432 Park Avenue.


Architecture as high art.

At last, New York City’s two iconic structures, Empire State Building and Chrysler Building, have a companion.  Henceforth, there will a troika of granite structures which ever will define Manhattan.

Not a day goes by without me checking in to the webcam of this marvel as it comes into its own.  Simple lines; uniformity from first to 96th storey.  So elegant… so stunningly beautiful.  Classic.  Iconic.  Unsurpassed.






Photo:  432 Park Avenue, August 2014.

Suhail Mubeen – Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

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Oh what joy!

michael jackson black and white photo

Some dreams are truly uplifting.  In this case, the source of the inspiration was the 20th century’s greatest entertainer, Michael Jackson.  Here was an encounter with his unbridled child-ego state in full bloom at play. 

While the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house, on Friday, August 2, 1996 – my birthday, I would dream these beauteous dreams.  Warm, uplifting and immensely joyous, I awoke from this dream encounter with Michael Jackson and spent the next 24 hours exclusively listening to his music. 

Sweet and beautiful dreams to you; may these dreams just as richly inspire you as this dream encounter with Michael Jackson uplifted me.  I love you more. 


While seated in a car, in this the first dream, a number of kids had rushed over and excitedly tried to get into the back of the station wagon.  They were coming from a nightclub of some sort.

One of them was a tall East Indian guy who sat on a tall girl.  There were already persons in the back when they tried to enter it.  The station wagon was, in fact, a taxi.

As he could not use his rear view mirror with so many persons in the back, the taxi driver got mad and ordered them to get out.  For the most part, they were East Indians and High-Yellows who were loud, vain, superficial people.

Immediately, I took my leave of the place.


Travelling on some more, in this the second dream, I arrived at a film shoot.  I would end up using one set of stone steps to get up to another level.  In essence, I was going from one street to a higher one.

While doing so, everything suddenly became bright in the street.  Then I saw that there were lots of people lying in the street.  They all wore beautifully patterned clothing that looked like green satin that was covered in red floral designs.

Obviously, they were dancers all who were on a stage which was what the road had become.  The stage was a Plexiglas affair which was lit from below and behind with intense klieg lights.

Next, I noticed someone coming down the street dancing.  As he drew closer, I realised that it was Michael Jackson in an incredible fright wig that changed colour seemingly at will.

Sometimes green then red, the wig covered about half of his forehead.  This man’s dancing was astoundingly energetic.  Even vicariously, the experience was an exhausting one.

When he joined the other dancers, they remained lying there for about sixteen counts and then got up to join him in the dance.  They, however, danced so slowly as if they were in dense aqueous medium.

They looked as though they were dancing the legendary moonwalk but in slow-motion.  This was absolutely creative and sheer genius.  The choreography here was something never before experienced in the waking state.

The sheer joy radiating from Michael Jackson as he danced was phenomenal; his performance made me feel as though I were about to explode.  My vibration intensified to the point of being on the verge of making me light-energied.

Time and again, he did that wonderful high-pitched scream of his.  This was absolutely fuck-all maddeningly brilliant.  For being so close to this man’s energy body, while he was on the verge of transcendence, my whole body trembled throughout.

I really don’t know where he got the energy from to sing while dancing but he did.  As if possessed, he then went running down the steps to another level.  When he got there, there were cameras set up for another aspect of the shoot.

The whole thing was a video which was being simultaneously shot on multiple levels.  Unable to contain myself, I yelled out loud to Michael Jackson while feeling as though flying without moving,

“Oh Michael, Michael I love you!  You’re the best!  I love you!  You’re the greatest.”

Surprised was I when he turned, directly looked into me, enthusiastically thanked me while continuing down the steps.  While moving down to the next level, he was breathing heavily and conserving his energies.

When he got down below, he threw himself on the ground as the others on the upper level had been.  After a sixteen-count pause, he slowly got up and continued dancing and singing.

Absolutely everyone was spellbound by this man’s stellar performance.  Truly fantastical was he.  Making my way down to the level where he was, I continued looking at his performance and besottedly drank in his energies.

*This man’s energies were supra-shamanic.  END.


Progressing down a street, on tuning in to this the third dream, I became concerned for all the large trees along the way.  There was a huge black wrought iron fence where there were lots of Gays; these guys were clearly into uniforms.

They wore black and carried ridiculously large futuristic guns.  They held their weapons ready and, for the life of me, it suddenly occurred to me that they could have turned them on me.

There seemed to be some confrontation afoot here whose dynamics I didn’t quite fathom.  Moving past one of the Gays, I got into a gate in the imposing-looking fence.

Each Gay was dark-haired, moustachioed and had a decidedly Gay look to him.  Theirs was that look of ‘Queer aggression’ so well-honed by the playwright Brad, Fraser and the actor, Rupert Everett.

Moving to the other side of the fence, I was afforded a look at the very large property.  A beautiful palatial building stood in the midst of the grounds.

A stone building, it was gold-leafed in the indented lettering that identified the structure above its massive entrance.  From the look of things, it seemed as if one was in London or somewhere in old Europe.

A royal blue hue was worked into the stone in places that was breathtakingly beautiful.  I marvelled aloud at its beauty.  The scale here was imperious and looked more English than anything else.

I never did go inside the structure as there were some tensions there.  In point of fact, it seemed like some sort of military institution.  A man then showed up; he wore black like everyone else.

He slowly reached into his pockets.  One had the impression that he was an assassin who was reaching for a pistol as he was about to strike.  Thinking on my feet, I nodded to draw the attention of one of the Gay-looking guardsmen and pointed out the White male whose behaviour was suspect.

Straight away, he grabbed the man, frisked him and took him away.  To my immediate rear was a deli stand.  Though covered, there was no umbrella but a sprawling overhang to match the huge stand.  The roof of it was some ten feet high and made of aluminum.

An old, southern European man tended shop there.  So as to not make myself all that conspicuous, I thought to go back and casually stand beside him.

Though still inside the grounds, there was a large road just back of us towards the fence.  Coming down the road, I noticed a man approaching.  Very aristocratic, he reminded me a bit of the actor, Peter O’Toole.

He wore nothing but white clothing while carrying a stool made of bamboo.  The stool had its own white canopy providing for shade with a roof that looked like that of a hut’s.  Straight away, I thought to approach him and interact.

Somehow, I had this desire to ask him if he knew where Merlin was.  With him was a large animal which looked more like a sheep than it did a dog.  The ovine-looking creature was very broad-nosed and strong-faced.

Elevated (tall), it was woolly-furred like a sheep.  The ovine-like creature was skinny and so not at all like a sheep dog but certainly it as a weird-looking creature.  The stool folded up much like a director’s chair.

