Drün Aerlod

Drün Aerlod

is creating Dreaming Fiction

2

patrons
     As I reached the age of 4, I already read and wrote fluently in my native language, as well as calculated with ease, grace to a father by then in his third experiment of waking up his children to science and art as soon as they said ga-ga. Yet, however successful his previous endeavor with my older sisters had turned out, in my case it might just as well have been lost. It made school twice as boring and soon I found any organized activities as nothing more than nuisances to be tolerated or at most overcome. Instead I used all those hours to dream with my eyes open. While my colleagues learned the letters and numbers, I was discovering more and more fascinating abilities of the eyes and steadily gained an yet unconscious intuition of using these abilities to actually see other worldly phenomena to which I also seemed doomed to be but a single observer. This permanent semi disconnection from reality also gave me time to practice assiduously my imagination; I would often transpose what I saw in the eye of my mind as poetry or prose on the pages where my homework should've been, which in turn caused me considerable headaches both at school as well as at home.  
     By the time I was 20 it was clear not just to those around me but quite so to me, I was destined to be a drifter. I loved chaos and anarchy, and thought nothing much of stability, order, constancy. I had started my formal education as a violinist, yet, when I turned 12 and much to my parent's disappointment, I declared my emancipation and changed it to painting. About 2 years later I was already bored with that, too, but I had discovered girls and so had started a time consuming career as a brilliant young womanizer, turning the tears I would smuggle from girls and women's faces into lyrics, poems, drawings and other such low vibration pseudo-alchemy tricks. By 22 I had left home and moved from place to place, until one day I ended up broke and abandoned by most of my so called friends into the house of an older woman whom I had met at in an art gallery the previous week and only now came to mind as a possible solution to my sorry state. I had boasted a was a painter and she had invited me into her home to present some of my artwork. I had chosen to bring with me two of my biggest canvases, I barely dragged them across the city, hoping that the effort itself and the mere fact she seemed opulently wealthy would oblige her to a buy. She looked at them briefly. One showed the body of a naked woman as a map, marked with points and made up names of cities like Doer or Shemoan, surrounded by an ocean filled with red and green fish. The other was just the over-sized realistic representation of a few calla lilies projecting their shadows onto a not so distant ocher wall; only that in the shadow world a pair of shadow scissors was unrelentingly cutting off the flower cups from their stems.
     She pointed at the calla lilies: "Is that real?" Uncharacteristically, I did not know what to respond. "I'll take it. But I won't give you money for it. I'll give you something much more precious." She invited me to stay over for dinner and I accepted. During our meal together I could not take my eyes off a huge rounded stained glass window where a white hooded woman kept staring back at me from a forest glade surrounded by red trees in full autumn. "Do you like her?", my host asked me. Again, I felt lost. "Do you find her attractive?" "Yes." "How attractive?" "I'd jump her now", I let out shamelessly. The woman did not take offence, instead she laughed out loud, seemingly pleased. "That's good", she said. "Why don't you look at her again?" As my eyes turned back to the stain glass I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, food going back literally in my throat. In a similar posture as the woman before and in her stead there was now a green horrid damp creature with four arms and dragonfly wings that eye-balled me with a hate filled stare. And not only that, but as soon as I took a step to my left to regain balance its head moved, following my move. "Oh", my host exclaimed, as if surprised. "Quickly now! You have to get out of here immediately." I felt lost. "You're quite talented", she remarked as she rushed me to the door. "Though you do require