On the weekend, Saturday, March 21, 2015’s matinee performance, I attended Four Seasons for the Performing Arts. There, I took in the National Ballet of Canada’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland ballet. Wow what a marvellously magical and superbly realised vision of imagination, creative genius and great theatre. A thoroughly besotting drink for the soul it proved.
So richly deserved a drink it was – what with being beset by predatory boors partout… all anyone ever wants to do is just get out their door and get about the business of running errands. No such luck, though, when at times you run into persons who can never seem to see beyond their sphinctered perceptions.
Too, a few weeks ago, I went off to St. Michael’s Hospital to see a urologist as prostate issues have plagued my family. So there was I for the follow-up appointment and after having had my pissing monitored by a bizarre contraption, I then sat down with the supremely seductive Sikh intern.
Delicately, he wondered how often I daily masturbate to which I ventured into a zone I almost never inhabit – modesty – when replying,
“Once or twice daily.”
Then he suggested that just to be on the safe side, as I have taken to directing a mist or two to my crotch of the coveted ‘Bleu de Chanel’ eau de toilette, I undergo the examination. Since the procedure was only going to be five minutes no more, I figured being probed I have ever welcome. There was I minutes later sterilised and screaming like an abductee aboard an alien craft being probed by soulless Greys.
I then went downstairs to the pharmacy and picked up the prescribed drugs only to have the Indo-Canadian from the Southern Caribbean pharmacist declare that I ought to be careful because one of the side effects of the drug is possibly fainting when being auto-erotic. Without so much as missing a beat, in a Trinidadian accent that had him unselfconsciously laughing, I declared,
“Tiger this getting old business is no joke, you know. But what a piece of madness this, yes. Tell me ‘bout me, I now have to look forward to fainting five times a day…”
After the surgical procedure, for the next three days, there was bleeding each time urinating. That was a bit alarming to say the least. If that were not bad enough, my dreams became suddenly deluged with sexualised fare beyond the norm as though fuelled by Viagra. Heck even Buster, a cat which is given to attacking the mailman and delivery persons was lying around in the dreamtime masturbating with the same blasé élan as yours truly in the dream herein entitled, “The Other Johnson Wax.”
A few days after taking the pharmaceuticals, the next of the possible side effects kicked in. What pray tell is the point of having a damn toy if it does not work? There was I trying to get my lubed up groove on and at climax there was nothing… nada… zilch. Oh what stark nightmare this!
This bit of terror was good for all of two days after which, I downloaded every Nacho Vidal porn I could find and applied myself with bruising relish until alas, though no Vesuvian episode, the briny water of life did flow anew.
More than that, on to the business at hand for which you are here…dreams – the elixir which makes all of life an enriched dance in spirit. The dreams shared herein occurred on Monday, December 18, 1995 while the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.
As such, they were audiocassette-recorded on tape number two hundred and three. Said dreams are to be found in Volume XXI of the twenty-five volume dream opus – a true ode to imagination and stellar intellect… to be sure.
The first dream involved an encounter with a sexually dynamic, sage entity mate. The second dream involved an encounter with an august-souled writer and what we achieved in that dream was the most extraordinary essence contact. This truly was a most glorious pas de deux.
Dream, my darlings, for you are grace incarnate. Dream with abandon for as you weave your magic into reality, you are expressing the poetic wonder that is your soul. Dance, plié, push off and start flying, for we are cocky egrets of light, love and all that… you and me. Who loves you more?
Here, in this the first dream, I was in the outdoors and it was fairly balmy out. I suppose that it must have been early-morning time. More to the point, it was an indeterminate time of day with no discernible direct sunlight.
Grey out, it was also autumnal in feeling. Though it seemed likely on the West Coast, it did not vibrationally seem like the West Coast. In any event, I had come from the yard of a large house and had gone walking down the narrow street.
I then noticed that there was a man on a motorcycle, as I progressed along a knoll, riding alongside the street. On coming down, I approached the motorcycle. Pandora was about, as well, in this dream experience.
The man instinctually was familiar and god he was magnetic. My response to him was primal. Pandora wore a long red dress; it was a jumper. Falling down to mid-calf, it then flared out.