As he approached, he sicced the dog-like ovine creature on me.  The chair was clearly lightweight.  A white T-shirt and white summer slacks that were slightly bell-bottomed he wore.

Though in his late fifties, it was clear that he was in fantastic health.  Handsome, he looked fabulous.  He held the creature on a leash in his right hand.

The creature immediately made for me and leapt through the air.  Placing my right hand to stop it, it locked on to my hand and bit me hard.  Up close, its face only confirmed my belief that this was not a dog.

Truly, it looked more so like an astral plane guard than not.  Soon, I noticed that there were other weird-looking creatures about.  Clearly, this was an ‘anchor point’ locale somewhere on the astral plane.

This creature was a real nuisance which was not readily shaken free.  Looking it squarely in the eye, I began twisting the creature’s head by violently turning my right hand still caught in its locked jaw.

Faster than it could keep up with me, I managed to have whipped the hand around.  Even though it was biting, its teeth were not sharp in the least.

The bite seemed more so a warning than an attack.  Once free of its stranglehold, there was no damage done to the hand; as a matter of fact, the skin wasn’t even broken.

Too, the hand was as dry as before and not wet from the creature’s mouth.  I had focussed a lot of psychic energy on the creature which caused it to obey.  Soon, the ovine-looking astral plane oddity turned and returned to its master.

Once exposed, I non-too-hard kicked its romp and sent it on its way.  The aristocratic man made a great uproar; he was clearly enraged at me.  Imagine my audacity in having kicked his creature… never mind that it had attacked me.

In any event, soon he called to the Gay guardsmen to get me.  However, they didn’t come to do his bidding and apprehend me.  More than anything else, they wanted him to take his creature out of there toute de suite.

I think that I was mistaken, by the Gay-looking sentinels – for being a part of Michael Jackson’s entourage from the earlier dream.

*Michael Jackson’s Michael Overleaves are now added to the page, Michael Overleaves Appendix.  END.


Photo credit: Michael Jackson in performance.

Suhail Mubeen – Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th century American artists, African-Americans, Animals, Artists, Award-winning artist, Black creative artists, Dance dreams, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Film, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Shamanism, Singers, Stage performers, Visionaries, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cornelius Satchleven


Original engraving

25.1 x 17.5 cm

© 1641 Sir Anthony van Dyck

What I especially love about this van Dyck engraving – one of my favourites – is that the subject, Cornelius, is so august-souled.  His look is so kaleidoscopic thereby betraying his reincarnational history.  To look at the subject, he could be Tatar, Nepalese, even Inuit… all the lives that he’s lived to date are magically alluded to.   Masterful.  Stunning.  I love it.  _________________________________________

Suhail Mubeen:  Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 17th Century British Art, 17th Century Flemish Art, Art, Art Collection, Artists, Drawing, Engraving, Portraiture, Reincarnation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

More than ever… your support is invaluable.

Donate Button with Credit Cards

Merlin & Arvin 1987

Please do patronise the new donations page on this site.  Your support is everything.  I thank you and love you more.  So come on, let’s push off together and take this to the next level… let’s fly!

© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Artists, Dreams, Writers | Leave a comment

Night Loungers

Night Loungers

Oil on panel

36″ x 48″

© 2014 Cody Hooper

By far, this is my favourite Cody Hooper.  Stunning and masterful!




Suhail Mubeen:  Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 21st Century American Art, American Abstract Art, American Abstract artists, Art, Art Collecting, Artists, Contemporary American Art, Contemporary American artists, Contemporary art, Painting | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Galactic Museum of Anthropology.


In this the first dream, I was having a very heated argument with a group of Christian fundamentalists.  This concerned the book of Revelations in the New Testament.

My point was that there was no longer any need for them to fixate on the nihilism of that book.  There was no need for them to fixate on the actualisation of the Armageddon construct.

I was pointing out that much of the suffering in the world was due to the Christian obsession with violence.  For this reason, for the last two millennia, their culture has done nothing but produce men of inordinate violence.

Further, I tried to point out that none of these fatalistic visions were ever prophesied by Christ.  Rather, they were the result of a fearful culture’s way of trying to come to grips with having murdered Christ.

The New Testament was simply the Christian Church’s way of manipulating the life of Christ, after his murder, to suit their ends.  For having murdered Christ, they have been karmically fated to being a violent culture.

Seeing that it was pointless to be engaged with these blind and lost souls, I chose to move on.  To say the least, the energies between us were tense.

*Then, too, it was best that I moved on.  The longer that I engaged them, it proved fairly obvious that I would have to up my frequency becoming light and thus invisible to the blind.

Truth be told, they would shortly start ridding me of my soul.  After all, I clearly was a heretic in full!  END.


An area that seemed like a school, this proved the reality of the third dream, where there were kids who wore navy blue tunics.  They were in their early teens and were going out to a courtyard.

We were coming back from a precipice.  Everyone here represented several nationalities.  Some Hispanic kids, who were clearly well-off, attended the private school.

Looking down at all these people far below, we were out on a balcony.  I thought to myself at the time that I simply couldn’t afford to go falling over this balcony.

In the meanwhile, I energetically waved down to the group below.  I was encouraging them to financially invest in Africa by supporting African industries.

There was nothing in the world that they had to be ashamed of.  They ought to be more proud of their African heritage and their African nations.  Indeed, they needed desperately to wake up to the realisation of just how much that they actually had.

Some ten feet away were two white horizontal iron bars that formed a container from the precipice.  Naturally, one was expected to use common sense and not go beyond the two restraining bars.

Going to the right of a guy, who did not want to move, I grabbed a hold of the upper bar.  I gymnastically snaked my body through both bars and made it onto the safe side of them again.

One girl was approaching her father, to speak with him, as he was surrounded by people.  Though daytime, it happened also to be overcast.  For being otherwise engaged, her father couldn’t speak to her.

To drive away her disappointment, I grabbed her and started dancing which her father appreciated with a warm smile.  She had been quite insistent on speaking to him, however, there was no way that he could have then seen her.

I was trying to get her to see that her father’s diplomatic affairs meant that there were times, even to her, when he was simply unavailable.  At the time, he was in the midst of being interviewed by a television crew.


I was in a darkened room, at nighttime, in this the fourth dream.  Somehow, Isha da Braga and other family members were also present.  A man was lying there on a bed and his physique was that of a warrior or even a king soul incarnate.

He was a pure white-haired man.  It was the natural hair colour not due to his agedness physically.  He had been across the bed on which I lay.  At the time, I was not the least bit tired.

I was supposed to be in repose and there was an implicit order that he not be awakened.  There were several talons – fishing flies, however, they were unlike their waking state counterparts.

