#A Translation of the Dream

[mollymagician]

Been battling with the Writing Paralysis Demons

Here, have I come bearing a chunk of spooky street-artist Dream-verse

One thing they don’t talk about, in the grand tradition of stories about some poor sod who’s suddenly discovered that Magic Is Real And Nothing Is What It Seems, is that afterward you still have to get the laundry done.

Magic is real, and you still need clean pants.

Magic is real and you still need to go round the shops for milk.

It’s been three days since he discovered conclusively that Magic Is Real, and Hob is tired. Everything seems to take longer, he can’t concentrate on anything. He estimates that at least 75% of his brain is currently being used up processing a completely new world view, and tries to cut himself some slack. He read somewhere that it takes the human nervous system around 23 days to adjust to a new normal, which means twenty more days of feeling as though he’s been hit by a bat while also trying to learn a foreign language that no one else can hear.

Magic is real and now it’s Friday and Friday means takeaway and bad telly, at least it has these past few months. Five o’clock found him walking up the side of the Inn, balancing a pizza box from the cafe down the road and a sack of groceries. It had become habit now to scan every flat surface around the outside of the building, like someone with half an eye always out for a lucky penny. He caught himself doing it in the blue twilight—ground up, right to left, until his gaze landed on his doorway and he felt his heart quite literally leap in his chest.

The brickwork around the door leading up to his flat was decorated with…roses. Had to be roses. Green lines twisted in an angular labyrinth across the brickwork, studded here and there with small swirling vortexes in crimson.

Hobs steps crunched slowly on the gravel as he approached. He’d been gone an hour, at most. The lines of chalk were bright and fresh. In the blue twilight he could just make out a faint rain of dust caught in the crevices between the bricks, not yet blown away by the wind.

The back of his neck prickled.

He pitched his voice to carry over the quiet background clatter of the pub going about its Friday night’s business. “Evening, my friend. If you’re nearby.” He coughed to clear the cold rasp from his throat. “I know the Inn can be a riot this time of day, and I know you like your quiet. I just thought…you know, my flats just up these stairs. You could come in out of the wind. If you wanted.”

The breeze sent a piece of litter skittering across the empty yard.

“I know my word counts for fuck-all in the grand scheme of things…but I promise you’re safe here.” Resisting the urge to turn around took every ounce of willpower he currently possessed. “I don’t want to use your powers for—for nefarious purposes. I’d just like to know how you’re faring.”

Silence.

“Well…” Hob leaned over and used one foot to tip the old brick he kept nearby into the doorframe. “The door’s open. And. There’s pizza. If you’re interested.” Before the sensation of being a monumental idiot could freeze him to the ground, he turned and started up the stairs. The door thunked against the brick as it swung nearly shut, muffling the sound of the wind.

He managed not to run up the darkened stairwell, but it was a near thing.

[contradictorypenguin]

I had a dream last night that I was trying to translate something into Italian and I discovered that Google Translate had added several languages that weren't,,, actually languages?

Like they had one called 'Neurotypical' that took cryptic double-meanings and made them straight-forward, and they had one called 'Corporate' that translated bureaucratic bullshit into plain words, but the one that I remember most clearly was called 'Passive-Aggressive Asshole,' and it looked like this -

In the dream I also put in "You're so welcome" and it translated it to "You'd better be grateful, you fuck."

[metamorphesque]

Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible. 

Carl Jung, “Memories, Dreams, Reflections”

I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. 

Franz Kafka, “Letters to Milena”

[sistertotheknowitall]

Jason: Thou looks and smells of an unwashed mutt of female persuasion and so does thy lover.

Steph: You’re a bitch and so’s your man.

Tim: …… Okay, but why’s he speaking like that?

[feral-ballad]

Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, from Rien ne va plus

[Text ID: “lost in space and time, like a dream.”]

[anglerflsh]

Siblings

[zu-is-here]

erased from history

In this story, Ancient Egypt is not at its best: a prolonged drought has led to crop failure and famine, weak power has led to robberies and looting. The people blame yet fear the sick pharaoh who finds a solace in the pardoned soldier... 𓁈𓀎

[teruri-ruri]

more doodles part 26445658753435.8 + bonus shion bc it was his bday the other day

[translations for what izana was saying from left to right:] Taho = filipino drink, usually consumed during breakfast tangina mo, kapal ng muka amp = fuck you, you have a thick face (that's the literal translation. it means u have no shame, or the audacity of this bitch or something), amp (shortened for amputa = bitch) gago ka ba = are you a fool? (i think? im not sure, some ppl say gago means asshole i.e. 'gago ka' - ur an asshole)