When I approached the man, Pandora then came out from the gates to the property. He was so devastatingly handsome; he was undoubtedly Black Irish.
Dark-haired plus ethereally pale-skinned, he had the most beautifully bewitching eyes. He was dizzyingly handsome. Pandora was off to the rear and right and I told him that she was my sister who, until recently, had been living in Paris.
He then began talking about both Prashant Saxena and Dave Stamp. Somehow, I had a sense that this man was connected to Gilberto Rao, Prashant’s roommate, at the level of soul.
Apparently, both men were now on speaking terms again and Dave was going to be moving back in with Prashant. However, I was not inclined to think that it was him as Gilberto is definitely Portuguese.
I asked him for a ride home on his motorcycle. I simply wanted to be next to him and be able to hold on to him. However, when I got on, I initially held on to the back of the seat. He was wearing a thick black leather bodysuit.
He was so super sexy and a fairly ectomorphic, mercurial-bodied man. As we rode past, I winsomely waved to Pandora. Eventually, we headed down the street where we made a right turn.
We would then have the street dead-end into a lot where a building was under construction. This was going to be a very tall skyscraper though, at present, only a mere two storeys stood; it was going to be an all-stone structure.
On slowing down the motorcycle, we went into the site’s bare yard through the opening in the wire fence that served as a makeshift gate. His feet were touching the ground as he inched the large, black and steel, mean steed through the fencing.
We then had to go around all the locations where there was shovelling and carpentry. There were several of these work stations while, at all times, the building was to the right.
We rode into a section, from which one couldn’t then get out, which was walled in on all three sides. So he turned around the motorcycle, at which point we made our way back out, going onto another street.
With that, we drove about enjoying the ride and the power of the chromium steed. Completely relaxed, I reached forwards wrapping my arms about his torso. As we drove on, he did not protest. As a result, I felt even more intimately connected with him.
There was a deep genuine communion between us. Still further into the ride, I began slowly making my hands down the front of his body. I made them down to about his hips and then began gently letting my hands relax and tense about his cock.
He still did not protest and allowed himself to comfortably lean back into me. Pleasurably sublime a ride it was. We were then going along a street which ran parallel to the one on which he had picked me up.
Some disturbance suddenly broke out which saw us immediately bolting for cover. When we escaped without injury, we were now on foot. At this point, I began telling him that we should venture off on another path.
As he decided that it sounded like a good idea, we did as much. Eventually, our meandering got us into a part of town which seemed much like Manhattan’s East Village. There I saw a café that I recognised from many a dream past.
I knew that we could go off onto another street as we were being pursued anew. Two things had changed at this point. For one, it was now late at nighttime and for another Isha da Braga had joined us.
We went as though going south in the East Village then went onto a tiny side street. There we saw a tiny house to whose door I rushed. I began banging on the door though Isha was hesitant to do so.
We were gladly invited in by the Blacks who lived there. Once inside, we were told to stay down on the floor. The persons pursuing us had guns with them.
I insisted that we not be anywhere near the front of the house but in the centre of the house. As we sat around in the centre of the room, I did not bother to start drinking my drink because I thought that these people could have unwittingly been accomplices of our pursuers.
Perhaps the drinks had also been spiked, with a strong soporific, to knock us out until the pursuers could come back and apprehend us easily enough. Isha threw caution to the wind and hungrily drank down her drink.
She had been so sped up with fear that she was thirsty and also neurotic. At least she had not, as yet, gone berserk. Shortly after we had entered the house, Pandora appeared and joined us. To say the least, it was good to have had her grounding companionship.
Later on, someone came to the front door impatiently banging to be let in. They did go to look but I stayed where I sat huddled on the floor. Interestingly, it turned out that it was Tucker O’Reily – Isha’s lover for many years on and off.
He went around to the left of the house and on seeing him Isha went chasing after him. She was desperate but it was hard to tell whether her desperation was for his safety or because she yearned to bed him at once.
Here, too, Pandora was wearing the red jumper. Speaking up, Pandora announced that she would not be held hostage and terrorised by anyone.
She thought that it was stupid to be hiding out like this. For her, it was psychological warfare which was more insufferable than combat. So, just like that, she took her leave of us and headed outside.