Apparently intended for me to keep, they were laid out on my pillow.  Beyond the head of the bed was the lone door to the room.  The look of the door and the room made it seem fairly sepulchral.

Meanwhile, another man had entered the room through those doors.  He stood in the centre of the room before me.  He wore a gossamer-looking outfit which fell to just below his calves.

It was as if a futuristic version on the chainmail suit of ages past.  Bronze-coloured, it fitted his body pretty much like a wet suit would.  There were some metallic-looking strips that crossed the outfit.

Behind him were the largest wings imaginable.  These were definitely not some theatrical contraptions, they were his.  Adding greater drama to his entrance, they flared out behind him and upwards.

To say the least, he was quite the mythic figure.  Sadly though, the intensity of the outfit’s glow obscured the look of his face.  For that reason, it was hard to say whether he was Amerindian, Indian, Asian, Black or White.

On remembering that dream of September 4, 1988, I instinctively sat up.  Straight away, I knew that he would approach the bed.  I also knew that while standing there at the foot of bed, he would perform some all-important ritual.

Meanwhile, Penina da Braga and Isha were telling me not to get up.  That was because I wasn’t supposed to disturb the man, who lay there, soundly asleep.

Frankly, I did not much care about the archetypal king/warrior-souled man soundly asleep on the bed with me.  As I explained to them, I was more concerned with the winged incredibly tall man.

I knew that he was there to collect the fishing flies from me.  For that reason, I told them that I was afraid that the winged man may take off, thus making it potentially impossible to get them to him.

Their confusion was distracting; so, with that, I finally got from the bed and left the area.  As I left the sepulchral room, I realised that I had been someone who had been quite revered in a past life.

Apparently, this had been in parts of the West Indies – the Virgin Islands and mainland America.  As I walked from the room, I had been told this by a guide.

Seemingly, I had been a skilled diplomat which was when I had earlier been out on the balcony.  At the time, I had been looking down to the masses and spurring on their spirits.

I was respected and much-loved by the locals.

*The immensely powerful, gossamer-suited, winged and exceptionally tall man was not the Eurocentric angel.  He was not, for that matter, some mythic archetype.

He was an extra-human and it was also clear that regardless his packaging, he was clearly a king soul.  There was no getting around that fact.

I found that it was quite impactful being in his presence.  I also had a strong sense that he was someone with whom I have been familiar, in the dreamtime, throughout my life.

This is one of those rare times that he has manifested in the dreamtime.  I do believe that this is the first time that his manifestation has been recorded in this audio-cassette medium.  END.


In a courtyard area, I found myself in this the fifth dream, on an estate that was close to the sea.  A man was being surrounded by five Italian guys who were being problematic.

Clearly, these men were thugs and the henchmen of someone with whom he was acquainted.  Eventually, his mother had shown up wearing this beautiful floral-printed dress.  The dress was a sleeveless design.

She was a short study of the babushka archetype.  There was no way to get around the fact that this man was Russian.  I had had to tell his white-haired mother, to stop being emotionally panicked, to leave the scene.

She could, by her distress, have proven detrimental to his survival.  Besides, quietly I had told her to go get help by dialling 9-1-1.  Except that when she went to the balcony, she started shining some large spotlights.

Seeing the logic of her actions, I told her that whatever she did, she had to always keep them trained on her son.  In the meantime, the henchmen kept on closing in on him.  The heavies all wore bathing suits.

On the order of Charlton Heston, he was a tall majestic-looking man.  A very warrior-spirited, mid-aged man was her son.

The house was a papaya-toned, West Indian-orange-into-peach tone, to slight-tangerine-red impressive structure.  Surrounding the house, in the modern style, was a large stone wall.

There were marvellous sculptural openings in the wall.  They were lyrically curvaceous and suggested slow aqueous movement.  The style architecturally was really quite timeless.

Set some twenty feet from the house, the wall was an impressive complement to it and was some ten-to-eleven feet tall.  The wall was the same colour as the side of the house.

The earthen yard was a roughhewed affair, with exposed roots everywhere, as top soil had long ago been wind-and-rain swept aside.  The wall was in three phases, to accommodate the sloping grade of the property, dropping a couple of feet along the way.  The distance between a drop-off in the wall was roughly ten feet.

When one got down to the seashore, there was a van circling in the air overhead.  This van had the same green tonality of most military helicopters.  The look was of that army camouflage gear that is sported the world over.

The craft was definitely not a helicopter.  A network of vary-sized antennae shot from all sides of the van-like craft that silently hovered in the air.  Down on the shore, parked next to the sea, were a couple of tractor-trailers.

Their being placed so close to the ocean, I thought was dangerous.  Both of them were white with one being silver in the back.  Clearly claimed by the ocean, they had been abandoned there to rust away.

I couldn’t believe the environmental negligence of whoever had done this.  Not realising that the henchmen had landed on the beach and entered the house, a man had come and parked his car down on the beach.

Meanwhile, the girl – who had wanted to talk to her diplomatic father – had learnt that these same people had savagely butchered one of her brothers.  They had then disposed of his body at sea.

The man being confronted by the murderous henchmen had come down to the sea.  He was there to investigate who they were and why they had landed on his beachfront property.

A number of people had seen them come ashore and had yelled out after them.  The concerned were neighbours of the Russian man.

These people then took it on themselves to call the authorities.  With that, the murderous henchmen had fled.

By the rising tides, the butchered corpse was slowly beginning to be dragged out to sea.  The murderers had fled, behind the house, to the sheer cliff, rock face where there were several abandoned buildings.

These men had split up at once, taking off in divergent directions, to escape being caught together.  Running helter-skelter, they veered off in separate directions when fleeing apprehension.

Taking cover myself, I then went indoors; once inside, I immediately looked around when trying to get my bearings.  There, I saw a man lying on the floor who was bent over.

Splendidly furnished with an eclectic array of antiques and mementos of a well-travelled life, the interior of this house was busy.  The décor here was in the Santa Fe style and warm it was too.

The man was on the lowest of the three levels, of the split-level house, thus leaving him closer to the sea.  Theatrical, the house was wide-open and inviting.  This layout afforded a commanding view of the wetness of nature’s womb outside.

As each of the three levels had its own sitting room area, he was in that level’s sitting room.  The seating was always in the centre of the central hall-like room.

There were lots of potted plants that towered up in search of the comfortably far-off ceilings.  They were all big-leafed and, for the most part, succulents.

In this one area, it was absolutely beautiful – where the guy was knocked out and on the floor.  Coming closer, I realised that it was my current lover, Gustavo Vadim.  He had been badly beaten up by the marauding, interloping murderers.