extensive training and really, I'm not the one to help you with that, I am completely crazy already." And yet, in spite of her words and what had just happened, she seemed perfectly normal. "What about my reward?", I barely managed to falter. "Your reward is getting out of here alive and in one piece, safe from what you saw. Or from me." I was feeling a bit more myself and reality had hit me back hard so I stood my ground. "It's a big painting", I argued. "It took great effort just bringing it over." "Fine", she conceded. "Wait here." Moments later she returned and slipped something inside the pocket of my leather jacket. "Use it wisely. And try to stay alive, OK?" Then slammed the door in my face.
     Only as I cut across Dog Park through the freezing rain I realized I had left both paintings with her and suddenly felt like as if I had failed myself as never before, endlessly miserable. And all I had gotten in return was a small blue bag. I stuck my hand inside and all I found was a minuscule bottle with a greenish violet liquid inside. By that age I knew enough about drugs to stay away from such nonsense. But right there and then, with no place to go and nothing to expect, it just seemed all the same. I took refuge inside a dry wooden dome and just drank it, expecting it to either kill me or turn out nothing but just another disappointing farce. I waited for about half an hour, thinking about my life, then decided to go to a friend's house for a nightly shelter. As soon as I stood up, I fell back violently, hitting my head hard against the wooden floor of the dome.
     I woke up about a week later, solidly tied to a hospital bed. The doctors explained I had poisoned myself with a combination of mandrake distillate and some other substance they were unable to identify and that in all truth, considering how much I had consumed, they had registered my survival as nothing short of a medical miracle. It took me another two weeks of acting like my old self to succeed in convincing them that the whole thing had been a mistake and that I was perfectly functional, or at least socially acceptable enough as to release me from their limited, regressive, pill filled care. But the truth was I was not myself and even more, by some uncertain certitude I felt quite sure I would never be so again. As soon as I was free again, I went straight to the woman's house. The place looked deserted and no one answered my repeated calls and door knocking. I thought about breaking in, but in the end I decided I was in enough trouble as it was, with the fake identity I had presented to the policeman sent to the hospital to investigate my case and the shameless lies I had had him write as my so called statements of the facts leading to my admission into a psychiatric institution. 
     Defeated, I left the capital and hitchhiked my way back home. As soon as I arrived, I went straight into my old room and slept for three days without interruption. During this new episode of apparent coma I had the dream that opens this first book I will be publishing here. For some difficult to explain reason, as soon as I returned to reality I felt clear and purposeful, and saner than I had ever been: I would become an Actor and a Dreamer. I knew nothing about theater, aside from the two plays I had ever seen in my life, so called dramas that had made me laugh out loud at their sinister artificiality, while my Dreaming, however intense or different, was at best erratic and practically useless. I left my family once more to return to the Big City and found a drama class that was not so costly. Initially, the instructor would not allow me to participate, but I slowly gained his trust and after I shared with him the recent events I had been trough and my intentions, he agreed to teach me acting, as long as I mopped the studio floors, cleaned the place's toilet's and basically exist there for whatever other humiliating task he felt like assigning to me. The second condition was that I would keep a daily dream diary and discuss with him my travels into the Dream World. Yet that, too, seemed for years nothing but just another elaborate mockery on his part, as mostly what he did with it was to turn my honest testimonies into psycho-analytical jokes he told openly to my colleagues as if to artfully perfect my general humiliation. 