Pandora began walking along the street that ran perpendicular to the house. She would be going along the café where she could easily have been apprehended or even fatally shot.
However, she could not have cared less. Soon, some persons started coming around the house – one of whom looked very much like Carlton Akins† when he was much younger.
He was part of the party that had come to apprehend us. Sure enough, bullets started flying. Meanwhile, Isha had bolted back inside the house after having gone out to chase after Tucker O’Reily.
Not wanting to be terrorised like this, I decided to get myself out of this mess. With that, in order that I may become light and thus render myself invisible to the thugs, I began upping my vibration.
Successfully, I had managed to have pulled off the transition to the light body and become invisible.
Thus, I was able to spirit my way on out of what was a no-win situation.
*The motorcyclist here, though not Black Irish, I would in time meet in 2010. Of course, it was the dynamic actor, Pierre-Louis Longchambon†. Pierre-Louis’s Michael Overleaves are now included at the end of these dreams and are to be found in the Michael Overleaves Appendix page. END.
I went into an old bookstore which, in parts, did seem like a library. I ventured into one salon, in this the second dream, where I approached a scholarly woman and asked her if she had any books by the author, Wilson, T. W..
She directed me to go around the corner close-by and to check the shelves there. I did find his works and the author turned out to be a White Briton. My reason to have investigated his writings was that he was a known old soul.
I had been keen on becoming familiarised with the writings of an old soul. There were about half a dozen volumes that he had written though not very thick ones. They were stories with some being compilations of plays and collections of short stories.
I took three in all and one of them was fairly thick. Then I noticed that it was not Wilson, T. W. rather that was my being confused by T. S. Elliot, the famous writer.
Rather, his initials were Wilson, W. T.. When I had shown up at the counter, there were lots of books there. Familiarly, it was so old and scholarly here. Everywhere, there were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with ancient volumes.
The woman was a plump friendly soul. When I told her of my error, she had told me that she had wondered the same thing after I had taken off. When I had said Wilson, T. W., she had been so sure that I meant Wilson, W. T. that she had not corrected me.
Though I had looked at the titles, there in the dreamtime, I cannot now recall what they were. She checked the books out, by computer, then gave me a single slip of paper for all the books.
Besides the fact that I thought that I should have received a single slip, for each of the three books, she assured me that it was quite okay. I then put the books down on the counter, to browse in earnest, when a male and female White couple came to the counter.
They had some complicated math equations that they were working on. They were supposedly doing homework. When I took up my books to leave, I had had to come between them but paid them no mind.
I had inadvertently taken up a scrap piece of paper of theirs on which they had been doing some of their math calculations. I noticed the error as I left so turned back to return it.
These two were looking after me, with truly vile contempt and their faces pinched and seething, as if to say that not only was I rude but was also a damn thief. I returned the paper paying them no mind.
Coming from the store, I was really pleased to go off and read the works of an old soul. Rushing home, I got into bed and began voraciously reading the books.
There was a miniature wooden stature of the same old-souled writer standing with legs akimbo. His expression was fiercely proud. He cut a handsome ectomorphic figure. The wood was a warm dark wood.
Next to the miniature study on the bottom shelf, at floor level, were some large thick volumes about Africa. They detailed the history of anthropology in Africa and its relationship to African art.
As much as I wanted to devour them, for now, I wanted to stay focussed on the task at hand. Comfortably snug in between sheets and covers, I intently looked across the room at the old soul writer’s statue only to have him manifest in the room.
On sitting up, he gestured for me to stay where I was then he lazily ambled over and slipped onto the bed with me. I was besotted. Being in this man’s presence was truly a spiritual high.
He was open and accepting, slipping into bed and laying his thoughts bare before me, inviting me to drink of his very soul itself. I was completely blown away.
He immediately reached across and began warmly hugging me. Next, he rolled over on top of me holding onto me. Still fully clothed, we started passionately writhing.
Though a passionate intense affair, there was overwhelming warmth to the experience such that I completely surrendered to the flow of the dance. Most of all, this was one of the most real astral plane experiences yet. I was fully engaged and uplifted for the experience.
