Monday, October 28, 1991’s dreams were rather operatic in scope. What’s more, there were two sleep cycles replete with a bounty of dreams that day. Luna, during the course of these intensely focussed dreams, sailed through the depths of my second house while transiting Cancer.
These truly marvellous dreams were audiocassette-recorded on both the eightieth and eighty-first dream tapes. Thus, as such, they are to be found in both volumes VIII and IX of the twenty-five volume dream opus.
These dreams, as you shall yet see, involved roaming about the fathomable depths of the soul and coming into contact with aspects of past lives which readily inform one’s current life experience. In this instance, it was about being afforded a look into the past and one’s perceptions of Blacks during a White European past incarnation. To say the least, it was rather revelatory.
More than that, let’s delve into the business of my career in the civil service while living in that ode to Canadian enigmas, Montréal. For seven long and at times harrowing years, I lived and worked in the civil service in Montréal.
Immediately on my arrival to the workplace in Montréal, I discovered that yet again, I was the first fulltime Black male in another of the corporation’s offices, this time in the Montréal offices. God what is it about this place?
I would fast learn that the reason for the other Black workers, all local Montréalais, starting a bit later than me was because they were not fulltime. Here were all these Blacks – almost exclusively of Haitian descent – having to work for years on end as Casual workers.
This meant that for not being either part-time or fulltime employees, they were never eligible for the corporation’s benefits plan reserved for its part-time and fulltime employees. If that were not bad enough, the fact that I was ‘Anglo’ and had transferred in from outside Québec was thoroughly unacceptable for most Québecois in the workplace.
Of course, it goes without saying that while working for the same corporation, there were French Canadians in both Toronto and Vancouver who were originally from Québec. Soon, my being Anglo and being Black and fulltime was a source of serious irritation for many of the locals.
Of one thing you can always be certain, Québecers will act on their convictions. Well, thank goodness I had been tried by fire in Vancouver by that retaliatory campaign begun by Jabba the Hutt’s bastard hybrid.
Just as I could never have walked out on Merlin when on January 19, 1988 while lying vulnerable and devastated he held my hand, apologised and informed me that he was hospitalised at St. Michael’s Hospital because it was full-blown AIDS and not lung cancer as I had assumed – what with his pack-and-a-half daily cigarette habit.
Goodness there would never have been these phenomenal dreams which unfolded on his passing had I walked out on Merlin that day and abandoned our relationship. Truth be told, had I done so, the immense spiritual work that we accomplished for me being so lucidly awakened in the dreamtime as he made the transition to being an astral plane habitué would not have occurred.
Despite the fact that we are task companions that work would simply not have occurred had I chosen to have abandoned Merlin on learning of his true illness. Truth be told, had I abandoned Merlin, I am certain that he would not have died in the state of ecstatic fulfillment as betrayed in the dream of his passing which occurred as I slept on November 18, 1989.
That dream is herein this blog entitled, “See you soon… Merlin’s magical transition.” Were it not for the work that Merlin and I accomplished for having stayed the course and been as empathetic and compassionate as I was, most of all, Merlin would not have been reborn female in northern Europe on December 2, 2006. More than that, Merlin was reborn at first life at first level Old souldom.
The spiritual work we undertook in tandem as task companions while he was an astral plane habitué and I remained ever devoted to and spiritually focussed on him here on the physical plane facilitated his maturation away from mature souldom to old souldom.
This singular achievement I am supremely proud of.
When a loved one passes, it isn’t enough to simply remember them, you’ve got to haul arse and give completely of self to assist in their transition on to another and brighter future. Every dream shared in this blog of Merlin and me after his passing attest to our having worked in tandem and my having been focussed on seeing him through to a brighter future.
That having been the case, there was simply no way that I could have seen all those local Blacks in Montréal being systemically discriminated against and done nothing. Finally, there was a way – trust me, I always find a way. Among the group of discriminated Haitian-Canadians at the Montréal workplace was a woman who had suffered childhood polio.
As a result, she was left walking with a cane and had been with the employer for over a decade. As a casual, she had no access to benefits and wore glasses, walked with a cane and had to drive to and from work as taking transit was too challenging. Furthermore, she was a mother with children. She was a lovely woman with the sweetest disposition.
I saw my way and with my indefatigable charm, I persisted and finally after appealing for the sake of making her children’s lives better, she agreed to file a Canadian Human Rights complaint. Her basis for showing differential treatment was the fact that a White Québecois (male) had been hired by the employer as a civil servant and had become a fulltimer in the traditional 2-3-year process it takes for going from being a casual worker to being part-time and eventually full-time.
This man, however, had suffered childhood polio just like she had. The effects of his physical deformity was more severe than were hers; nonetheless, there was he fulltime and with full benefits. Naturally, she had been told that the employer had told her that she could not have been made fulltime because she was incapable of performing her full duties.