One of the henchmen, wearing a skimpy little bathing suit, went down before the Russian man’s mother and started masturbating in front of her.  As she sat there, on the chair, the henchman air-jacked off though never having taken his hard-on from his tight-fitting spandex.

The poor dear was being totally traumatised by his boorish behaviour.  Seated there, she really did want to get a load of that throbbing piece of raw tenderloin.  I found it quite comical to look at her.

I, at the time, was up on a ledge that formed part of the structure’s girders.  Just as outside, in the stone walls, the same sculptural schemata were reproduced on the walls inside the house.  There in one of these openings I had comfortably sat.

Hiding out of view of them, I had been crouching down.  To my left, from where I perched birdlike, was the central living space in which were the sitting areas.

A really beautiful organic house; it was not unlike that sublime masterpiece which I explored in the dreams on Thursday, February 16, 1989.

As one walked down the length of the house, towards the sea, the partition on which I hid was off to the right.  Beyond the central living space, the same sculptural wall was repeated far opposite across the house.

Too, that wall had groovy openings in its three-foot-thick frame.  Here too, as outside, the same colour schemata prevailed.  Here in this part of the house, it was dark as there were not many windows in the structure.

There were, interestingly enough, no central skylights in this house.  This, I thought, was a design flaw.

As they went off to get dressed in casual wear, one of the Italian guys had seen me.  I must say that they were an über-poilu bunch.

The fact that they had been able to inflict a great deal of damage on their target, they openly celebrated.  One of them had gone and gotten the guy, who reminded me of Gustavo, putting him on the gas range.

Turning on the gas, they then struck a match on his genitals and arse.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Both his anterior and posterior sexes were on fire.  Rushing to his aid, I snapped at them telling them to layoff persecuting him.

Grabbing his body, I pulled him off the range and covered his singeing sexes.  I then reached over and put out the glowing blue-flamed gas range.

The Italian guy, it turned out, drank a lot of whiskey then he violently spat out the liquor at me.  With lightning ease, I caught it in my mouth and rapidly spat it back at him.

He had followed the liquor with a spurt of flame which, of course, was meant to set me alight.  The stunt had failed as intended.  I had no intentions of being burned as he had intended.

The way in which I blew the breath out had amazed me.  The sound of my breath was a thunderous quake.  The process was empowering and felt as though a wind tunnel had opened up.  Out of my body, there blew all this warm air.

Though I had feared that he would throw a match at me, setting my breath and self on fire, it never did happen.  In the same position, as a frog’s limbs, Gustavo was crumpled on the floor.

Crouched forwards, I turned him back, attempting to right his body.  Gustavo, however, remained on his knees.  His spread arse cut quite the impressive inviting image.

Finally, on seeing his face, I could see a semblance of Gustavo’s face.  More importantly, this reincarnationally was the amalgamated face of his soul over the ages.  The nostrils were more flared than Gustavo’s.

Though not dead, he was as if in a deep comatose state.  Nonetheless, he was sexually inviting, expansive and to the point of being submissive.

Furious, I shrieked at the henchmen and ordered them to instantly get the fuck out of the house.  They were very rebellious though.

Getting outside, I rushed after them and made sure that they were taking their leave of the property.  When the authorities pulled up, tires screeching, they had gone down into their car.

Tearing from their cars, they abandoned them fleeing on foot.  Before the house, there was a sheer rock cliff which was some eight feet high.  Where the millennia of water runoff had created deep cracks in it, there were deep fissures in the rock face.

This is what had caused the earth, in the yard, to become so eroded leaving a bare rocklike surface.  While I hid out down in a dugout, I saw the arrival of backups.  They arrived in futuristic, EHV(extra-human vehicle)-like machinery.

As if made from malleable chrome alloy, they were silver.  In that sense, they appeared as if animated machinery effortlessly floating through the air.

Removing myself from the chaos, I went off on an exploratory tour inside a large complex that seemed like a museum.  There, I saw several strange-looking persons who seemed not wholly human.

I couldn’t though quite fathom what it was about them that made them, as it were, not quite homo sapiens.  Finally, nothing on display made precious sense to me.  With that, I took my leave of the complex.

The persons there were also openly making fun of Blacks though not necessarily me.  Since I did not appreciate this, I took off.  I was then in this area with a guy whom I initially thought was Black.

He energetically seemed Black.  I had been too distracted, by the goings-on outside, to have paid him much attention.  There was considerable fighting taking place outside the dugout.

The Italian henchmen were caught in a stakeout with persons who were obviously extra-human.  They seemed more so like sentinels – automatons, if you like, rather than humanoids.

With a large pylon slab in it, the dugout was metallic and less than six feet deep.  On the other side of the pylon was a doorway.  The guy was always on my right as we hid out.

Soon it became apparent that the EH sentinels were aware of our being in hiding.  What’s more, they were actually protecting us from being overwhelmed by the Italian henchmen.

When they appeared to do battle with the sentinels, the Italian-looking guys had the most incredibly large guns.  A woman in army fatigues had jumped back away from a bullet.

With ferocious skill she had grabbed a bullet, ripping through space, from the air then violently tossed it down into the dugout where we were.  Eventually, she had managed to shoot one of the sentinels.

Soon enough, they received backup from the army fatigue-coloured crafts that had appeared as if out of nowhere.  At the time, for the first time, the guy that I was with pointed out the sentinels to me.

Not until they had come close enough did I realise that they were as different to us, indeed, as were we to them.  They had spindly arachnidan legs.  Their bodies were round squat and robotic-looking while their heads were small as compared to their rotund bodies.

However, these were not mere machinery, they were unmistakably sentient.  They could fight and were rather immune to battle fire.  Seemingly, in composition, their bodies were made of material that was fairly close to steel.

Long-limbed, their legs were frightfully skinny.  Terminating in a spear-like or pin-like sharp point, their arms were sticklike and long.  A bipedal race they were whose locomotion was rather nimble.

Their legs were in three sections with no discernible feet.  They moved as if their extended feet were perpetually en pointe.  The henchmen were tossing out these round pellets which seemed some new sort of anti-personnel grenade.

The sentinel would quickly grab a hold of the grenades and instantaneously diffuse them.  They managed to throw one down at us and, at that point, the guy got up and made to leave the dugout.

I was uncertain whether or not he had been shot.  When he was crawling from the dugout, I could tell from the shortness of his legs – as compared to the length of his back – that he was White rather than Black.

This man was, in fact, Gustavo and I called after him and asked him not to leave the dugout.  Reassuringly, he told me that he would be back.  Nonetheless, I did not like being left alone without his grounding company.