     NOW, if you've read thus far, you are truly the one I have been looking for. You are truly my reader and your beautiful patience deserves to be rewarded without delay. ALL that you've read here up until now are lies. It is what artists, and especially those in theater, like myself, do since the beginning of time: we resort to lies to tell unheard of, otherwise inconceivable truths. And then, in the midst of the lie we suddenly reveal our truth, knowing it is the biggest lie of all; and all in the hope that our audience will awake and catch on to us, and to it.

     However so, or not, our tasks begin together. There are years and years of Dream Travelling I need to now organize and clarify in my intent to restore Dreaming back into your life as the fundamental ability it was meant to be. There are years and years of acting that have solidified you into a part you full heartily hated while it kept you away from your true luminous self; that is your responsibility. My dream of a World of Dreamers and your Dream of Freedom can thus be easily achieved. 
     
     Our meeting was never not meant to happen, yet it was magically set in an ancient contract beyond time. Thank you for showing up to what you never knew was coming and let us now immerse together into the Dreamer state and other wonderful Dreaming adventures. It will most likely save both of us, as it is the sanest idea we've had in life times.

Drün 

       
Tiers
Dream Weaver
$1 or more per creation
Welcome to the World of Dreamers! Your Weaving ability gives you ahead of Time far sight into all new incursions into the Dream World. Thank you!
Dream Catcher
$5 or more per creation
Welcome, Fellow Dreamer! Your Catching ability has gained you the power of opening the upcoming Book of Dreams where wondrous and fierce visions of the Dream World will be revealed. These are Dreams that concern your Reality, so tread lightly with such powerful knowledge! Thank you!
Dream Master
$10 or more per creation
You have come so far! Your Knowledge of the Dream World is unprecedented. You have entered the web of Dreamers and learned to bring your Dream knowledge back into your world. Your abilities now also take you beyond the words of the Dream World and into new  artistic domains of exploration of the Dream Existence. Thank you! 
Visionary
$25 or more per creation
The World of Dreamers and its multitude of wonders are open books  to you, of which the first of the Dreamers series will accompany you in a personalized form as soon as it concludes.  Your Vision has granted you the power to reach the Sky Dreamer, an ancient master who will answer you that one most arduous question, should you only dare ask! Thank you! 
Dreamer
$100 or more per creation
You have taken your place among the few who dare to Dream with their eyes open, able to foresee the Future through the infinitude of probabilities. It is no accident you are here, your life Journey has guided you here precisely and with a higher Purpose at heart. You chose and were chosen to give up your life Stories and your Dreams to the World of Dreamers, for all to know, learn from and be inspired by in their Dreaming endeavor. Thank you for such generous gifts on your part and for dreaming so daringly! 
Wizard
$500 or more per creation
Like the ancient Shamans, you already master the profound meaning of Existence, simply Being, in pure Spontaneity and Joy. You have come here to give out the greatest gift possible: restoring Dreaming to its rightful place within the human experience. Nothing is hidden to you, everything is in plain sight and all fruits are shared. Welcome to it all and thank you!
Goals
1% complete
This amount per month would allow me to dedicate myself exclusively to writing. Thus, the first volume of the Dreamers series and The Book of Dreams journal could be concluded within 6 to 9 months, followed by a new Dream World novel, The Sky Dreamer.
1 of 1
     As I reached the age of 4, I already read and wrote fluently in my native language, as well as calculated with ease, grace to a father by then in his third experiment of waking up his children to science and art as soon as they said ga-ga. Yet, however successful his previous endeavor with my older sisters had turned out, in my case it might just as well have been lost. It made school twice as boring and soon I found any organized activities as nothing more than nuisances to be tolerated or at most overcome. Instead I used all those hours to dream with my eyes open. While my colleagues learned the letters and numbers, I was discovering more and more fascinating abilities of the eyes and steadily gained an yet unconscious intuition of using these abilities to actually see other worldly phenomena to which I also seemed doomed to be but a single observer. This permanent semi disconnection from reality also gave me time to practice assiduously my imagination; I would often transpose what I saw in the eye of my mind as poetry or prose on the pages where my homework should've been, which in turn caused me considerable headaches both at school as well as at home.  
     By the time I was 20 it was clear not just to those around me but quite so to me, I was destined to be a drifter. I loved chaos and anarchy, and thought nothing much of stability, order, constancy. I had started my formal education as a violinist, yet, when I turned 12 and much to my parent's disappointment, I declared my emancipation and changed it to painting. About 2 years later I was already bored with that, too, but I had discovered girls and so had started a time consuming career as a brilliant young womanizer, turning the tears I would smuggle from girls and women's faces into lyrics, poems, drawings and other such low vibration pseudo-alchemy tricks. By 22 I had left home and moved from place to place, until one day I ended up broke and abandoned by most of my so called friends into the house of an older woman whom I had met at in an art gallery the previous week and only now came to mind as a possible solution to my sorry state. I had boasted a was a painter and she had invited me into her home to present some of my artwork. I had chosen to bring with me two of my biggest canvases, I barely dragged them across the city, hoping that the effort itself and the mere fact she seemed opulently wealthy would oblige her to a buy. She looked at them briefly. One showed the body of a naked woman as a map, marked with points and made up names of cities like Doer or Shemoan, surrounded by an ocean filled with red and green fish. The other was just the over-sized realistic representation of a few calla lilies projecting their shadows onto a not so distant ocher wall; only that in the shadow world a pair of shadow scissors was unrelentingly cutting off the flower cups from their stems.