[vaguely-concerned]

on the one hand I think inner demons could stand to have a bit more romanced rook specific content, but on the other hand the underlying in-built implication that 'yours is the one true voice of comfort and safety in my inner world' is a sentiment and intimacy so way beyond the romantic or the platonic or any secret third thing you could care to name that it makes me lose my entire poor little mind a bit. it's so big and fundamental — near-existential — that in that exact moment at least the distinctions kind of seem irrelevant.

all the people lucanis' mind conjures up along the way are relationships he has that are unavoidably mixed and fraught in some ways even when they're also full of love (they are fraught BECAUSE they're full of love) — the good in them inseparable from things that hurt him at the same time. (it's about: the basic disorganized attachment patterns this poor guy is dragging around with him. careful with those, they're dellamorte heirlooms. what you love also inevitably hurts you and you won't be allowed to have one without the other, you have to surrender parts of your soul to hold on to what little you have left: this is the story up until now.) and the idea that rook isn't that to him — that beneath the fear of wanting them when romanced (which is more its own separate thing because within this psychology, actively wanting something and not just clinging on for dear life to even a meager status quo lest you lose it is in itself dangerous bordering on catastrophic), this is a relationship where there isn't resentment, or guilt, or shame, or dread, or rage, or self-hate, or any of the other emotions that keep him paralyzed, unable to move this way or that. no debts, nothing owed of yourself and your soul's substance except what you can freely and safely and happily give. love and freedom don't coexist — but, I mean, you're almost starting to make me think........... unless...👀👀👀. the unconditional and undramatic 'you are here and I am here with you, you can be exactly how you are right now with me and it's safe for us both even though you're afraid it won't be, I'm not going anywhere' acceptance rook shows him here that he returns to them in the big romance scene, when it's rook who needs it. the way he's just. standing there in the center of it all, like a child desperately helplessly waiting to be found, hiding in the place he hopes you'll know to look first. (rook does know. it's one of the first things they say in there.)

in short the most important room in his little mind palace for the romance is the very first room — the one where rook isn't. where, in fact, rook cannot be, because they disprove the entire structure of the place with their existence and presence in his life. with everyone else he's putting words in their mouths about what they think of him, and rook is the one who actually gets to come in to speak their own words to him — and have him listen. ('he'll listen to you, he always listens to you', 'your voice is a comfort'.) of course rook isn't present anywhere else in there — at the risk of stating the obvious to a tedious degree, they aren't one of the locks, they're bringing the key. in the very finest 'the messenger and the message' sort of way.

[tshortik]

I love you messy artstyle i love you visible brush strokes I love you textures and rough edges I love you imperfections I love you roughness and colour blobs I love you scratchy sketches and bold stylisation and dirt and imperfections I love you ugly and raw emotion!!!!! ❤️

[la1npilledg1rl]

[mollymagician]

New chapter of Translation of the Dream is up.

(Finally 😬)

They walked along the river. The wind was cutting. Hob mourned the fact that he’d launched out the door with a mystical fucking banana peel in his pocket but left his hat and gloves behind. Dream walked silently beside him, looking like he didn’t feel the cold at all and somehow simultaneously like the most resigned of human popsicles, hands jammed into his coat pockets and collar turned up against the wind. Hob wished again for his gloves, at least, for a completely different reason.

They walked in silence another half block farther before Dream blurted out, “I wished to. Apologize.”

Hob looked at him, feeling the confusion plain on his face. “What in the world for?”

“For what happened that day. At the pub.”

“What, for making me think I was having a complete mental break?” Hob asked. Dream made a small distressed noise, drowned out as Hob plowed on. “Forgiven. Or for embarrassing a dickhead who was harassing my staff? No apology necessary for that, mate.”

“Hob.”

“Earned you free drinks for life as far as I’m concerned.”

Dream’s expression was pained. Hob knew he could inspire that look on just about anyone when he really got going with the razzing, but this had an extra edge it it. Dream huffed impatiently and it curled away in the chill like dragon’s breath. “It was wrong of me. To…lose my composure. I promised I’d never again…” He looked away out over the glinting dark water and hunched down further into the shelter of his woefully inadequate coat.

Hob lifted an eyebrow. “If that was you losing your composure, I’d hate to see what happens when you get properly pissed off.”

“Yes,” Dream said quietly. “You would.”

Okay, then. Hob’s mouth clicked shut and he looked straight ahead down the pavement. He was wildly out of his depth, here, and he knew it. But. He’d spent so much of his life already throwing himself into things without knowing if he would ever touch bottom, so why start now?

“Make it up to me,” he said.

Dream’s eyes flew to his face, wide and blank.

“You wanted to apologize? Make it up to me by telling me what it was I saw.”

They’d stopped walking, he realized. Dream turned to face him, gaze locked to his. It was the longest stretch of unbroken eye contact that they’d shared and Hob felt it like a charge up his spine. Whatever it was Dream was looking for, he must have found, because after a moment he tipped his head to the side and said, “This way.” Once again Hob was following.