With an attitude of scepticism and being on a third life in the priestly position of the third warrior-spirited cadence of third warrior greater cadence in the priestly entity of the very cardinal first cadre makes me a formidable foe when so focussed. My charm persevered and she won her case, was made fulltime and in short order so, too. were the other Blacks made fulltime.
Alas, the messenger/catalyst for change rarely ever fares too well. As a result of having upset the status quo in insular Québec where most of these Haitians like most Québecers have no awareness of what goes on in the rest of Canada – they truly believed that Blacks were not allowed to be fulltime and as federal civil servants no less.
Then again, Canada’s unique brand of racism is a charmed affair as deftly articulated by the über-Kétaine displaced haus frau who represented the tony Montréal riding of Westmount, Lucienne Robillard, who at a speech before the Vancouver Chinese chamber of commerce at the local convention centre declared in her heavily accented English,
“We doesn’t want some people in this country anymore because all they do is commit crime, collect welfare and have lots of babies. Now we want you Asians because you are smart, have money and start businesses…” after which she laughed a breath that was unsurprisingly hideous and stank of her ignorance.
To say the least, as the camera panned the room, no one on videotape was seen laughing at her telling joke. This was back in the mid-1990s while I then lived in Vancouver and she was the newly installed minister responsible for Human Resources Canada.
Two decades later, there has been drastically decreased immigration from Black countries to Canada. That notwithstanding, good luck Canada with extricating your way out of having persons in your midst who have no fealty to this society and who consider themselves at war with everything you and your society stands for.
Naturally, Canadian employment equity laws afford all corporations to actively discriminate against Blacks and this they readily do. As per the employment equity laws of Canada, all corporations must hire Caucasians, Aboriginals, Visible Minorities and Disabled persons.
That criterion of visible minorities has afforded corporations to openly discriminate in their hiring practices. Certainly, as one employee of the Canadian Human Rights Commission smugly stated in a phone conversation with me, “If an employer wants to hire other visible minorities to the exclusion of Blacks, they are not in violation of law.
Furthermore, when employers are audited they do not have to share the employment status of their employees even if there was an inquiry into the makeup of that employer’s workforce. For instance, if specifically asked if they do have Blacks employed, they are also never asked their employment status.
As a result, what has evolved is most corporations hire Blacks on a casual basis where they are not afforded benefits and never stand a chance of gainful fulltime employment. Everyone in Canadian human resources knows this to be the case. In most corporations, there will be Asians working in HR and they almost never hire Blacks save as casual employees.
As a result, it is customary to find many Blacks working two or three jobs all being casual or minimum wage jobs with most minimum wage jobs affording negligible benefits if at all. This I know only too well after having been booted out of the civil service for being nothing but a troublemaker as the Montréal head of the union rudely told me off, when telling me to go to hell as he had no intentions of representing me at a meeting where the employer was looking to fire me.
Thankfully, here in Canada – unlike in America, federal elections can happen at any time and can occur mere months apart. This is why on my departure from Québec, I seized the opportunity to give as good as I had gotten from that local union head. I was positively enraged when I saw that he was running for the NDP in a Montréal riding on my recent relocation to Toronto in 2004 to care for an ailing and beloved father.
Months later, there would be another election. Straight away, I draughted a letter informing the head of the NDP, Jack Layton, that should the local union head persist with running, he had already announced to union members his intentions of running again, that I would with my lawyer hold a press conference and out him for having done nothing while several members of the Black community were held back in excess of 10 years in some instances as casual workers while his union took their money and did nothing to prevent their systemic discrimination.
Naturally, I cced said letter to all the opposition parties, himself, and made it perfectly clear that if he did not withdraw toute de suite, I would be in touch with the media. Right away, the Bloc Québecois ran a Haitian-Canadian, Vivian Barbot, in the same riding as the local union head had previously run. She handsomely won the seat in that riding, in January 2006 with the local union head having withdrawn. Of course, in time she was displaced by the scion of the country’s most dynamic Prime Minister, Pierre E. Trudeau when Justin Trudeau won the riding of Papineau, in Montréal, Québec in October 2008 – I for one can’t wait until he is elected Prime Minister.
Meanwhile, I was physically assaulted by coworkers, supervisors, had the local police show up at my house, barging their way inside and with their hands on their guns to let me know that I had better watch myself because there were complaints of me beating my partner or violently arguing. I was repeatedly suspended, I was threatened with suspension for attending a friend’s funeral and not having provided a copy of the death certificate as evidence when by law the only persons afforded this document are the decease’s immediate family.