     She pointed at the calla lilies: "Is that real?" Uncharacteristically, I did not know what to respond. "I'll take it. But I won't give you money for it. I'll give you something much more precious." She invited me to stay over for dinner and I accepted. During our meal together I could not take my eyes off a huge rounded stained glass window where a white hooded woman kept staring back at me from a forest glade surrounded by red trees in full autumn. "Do you like her?", my host asked me. Again, I felt lost. "Do you find her attractive?" "Yes." "How attractive?" "I'd jump her now", I let out shamelessly. The woman did not take offence, instead she laughed out loud, seemingly pleased. "That's good", she said. "Why don't you look at her again?" As my eyes turned back to the stain glass I suddenly felt sick to my stomach, food going back literally in my throat. In a similar posture as the woman before and in her stead there was now a green horrid damp creature with four arms and dragonfly wings that eye-balled me with a hate filled stare. And not only that, but as soon as I took a step to my left to regain balance its head moved, following my move. "Oh", my host exclaimed, as if surprised. "Quickly now! You have to get out of here immediately." I felt lost. "You're quite talented", she remarked as she rushed me to the door. "Though you do require extensive training and really, I'm not the one to help you with that, I am completely crazy already." And yet, in spite of her words and what had just happened, she seemed perfectly normal. "What about my reward?", I barely managed to falter. "Your reward is getting out of here alive and in one piece, safe from what you saw. Or from me." I was feeling a bit more myself and reality had hit me back hard so I stood my ground. "It's a big painting", I argued. "It took great effort just bringing it over." "Fine", she conceded. "Wait here." Moments later she returned and slipped something inside the pocket of my leather jacket. "Use it wisely. And try to stay alive, OK?" Then slammed the door in my face.
     Only as I cut across Dog Park through the freezing rain I realized I had left both paintings with her and suddenly felt like as if I had failed myself as never before, endlessly miserable. And all I had gotten in return was a small blue bag. I stuck my hand inside and all I found was a minuscule bottle with a greenish violet liquid inside. By that age I knew enough about drugs to stay away from such nonsense. But right there and then, with no place to go and nothing to expect, it just seemed all the same. I took refuge inside a dry wooden dome and just drank it, expecting it to either kill me or turn out nothing but just another disappointing farce. I waited for about half an hour, thinking about my life, then decided to go to a friend's house for a nightly shelter. As soon as I stood up, I fell back violently, hitting my head hard against the wooden floor of the dome.
     I woke up about a week later, solidly tied to a hospital bed. The doctors explained I had poisoned myself with a combination of mandrake distillate and some other substance they were unable to identify and that in all truth, considering how much I had consumed, they had registered my survival as nothing short of a medical miracle. It took me another two weeks of acting like my old self to succeed in convincing them that the whole thing had been a mistake and that I was perfectly functional, or at least socially acceptable enough as to release me from their limited, regressive, pill filled care. But the truth was I was not myself and even more, by some uncertain certitude I felt quite sure I would never be so again. As soon as I was free again, I went straight to the woman's house. The place looked deserted and no one answered my repeated calls and door knocking. I thought about breaking in, but in the end I decided I was in enough trouble as it was, with the fake identity I had presented to the policeman sent to the hospital to investigate my case and the shameless lies I had had him write as my so called statements of the facts leading to my admission into a psychiatric institution. 
     Defeated, I left the capital and hitchhiked my way back home. As soon as I arrived, I went straight into my old room and slept for three days without interruption. During this new episode of apparent coma I had the dream that opens this first book I will be publishing here. For some difficult to explain reason, as soon as I returned to reality I felt clear and purposeful, and saner than I had ever been: I would become an Actor and a Dreamer. I knew nothing about theater, aside from the two plays I had ever seen in my life, so called dramas that had made me laugh out loud at their sinister artificiality, while my Dreaming, however intense or different, was at best erratic and practically useless. I left my family once more to return to the Big City and found a drama class that was not so costly. Initially, the instructor would not allow me to participate, but I slowly gained his trust and after I shared with him the recent events I had been trough and my intentions, he agreed to teach me acting, as long as I mopped the studio floors, cleaned the place's toilet's and basically exist there for whatever other humiliating task he felt like assigning to me. The second condition was that I would keep a daily dream diary and discuss with him my travels into the Dream World. Yet that, too, seemed for years nothing but just another elaborate mockery on his part, as mostly what he did with it was to turn my honest testimonies into psycho-analytical jokes he told openly to my colleagues as if to artfully perfect my general humiliation. 

