, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Your welcome!
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:icons-kmp:
s-kmp Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2013
:w00t: Thanks for the Fave on [link] :)
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