When he started coming back, his face was now different.  He wore a green mask which had a large diamond-shaped, quartz crystal in it.  Another person also came from the hall that went down into the earth.

While he was walking there, he and the others all looked like cartoon or animated figures.  What they were, in fact, were astral entities that we were witnessing.  This creature then came out to do battle with the sentinels.

The creature wore all-black flowing garments that independently billowed in the non-extant wind.  A plaque on the slab read ‘Minerva’ or some such ancient name.  This woman represented yet another mythological archetype.

I went, beyond the courtyard, to explore the inside of the structure.  There, I saw an exhibit of species of sentient beings.  They were, some of them, humanoid.

Some were Black but these species were, for the most part, not members of our own homo sapiens species.  As it was an anthropological exhibition, at the time, there were several other persons there taking in the exhibit.

With some of the other humans about marvelling aloud at the vast array of sentient life forms, it was all very revelatory.  They were all alien to anything that one could fathom evolving here on Gaia.

I had not stayed very long in ‘the hall of species’ which is what it was called.  In a soothing blue-walled salon, one hall was adorned with beautiful tapestries.

The designs here were most unusual.  They sprung from vastly different aesthetic sensibilities than those to which the human experience has given expression.

One guy who was there, an older man, was talking aloud of the exhibit.  He was White and from time to time kept on looking back at me while throwing shade.

Here was this asinine human, identifying with EHs, when he hadn’t even been able to accomplish the same with his own kind.  He was also Gay and, for greater impact, doing an affected lisp.

He was a tour guide.  He was speciously trying to show how these alien cultures also had connections to ancient Greece.  This monologue of his was so much bullshit and, yet again, another example of racist absurdities.

Dismissing him and his ilk, I moved on picking up the pace of my walk.  The entire place was a series of stairs that went up, and then down, sometimes even winding but along them the exhibits were visible.

*The sense of the winding stair-interiored museum was not unlike the layout of the Guggenheim Museum on New York City’s Fifth Avenue.  END.

As in the waking state, this undoubtedly was not the conventional approach to museum exhibits.  The beautiful courtyard was littered with chairs that were of a pinkish-red-toned iron.

They faced up towards the courtyard’s piece de resistance which was a lovely stand of the most unusual-looking trees.  The sunlight here could best be described as starlight because its intensity suggested that this was not being illumined by Sol.

After having seen it earlier, now I was seeing it in greater detail.  They were preparing to serve a meal there.  At that point, I did not get too involved.  The mythic woman/creature Minerva was also there in the museum of alien anthropology.

The other species aesthetically were simply fantastical.  The chromium stick-limbed sentinels were also represented in the exhibit.  I had taken cover in the museum, which was completely underground, to escape becoming caught up in the fighting aboveground.

Under no circumstances did I want to have to get involved in warfare.  The man had been spirited away during battle, by one of the hovering vehicles, by the whitish-silver, sentient chrome beings.

The craft had circled the property, before touching down in the sea, away from being overrun by the Italian-looking guys on land.  The henchmen had no way of making it out to sea to overwhelm the sentinels’ crafts.

There were lots of especially tall coconut trees that ringed the estate of the marvellous split-level dwelling.  The craft had made it ashore, at which point, then morphed into looking like an abandoned car.

In that way, its transformed shell served as clever camouflage.  There were several antennae on it as did all the others have antennae.  When they had been in the house, they were in constant communication with their crafts.

This was the point at which I made the realisation that the Italian-looking men, in bathing suits, were extra-human got up in human disguise.  This is why it had made it so confusing to fully discern what was afoot.

As they were way bigger and more space-aged, than anything native to Earth, the guns that the Italian-looking extra-humans used were a dead giveaway.  Though they were young-looking, there was something about them that suggested that they did not fit into the ageing process governed by Sol’s unique vibration.

Warrior-spirited, they were an adversarial people.  Clearly, they were there to capture humans for their own purposes whether for research or something else.

That something else, while I was in the museum of EH anthropology, I thought meant capturing human specimens for sale to museums like the one that I toured.

Either way, they were sadistic, extremely unpleasant sentient extra-humans to be around.  Theirs was a young-souled focus that was not unlike the rapacious exploitations that began 500 years ago on this planet – which prevail to this today.


These dreams occurred on Sunday, April 25, 1993 while the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house.  Unlike dreams from this date previously shared herein, on February 16, 2013: http://dreampoetica.wordpress.com/2013/02/16/dropping-in-on-an-old-favourite-of-many-lives-ago/ these dreams, however, were had during the ‘B’ or second sleep cycle that day. 

They were, to say the least, rather transformative dreams. 

As per the Minerva mythological woman in this dream, I am beginning to think that she may have been connected to the same mythological female in that dream set on the Moon.  Indeed, this dream may also have been set here on Earth’s Moon. 

I will also go one further and presume that the dream of the inverted Machu Pichuesque, canyonned civilisation may well have been set on Earth’s Moon.  Who are we to say that this is not the case?  We are a planetary civilisation where ignorance and superstition are the order of the land. 

I think that it makes perfect sense for there to be a museum of anthropology on the Moon.  Said museum would, of course, bear examples of all the species which from time to time frequent or have frequented the planet.  I am sure with each species on display that there would be a history as to its connection to Earth. 

Were they engaged in deep sea marine studies or mining – aquatic or land-based?  Were they engaged in trade, research, exchanges with some levels of Earthly governments? 

Again, as with the canyonned Machu Pichuesque civilisation, December 29, 1990: http://dreampoetica.wordpress.com/2013/03/05/sequential-dreams-of-winged-simian-mammalian-extra-humans/ there was the sense of the dugout and that dream of October 6, 1997: http://dreampoetica.wordpress.com/2013/03/07/to-the-moon-with-you/ wherein the 500-plus-storeyed skyscrapers sat inside portal-like canyons.  I do believe that all three of these dreams are connected and were centred on the Moon. 


Photo credit: Interior, Guggenheim Museum New York City.

Sponsor: Suhail Mubeen – Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Archetypes in dreams, Dream Shamanism, Dream travel to distant worlds, Dreams, Dreams of ETs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Mythic figures in dreams | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Piece by Piece.

Piece by piece mark jamesonOil on linen

100 x 76 cm

Commissioned by & featuring: Prof. Ian Young, Queens University, Belfast, Northern Ireland.

© 2011 Mark Jameson


Ravishing and it readily surfaces such marvellous memories of Paris.


Sponsor:  Suhail Mubeen: Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 21st Century British Art, Art, Art Collection, Artists, Award-winning artist, Contemporary British Art, Painting, Portraiture, Private Art Collection | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Wanna go for a hay ride?