     NOW, if you've read thus far, you are truly the one I have been looking for. You are truly my reader and your beautiful patience deserves to be rewarded without delay. ALL that you've read here up until now are lies. It is what artists, and especially those in theater, like myself, do since the beginning of time: we resort to lies to tell unheard of, otherwise inconceivable truths. And then, in the midst of the lie we suddenly reveal our truth, knowing it is the biggest lie of all; and all in the hope that our audience will awake and catch on to us, and to it.

     However so, or not, our tasks begin together. There are years and years of Dream Travelling I need to now organize and clarify in my intent to restore Dreaming back into your life as the fundamental ability it was meant to be. There are years and years of acting that have solidified you into a part you full heartily hated while it kept you away from your true luminous self; that is your responsibility. My dream of a World of Dreamers and your Dream of Freedom can thus be easily achieved. 
     
     Our meeting was never not meant to happen, yet it was magically set in an ancient contract beyond time. Thank you for showing up to what you never knew was coming and let us now immerse together into the Dreamer state and other wonderful Dreaming adventures. It will most likely save both of us, as it is the sanest idea we've had in life times.

Drün 

       

Recent posts by Drün Aerlod

Tiers
Dream Weaver
$1 or more per creation
Welcome to the World of Dreamers! Your Weaving ability gives you ahead of Time far sight into all new incursions into the Dream World. Thank you!
Dream Catcher
$5 or more per creation
Welcome, Fellow Dreamer! Your Catching ability has gained you the power of opening the upcoming Book of Dreams where wondrous and fierce visions of the Dream World will be revealed. These are Dreams that concern your Reality, so tread lightly with such powerful knowledge! Thank you!
Dream Master
$10 or more per creation
You have come so far! Your Knowledge of the Dream World is unprecedented. You have entered the web of Dreamers and learned to bring your Dream knowledge back into your world. Your abilities now also take you beyond the words of the Dream World and into new  artistic domains of exploration of the Dream Existence. Thank you! 
Visionary
$25 or more per creation
The World of Dreamers and its multitude of wonders are open books  to you, of which the first of the Dreamers series will accompany you in a personalized form as soon as it concludes.  Your Vision has granted you the power to reach the Sky Dreamer, an ancient master who will answer you that one most arduous question, should you only dare ask! Thank you! 
Dreamer
$100 or more per creation
You have taken your place among the few who dare to Dream with their eyes open, able to foresee the Future through the infinitude of probabilities. It is no accident you are here, your life Journey has guided you here precisely and with a higher Purpose at heart. You chose and were chosen to give up your life Stories and your Dreams to the World of Dreamers, for all to know, learn from and be inspired by in their Dreaming endeavor. Thank you for such generous gifts on your part and for dreaming so daringly! 
Wizard
$500 or more per creation
Like the ancient Shamans, you already master the profound meaning of Existence, simply Being, in pure Spontaneity and Joy. You have come here to give out the greatest gift possible: restoring Dreaming to its rightful place within the human experience. Nothing is hidden to you, everything is in plain sight and all fruits are shared. Welcome to it all and thank you!