There was no better way to have validated his old-souledness than to have experienced his very soul itself, while communing soul-to-soul, as we were.
He was so liquid, fluid and loving that it was completely arresting an experience for me. This had seemingly been a life of this man’s in Victorian England; as a result, I did not quite know what it all meant.
I had no idea whose reincarnational past-life history I was picking up on. Nonetheless, it was all very interesting. I reached up, tightly holding on to him and simply cried out for joy. This was truly blissful.
What really made this moment meaningful was that I could have experienced the love, which I shared with this man, for having had such a great love with Merlin.
I whited out though did not awaken which was rare… to say the least.
Here, in this the third dream, I was in a large house and attempted to call after a cat which belonged to us. I went out and opened the door to get its attention. The door led onto a veranda and, in that sense, it did remind me of the house in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.
I was as if in the girls’ bedroom when opening the door, to the veranda, in order to call the black cat. To get its attention, I had whistled to it. I then went into another room, in the familiar house, where I encountered Harella da Braga.
When asked if she had seen the cat, she replied that she hadn’t. She offered to call it for me and began whistling while I went to check in other parts of the house which, though familiar, was not exactly the Crab Hill house.
While Harella called the cat, Florence ‘Flori’ Pole came out of her house onto the veranda and tossed out a tree that was beginning to die. The tree had been planted in an old and dented white enamel potty.
The tree was much like a shaddock tree but bore miniature fruit. Dark, it was 4.5-5.0’ tall. Florence tossed it from the veranda straight into the lime-green dump pan on which was written: P.H.D. – Public Health Department.
As she turned to head back indoors, I good-naturedly called out to her. I went excitedly rushing, back into the house, to tell Harella that the reclusive Florence was just outdoors.
I wanted to get my camera so that I could have a picture of her and use it to do her overleaves. Harella then came out to join me on the veranda while I bore the camera this time.
Now the High-Yellow Florence Pole stood there a dark-complected Black man who was easily 6.8 feet tall. He wore glasses and looked rather debonair and dashingly handsome.
I began noisily taking a whole roll of shots of Flori who was now a fine-looking brother in shades. I used the zoom lens and was able to see his eyes quite clearly in focus. Interestingly, it was as though his eyes were not being obscured by both distance and the tinted shades.
Laughingly, the metamorphosed Florence Pole asked what I was doing taking her picture?
“Boy what are you taking my picture for? That’s just so weird, taking my picture.“
Of course, by this she/he meant that it was positively meaningless of me to be taking her/his picture in the dreamtime. Right she/he was too. After all, like money on leaving the dreamtime, I couldn’t take it with me.
Here, it was now day time out. We were as if at the back gate to the yard of the Crab Hill house. I stood with my back to the gate and road while the man stood with Harella, in the backyard, beneath the genip tree.
I never did take Harella’s picture. Harella did remind me that it was possible that there would be a light glare on the photos when they developed.
There was a point when I wanted him to move so that I could really get a good look at his eyes but he wouldn’t budge and accommodate me. He much reminded me of Timothy Jupitus; tall, big-boned and fiercely warrior-spirited.
Though he easily weighed in excess of 300 pounds, he was not a heavy and – by no means – fat man. Solid, he was in the same mould as professional basketball player, Shaquille O’Neal.
Longchambon, Pierre-Louis 17/3/1976 Toronto, Canada
This fragment is a sixth mature sage – fourth life at this level – in the power mode with a goal of growth, a realist in the intellectual centre, moving part.
Body Type is Saturn/Mars.
Pierre-Louis’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary is impatience.
This fragment is second cast, fifth cadence, greater cadence six. He is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, Pod 414 – he is an entity mate of Merlin’s and Arvin’s.
No essence twin or task companion charted in session.
*This does not mean that neither exists, they simply were not channelled during that session. Furthermore, though it does rarely occur where a fragment can have no essence twin, all fragments however do have a task companion. END.
Pierre-Louis’s three primary needs are: expression, freedom, and power.
All told, there are 18 past-life associations between Pierre-Louis and Arvin and 14 past-life associations with Merlin.
Photo: Male model reading in bed
Two men riding a motorcycle
Taking a photograph
© 2015 Arvin da Braga. All Rights Reserved.