When about aged four, I can recall awaking at nights and staying up for some time unable to return to sleep.  I spent long hours back then mightily trying to shove my hand through the wall of the bedroom where I slept in bed with my mother.  Surely, if I could moments earlier have walked through walls; there must be some way to do so when awake. 

Many times, I had stayed awake trying to figure out why so many of my dreams were set in the house, just four doors away, where I had lived since arriving from Nevis at aged seven months.  I loved that house as, long after we had moved out, I can recall a few times having had flying dreams which were set in the house. 

So many were the nights where I would lie in bed, no more than six years old, and desperately try to will myself out-of-body so that I could fly back to the house where I had lived since coming to St. Kitts.  Of course, I never succeeded at slowly shoving my hands through the wooden wall to the living room next-door. 

I did, though, succeed with being more self-aware when focussed in the dream realms.  This, without a doubt, was very good shamanic work. 

Alas, as the Moon transited both Taurus and my twelfth house, I would dream the following dreams.  The date of their occurrence was Friday, July 21, 1995 and as such, it also happened to have been the forty-eighth anniversary of the beginning of Merlin’s just-completed life in fin de siècle Toronto. 

The dreams were audio-cassette recorded on tape number, one hundred and ninety seven and are to be found in volume twenty of the twenty-five volume dream opus. 

The final dream found me focussed on a far-off world where I would have a rather engaging encounter with a young Black extra-human with astonishing lack of maya.  To have encountered him was akin to experiencing someone who was completely without primary and second chief features. 

As you shall yet see, the dream was rather beautiful. 

Know then that I am immensely grateful for your continued support.  The very best to you in your spiritual journey and especially where your dream skills are concerned.  Sweet and lucid dreams, I wish you; for until one does, one never fully awakens when focussed in the waking state. 


While lucidly focussed in this the first dream, I saw Adella de Cruz y Campo reading a Chelsea Quinn Yarbro book with lots of diagrams in it.  One of them illustrated crabs leaping from a pond into the air. 

As if on a stairway to heaven, the crabs were in a ladder formation.  Adella had had her Michael Overleaves done but was being teasingly coy and noncommittal about sharing them.  She simply didn’t want me to know her Overleaves. 


Another astral plane encounter with Carl Leroiderien proved the focus of the second dream.  This rendezvous was pleasant and deferential; as a matter of fact, we were fairly warm towards one another. 

This was a rare occurrence; energetically, coming from him it was so rare.  I rather enjoyed the warmth while it lasted. 


Refocussed yet again, I found myself in this the third dream wandering into a sprawling, multi-levelled tropical house.  There I hung out in its beautiful aviary.  Clearly, this was Oleg de Brontë’s house. 

Morag O’Hoare, not surprisingly,  was present.  They were playing hosts to persons who were visiting them.  One of them was a very dark, handsome Black man who looked much like Maxwell Bowleson. 

I was then intuitively informed by a spirit guide that one of the reasons why Oleg was so into Black music and culture was owing to his bond with this man. 

I guess the person might have been his essence twin or his task companion.  Either way, there was no getting around the fact that this was a man with whom Oleg de Brontë  had shared a long, deep intimate relationship in many a life past.  Revelatory was this insight into Oleg’s makeup. 

There was clearly still a deep passion between these two men.  One had the sense of them that they frequently fooled around as it was a natural outcome of their having had such a strong bond at the level of soul. 

I found it so very lovely being here in this house; too, I really admired Oleg’s spirit for being in his space.  I then took my leave of the place not wanting to be discovered there by either Morag or Oleg. 

I then went down into town; here, it seemed like heading into Sandy Point from atop Cleverly Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  To the left was a large stone mansion. 

Presently under construction, the large house sat fairly close to the road for such an opulent residence.  As it was still under construction, I could make out that there were six small single family dwellings beside it en route into town. 

They were down the hill towards town and comfortably set back from the road and at an angle to the road.  The further one got from the large mansion, the more removed from the road the bungalows were. 

Painted the vibrant tropical colours that they were, they were so beautiful to have looked at.  Predominantly, they were painted banana-yellow with pomegranate-red galvanised roofs. 

They were, though, not yet lived in; it was obvious from looking through the windows that there was work still being done on the insides. 

Too, they were not yet furnished. 


I had a meeting at daytime, in this the fourth dream, while in the outdoors with Patricia Korda.  She stood before me firmly letting me know, with a most stern expression, that I had to get out of my apartment by the end of August. 

This was because I had notified her, in the waking state recently, that I would not be able to make the rent on time.  To say the least, a very upsetting encounter this proved. 


On coming to, in this the fifth dream, I found myself focussed while in motion going down a street that was not unlike Vancouver’s Denman Street.  At the time, I was going down towards Nelson Street where I entered a small, clean upscale boutique on the west side of Denman Street. 

White was the predominant colour schemata here.  A wig salon, there were photos of models on the white wig boxes which sported the particular colour and style of wig contained inside. 

There were more than a dozen shades of reds and in as many styles too.  Cropped, some straight, still others permed; there was a dazzling array of styles.  Rex Perry was there and we said hello; he was with a woman. 

I couldn’t make up my mind between a copper metallic-red and magenta-red.  They were both exceptionally beautiful.  Rex was rather warm and lingeringly looked at me while his wife busied herself trying to make up her mind. 


Next, in this the sixth dream, I was now lucidly focussed in an altogether truly strange world.  The light here, which lit up the world, was most unusual.  I self-consciously walked in the middle of a red earthen road with small tropical houses on the edge of the road.  

I noticed a teenage redheaded boy.  His neck was not only thick but it was also two thirds the length of his long back.  Unable to think of a better term for his long-necked body, I called him ‘Jurassoid’.  He was, without a doubt, an extra-human. 

Not at all aggressive, they were a rather low-key, mellow people.  In that sense, they were not unlike the red-tipped, flared-nostrilled, über-poilu Blacks and Whites whom I had encountered in the dreams of Thursday, February 16, 1989. 

Presently, he had been riding on a hay wagon.  He then got frisky, whipped out his dick and slyly smiled at me.  His cock was a hugely monstrous and thick affair. 

*Darlings, I had arrived in size queen heaven!  Now, this was my kind of Kansas!  Oh quelle joie ça!  END. 

Quite the sight indeed it was. 

From bulbous head to base, the entire thing was covered with a forest of vary-sized burrs.  Rather than follicular, these spiky-looking burrs were totally epidermal. 

In all, they were each between 1.5 and 2.0 inches long.  Some of them had knobs at the ends of the fleshy strands; still, others had their knobs further down the strand’s shaft. 