They crossed into a narrow lane between the nearest two buildings, thankfully out of the wind. The way opened into a small common yard between three blocks of flats, shabby but clean. An elderly fountain stood in the center, looking like it had been dry for a long time. Someone had perched a pair of candles in tall glass holders on the edge, burned down far enough to stay lit in the wind that occasionally still made its way into the sheltered space.

Dream folded his gangly frame to sit on the edge of the fountain and Hob did the same, gazing around them curiously. They were alone. The windows around them were mostly dark, a few reflecting flickering late-night screen glow. He wanted to ask. Which one is yours? You know the way to my door, can I know the way to yours? The curiosity burned like a coal, but he knew better.

Dream puffed out a breath, curling steam, and said, “I can make things. Real. When I draw them with my hands.”

Hob blinked.

Dream reached into his battered satchel and drew out his sketchbook. Flipping it open, he took up the pencil that was jammed in like a bookmark and began to softly sketch. “I discovered that I was had the…ability…when I was young enough to be foolish but old enough to know it was strange. Keeping the knowledge to myself was, perhaps, the least foolish thing I have ever done.”

It was the most that Hob had heard him say at one go, as though the words had been piling up as they walked together in silence, and now he had a queue waiting to work it’s way out. It was easier to mark, now that there was more of it, how oddly formal his speech was. He spoke like he moved, as though every word needed to be set down carefully, or something would break. Hob watched his fingers guiding the pencil in careful strokes over the paper. The streetlights were too far, it was too dark in the faint flickering light of the candles to see what he was drawing. “How…did you figure it out?” he asked, slowly.

“I drew a raven,” Dream said. “And it flew off the page in front of me

“Oh,” Hob said. Of course, I hate it when that happens was right behind it but he beat the words back with a mental stick.

“I saw her…I supposed it to be a her…outside my window. Nearly every day. She must have been nesting nearby. I thought she was interesting. I’d never seen one marked before like she was—“ he gestured with his opposite hand at his own chest, the first nearly casual movement Hob had seen him make—“with white banding her chest. I drew her, one day, as carefully as I could. I wished I could…” He stopped, and the pencil stopped. Hob watched him stare down past the paper, into the dark at his feet.

“I wished I could be with her, somehow. I wished I could be free like she was.”

The way he said it made something curl nervously in Hob’s gut.

The soft scratching of the pencil picked back up again. “I’ve learned how it…works…over the years. It’s easier when the image is. True to life. But.” Hob could see him turning the words over in his mind. Keeping the knowledge to myself whispered back through his mind, and he almost jumped in, almost told him to stop, that he didn’t need to know. But it would have been an enormous lie. He did need to know. He’d never burned to know anything the way he did this. Not knowing would drive him completely mad.

Dream said, “There has to be. A desire. To create or have the thing. I can intend to make a thing I do not want, but it won’t work without the desire to have it. Or. To gift it. To someone.” Now Hob could see what he’d drawn. It was a poppy, he realized, perfectly rendered in spare, clean lines. Dream dropped the pencil and let it roll into the gutter of the book. Long fingers touched the page, were still for a moment, and then there was that strange little gesture. Even this close it was hard to follow.

Dream lifted his hand and held the flower out, offering it to Hob with a look as though he expected to be bit.

Hob took it gingerly in one hand. Scarlet, heavy with pollen. Real. The page was blank.

“Christ,” Hob whispered. “That is…incredible.”

Dream’s expression softened and his gaze dropped his knees. “I suppose you could say so.”

“You suppose?” Hob sputtered. “I just…you…” He blew out a long, long breath, until he was empty, then drew it back in through his nose. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dream replied, softly.

“Yeah.” Hob toyed with the poppy. “So, what, does this run in your family? Your da knew how to talk to animals or…?”

For a long moment the only sound was the distant din of traffic from down the street. “Perhaps. I don’t know,” Dream said, slowly. “I do not know my biological parents.”

Of course, Hob thought. Christ. He wasn’t sure his gob could handle being any more smacked this evening, but he had the sinking feeling that they weren’t done. Bracing himself, he said, “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Dream opened his mouth, struggling with his words again. Hob just barely caught his lips trembling and almost regretted prodding, but what was done was done.

Dream asked, slowly, “Do you recall the name Roderick Burgess?”

[savaralyn2]

[mangobubbletea7]

DSMP 2020: Minecraft youtubers make uncool teens learn literary analysis

QSMP 2023: Minecraft youtubers make uncool young adults learn Spanish

[kamyiin]

“A dream…?”

I did not survived Ruggie’s dream

[feral-ballad]

Luis Cernuda, tr. by John A. Crow, from An Anthology of Spanish Poetry: From the Beginnings to the Present Day, Including Both Spain and Spanish America; "How tender the station"

[Text ID: “Tenderness and dreams”]