These knobs were highly sensitised and were used to increase the pleasure for both partners during intercourse.  No one but our young Jurassoid would and could be so casual about sex. 

As they each also experienced increased blood floor, the epidermal strands actually became hard with the hard-on.  However, during intercourse, they were flexible and tidally swayed back and forth like coral kelp close to shore. 

These epidermal strands were able to independently move and provided the female Jurassoid’s sensitised vaginal walls with a degree of stimulation that one can only imagine would prove maddeningly ecstatic for her human counterpart. 

This teenager’s august-souled face was quite so informed by the sensuality that his species’ sexuality afforded them.  Humans were simply never capable of being this centred. 

Indeed, we were far too uptight-looking compared to the Jurassoid extra-humans.  Though he was a natural redhead, he was unmistakably Black and looked more so like a Maasai rather than say a Zulu, Dogon or Nubian. 

I did have a sense, though, that there were other races here on this far-off world as in the case here on Earth.  He was such a great playful kid.  I found it hard to conceive of anything so absurd in Jurassoid civilisation as sexual bias of any kind. 

Sexuality was as natural and open as communal living in Amerindian societies is open and accepting of all its members.  Very evolved and refined spiritually was this world. 

*On awaking from this dream, I spent about three hours just laying there feeling as though still telepathically connected to the young Jurassoid.  Every detail of this dream was imprinted with crystalline clarity in my consciousness. 

In point of fact, I didn’t lie there being auto-erotic as a result of the dream; rather, I was overcome with wonder and a sense of deep knowing.  Though I had awakened from sleep, it was very much as if there were psychic tendrils which kept me connected and focussed across vast expanses of space. 

What I gathered, while lying there awake, was that the far-off world was massive beyond compare any in Sol’s orbit.  Too, it was part of a tri-star system.  The Jurassoids were a long-lived ensouled race who grew incredibly gargantuan with age during the course of their centuries-long lifetime. 

The young, Black, Jurassoid extra-human male’s eyes were placed more towards the side than forward as per the Sol III human arrangement with which we are familiar.  However, his eyes were not placed exclusive on the side of his large serene face.  They were such large, sensual soulful eyes.  Comparable to Sol III humans, the Jurassoid humans were less fear-based; they were more love-based and as such were centred and at peace. 

As his neck was so long, his large head seemed relatively small, though, it was not.  In that sense, his brain was at least 40 per cent larger than a human’s

This quality of the young, redheaded Black Jurassoid was rather calming.  I felt utterly at peace for being in his presence.  His sexual play was just one of many ways in which he could have extended himself to me for having recognised my own humanity and for his coming from a place of love rather than fear. 

This was a most phenomenal dream experience. 


Photo credit:  Loaded hay wagon. 

Sponsor: Suhail Mubeen – Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer. 


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved. 

Posted in Dream sex, Dream Shamanism, Dream travel to distant worlds, Dreams, Dreams of ETs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Painting | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Moon and Cow.

Moon and cow 1963

oil and synthetic resin
68.5 x 91.4 cm
Collection of Donnelley Erdman, Aspen Colorado

© 1963 Alex Colville

This marvellous super Moon night, I thought it appropriate to again share Alex Colville’s sublime genius.  





Sponsor:  Suhail Mubeen: Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer.  


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th century Canadian art, 20th century Canadian artists, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Art Exhibition, Artists, Award-winning artist, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Canadian art, Painting, Visionaries | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Morphing extra-humans and anchor point New Amsterdam.


Coming to in an astral plane anchor point metropolis is always a source of inordinate inspiration.  If for no other reason, the scale of architecture at these astral plane locales is truly colossal. 

One has a sense of the agedness, continuity and abundant breath of pods whose fragments are, I should think, almost always primarily focussed on the astral plane.  Too, one of the reasons I think that these astral plane anchor point metropolises are ever so populous is owing to the fact, I am convinced, that though essence reincarnates, the astral body of any given incarnation – both past and future – remains extant at the astral plane for all time. 

That is to say that an anchor point metropolis of Rome at the time of Augustus Caesar’s incarnation will ever be an astral plane constant with all the lives lived during that epoch having their astral bodies locally focussed there for all time.  This connection and continuity, I believe, facilitate one being able to have past-life dreams. 

That being the case, everyone who has ever lived in New Amsterdam aka New York City and the multiple lives they have lived there in the past 3 centuries would have the relevant astral bodies populating the astral plane anchor point counterpart to waking state New York City. 

I may be way off the mark on this, however, this is something that I have discerned for being dream-focussed in these anchor point metropolises as was the case during the phenomenal dream experiences on July 9, 1993 which is herein shared as the blog entitled, “Won’t take the A train.” 

More than that, one reason for some of these anchor point metropolises being so mammoth and the scales of architecture so phenomenal may well be because during such dreams one is actually astrally projected to other worlds within or without our local galaxy.  Moreover, these mammoth anchor point metropolises may well exist in parallel or alternate realities relative to, and intricately connected to, our own in ways that we do not yet understand. 

One of these next dreams was focussed at the astral plane anchor point metropolis for what we know, in the waking state, as New York City in this age. 

At the time of these dreams, it was Saturday, April 8, 1995 and the Moon transited both Cancer and my second house wherein is posited my natal Mercury.  Too, these dreams were recorded on the one hundred and ninety-sixth audio-cassette of the two hundred and fifty-taped recordings of my dreams over the decade 1989 to 1998. 

This was a wonderful undertaking and it has done much to have kept me spiritually focussed in this incarnation.  I am quite grateful to have this inordinate gift to share.  Even more, I am grateful to Merlin for having suggested the idea because, in hindsight, I now realise that it was a way of him celebrating this gift of mine. 

I will always remember one of the most beautiful moments in our relationship.  After one of the earliest moments of intimacy we shared, we were hanging out in bed in my Hell’s Kitchen, West 49th Street fifth floor apartment.  Absently, Merlin asked,

“Tell me something, my love?” 

“Yeah, go ahead…” I absently replied while our fingers were interlaced as we luxuriated in each other’s deeply spiritual bond. 

“Why am I falling so hard for you?” 

“Because my darling, I possess the one thing that matters and that which you cannot resist…” I paused and kissed his smiling lips. 

“And that is?” 

“Intellect!” to which I then stuck my tongue out and sensually licked the edge of his sexy proboscis as though alluding to fellatio. 

Merlin smiled and kissed once, then again and after he said I love you, we began passionately kissing, resumed sinning and made up for lost sexual play not had together since last incarnate and lovers. 

Sweet dreams you and love like you have never loved before! 


In this the first dream, I was in a fairly large dance studio where Ryan Billington and Tamar Foch were performing a modern ballet.  There was at least one other ballerina in the piece. 

The dance that I witnessed was the pas de deux.  The choreography was a most exhilarating experience to have vicariously tasted of.  Tamar, however, was intent on not looking at me. 

Being there was so uncomfortable and to have been ignored was especially bruising.  Ryan, all in all, proved an excellent partner.  I really did like the choreography. 

I knew that Ryan was thinking, while performing, what the devil I was doing there in Vancouver?  Upstage right was a door from the studio which they used for exits and entrances. 

She wore a blue and white pastel unitard whose line was broken by a gossamer skirt.  Ryan wore the matching unitard and was, as ever, lithe and beautifully-proportioned. 

Here, he was a more matured and confident dancer than when last I knew him. 


I awoke at nighttime, in this the second dream, to find that I was in bed in the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house.  I was quite concerned. 

Earlier, Pandora da Braga and I had been visiting and just when I thought that all was okay, I had awakened to find that the house was vulnerable; the house was open throughout while I lay asleep. 

At once, I got about closing the doors.  When I got to the door that led from the boys’ bedroom to that part of the backyard facing east, I saw two White men there. 

They were strangely humanoid but seemed to be live-action animated cartoons.  Stranger still, they were able to quite effortlessly morph in real time. 

I watched as they influenced what would appear on the television in the room.  In one instance, skiers soon became surfers riding the heavy surf of a tangerine-red sea which lay beneath a blazingly sapphire-blue sky. 

*No darlings, I had not come undone and done drugs; rather, to points unknown on the astral plane my gossamer wings had spirited me and this voyage proved quite the psychedelic trip.  END. 

Then they argued as to the surfers themselves.  They morphed the surfers from one speed extreme to another.  After having finally changed the sky to now appear tangerine-red twilight, to the sea being a liquidly enticing sapphire-blue, they then arrived at a compromise. 

The colours of both sky and sea now looked as, I suspect the vista would appear, if one were on a psychedelic acid trip.  Now the blues and papayas were mixed in a cacophony of swirls and spirals. 

Some of these were paisley-shaped; still, others were slowly rotating galactic spirals.  Hurriedly, I locked the latches both on the inner and outer doors. 

I soon realised that the tops of the doors had been rat-gnawed away and left gaping holes which made it perfectly possible for anyone on the outside to have opened the locked doors. 

This would naturally leave the morphing extra-humans, outside in the yard, free to open the locked doors if they so chose.  Earlier, I had noticed that every door and window of the old kitchen was left wide-open. 

I had closed the top half of the new kitchen’s door to the backyard. 


Here, in what proved the third dream, it was daytime out, while I was using a bus of a transit system.  Isha da Braga and I were together.  I wanted to board the trains to take the next leg of the journey but had no ticket. 

I then devised to use Isha’s ticket to get myself onto the next leg of the trip.  Since there was no transit worker manning the ticket booth, we simply went ahead. 

We moved through a large, harness-like-boothed turnstile system.  This then took us outside; there, I crossed the street then progressed up a hilly incline to a growth of young, seven-foot Austrian pines. 

We talked about Pandora da Braga and both agreed that there was no way that this woman would ever tolerate an abusive lover – Pandora is a mature soul warrior.  She would always be the dominant partner in all romantic relationships. 

Soon, we were headed back down a boulevard in the opposite direction.  This street was reminiscent of Fifth Avenue in New York City. 

As though one were on the west side of the avenue, it seemed that we were above West 90th Street.  There was a lot of heavy construction underway to the sewers and vast network of cable lines below street level. 

All of this was exclusively taking place on the western sidewalk.  As we made our way to West 86th Street, it was then that I realised that this was not present day New York City. 

There, for certain, was Central Park with 86th Street running through it.  However, the Metropolitan Museum was easily seven times as large and just as tall.  Too, this astral metropolis’ version of the museum had an empire and art deco look to it.  The roof was empire and the façade decidedly deco. 

Certainly, it was not the present neo-classical schema.  Isha and I then headed south down sunny busy Fifth Avenue.  I decided to show her the fifteenth floor of 1040 Fifth Avenue where Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis lived until her passing almost a year ago. 

Before that, at the southeast corner of East 86th Street and Fifth Avenue, there was a mansion that ran easterly to Madison Avenue and down to East 85th Street.  This mansion was truly colossal. 

There were no straight or flat walls, rather, they were all concave and the look here stylistically was decidedly Moorish.  At this time of day, natural, roughhewn granite caught the sunlight beautifully. 

At the top, there was a wraparound balcony; there was a lot of sparkling gold-leafing that accentuated the bas reliefs.  All the angles were soft and round; the look and feel of this architecture was very maternal and natural. 

There was a domelike effect to these lines.  I then noticed 1040 Fifth Avenue.  Here in the dreamtime, it was more massive than its waking state counterpart. 

Unlike its waking state counterpart, however, this structure was an ornate structure with rich gold-leafing everywhere.  A set of swords pointed down in a fanlike formation. 

The longest of the swords were in the center and one of each cluster stood on either side of the awninged doorway.  Imperial-looking sentries and livery men wearing blue and red, with gold sashes and buttons stood guard here. 

The architecture was all very solid granite that was a warm dark grey as though it were perpetually rain-soaked.  A very colossal building it certainly was, to match the scale of everything else here, in this sprawling metropolis. 

Here too, as in that dream of July 9, 1993 – which in this blog is shared entitled: Won’t take the A train – there was a sense that this was one of those anchor points which serve on the astral plane to keep discarnate souls focussed to the physical plane between lives. 

This particular metropolis of the former New York City had a population that was easily in excess of 50 million persons.  Again, it felt as though a world population in excess of 17 billion – just as in that dream on July 9, 1993. 

I passingly wondered if this were not New York a quarter of a millennium hence.  I thought that it could, perhaps, be a New York City in a parallel universe. 

Certainly, there were no visible signs of racial discord and divisiveness.  Too, there was no glaring poverty.  Everything here was so real and solid; everything here zinged with an intensity of vital pure energies. 

A much higher octave of human experience existed here, than the waking state, by far.  Though this was a powerful and rich metropolis, in the young-souled sense of the word, there was more to it. 

This astral plane anchor point metropolis was the wealthy place that it was because this was about spiritual maturation and harmony.  There was no wealth here as a result of mercantile expansiveness and its glaring greed. 

The Metropolitan Museum here was considerably taller than Le Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris; too, it was easily at least three times as large as the Centre Georges Pompidou. 


Photo credit:  Gothic architecture in Manhattan/Babylon

Sponsor: Suhail Mubeen – Certified numerologist & Vedic astrologer. 


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved. 

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