Just as in Vancouver, my start times were doctored to show tardiness, I was made to not go to the washroom to the point where on one occasion I wet myself as there was the threat of being suspended… again. My car suffered flat tyres, was scraped with keys, my lunch sandwich was discovered in the urinal in the washroom adjoining the dining area. Being in Québec made being in Vancouver as if a flying dream.
Finally, after seven years of fighting because I always can be counted on to defend myself and give as good as I get, on my return to living in Toronto with vicious dispatch, the same employer had me dismissed and that was that. Alas, I lost my pension and currently work multiple jobs to come nowhere near the earnings previously enjoyed while a civil servant.
Alas, I got a group of persons who would likely still be casual workers in Montréal their full and entitled employment. I think it highly improbable that the Bloc Québecois would have had Vivian Barbot run in Papineau had they not received that very detailed letter of what those Haitian-Canadians were systemically put through while in the employ of the civil service.
At the end of the day, I was never cut out to be a civil servant and god-only-knows I have never once awakened and not been able to recall multiple dreams – so to hell with them.
Being removed from what proved a hellish experience has afforded me the ability to have transcribed the dream tapes and eventually to have begun this blog of which I remain immensely proud. Alors, as if the dreams were not vast in scale, enough of turning this preamble into another novella.
Sweet dreams as ever and don’t forget no matter what transpires in the waking state, at the very core of your being is the greatest beauty and the most delicate flower… you!
We have positively no control over how we are perceived and certainly we can have no control over lunatic, intolerant, racially predatory boors who are simply bored with the ennui of their lives where they do little more than live to get drunk and do drugs… and what pray tell do such people who are ever ready to prey on you know of dreams?
I was talking with Pandora da Braga, in this the first dream, while pasting the border onto the picture itself. In point of fact, it was a print (lithograph) of mine that I wanted to mount.
I was doing some work in a house. More to the point; it was an apartment. The art was being prepared because one was moving in and getting relocated. Pandora said to me,
“I don’t even know because I think if I were to get married and settled down, I’d become very impatient with him because there is nothing to such…”
“Pandora shut up! You can’t go and start fucking up this relationship. Besides take if from me, I’m the one in this family with the most experience. It’s called karma.
“That’s how every relationship matures. You have to work at the relationship. It has to be that way. What brings you together initially is an attraction but it only serves to get underway with the true work at hand.
“You cannot come together with another human being and there not be a past to it. There has to be some degree of karma which is what brings people together.
“There will, of course, be the initial song and dance and the attraction. But when you get beyond that, then you realise that there is a lot of work to be done.
“That is what turns off most people. When they realise what the karma is, they then try and end the relationship. Or get into this hitherto fore, as in your case, relationship which you’ve wanted. This is somebody for whom the need is mutual…”
Here, I was directly quoting her from the waking state phone conversation we had had hours earlier. She said that she felt that she was not this time overextending herself and for that I commended her,
“Good. And you have to work at it. Nothing ever worth getting in this world, in life, ever comes easy. There are always different stages to every relationship. And if it makes a change, then there could be devotion.
“And if you were to go on and have children between you, there would be a sense of devotion – at least on your part for the children.
“Whatever you have to do, Pandora, do not fuck up this relationship. I don’t want to hear you talking in this lost, little girl voice because it accomplishes absolutely nothing.”
I was walking along the streets of Sandy Point, St. Kitts, in this the second dream, coming on to Douglas Haakonson’s store. He was, at nighttime, outside the shop. There was a big, large wooden door which had an African mask’s head for a handle.
The door handle had a gazelle’s antlers going up from the human-headed mask; they did go on for some distance. So that it was like a really large thick door and those horns were the very sturdy handles that one would use to open the heavy doors; the design was very stylish and nice.
There were two little boys who were the sons of someone, perhaps, Pandora’s. They were, though, in my care and may even have been my children. They were quite funny and sunny and very intelligent children; they were precocious.
I had stopped to talk to someone who worked in the store. He worked at Douglas Haakonson’s supermarket and inquired of me as to certain items whether or not I would like to have them this trip.
As I was walking to the store, there was a service being held at Douglas and Joanna Weir’s Church. I saw the garden that they had put together; I was, at the time, viewing it from upstairs on their apartment’s veranda.
The garden was, of course, above Douglas Haakonson’s supermarket. This garden was quite beautifully laid out. Things had matured and aged quite beautifully. The garden was still being kept and quite nicely at that; I rather admired it.
I then went walking off to Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts and home; with me were the two sunny boys who gave a great deal of pleasure to be in their wonderful company. We did, as a matter of fact, get along quite nicely.
In this the third dream, I was in front of that store between Ginina Barrick’s and the Gordon Whyckses’. I was sitting down on the ground because there was a very ancient, ancient, old-souled-looking man who was as if a gnome.
He was as though a part of Norse mythology like Loki or some such personage. There was something so arrestingly unusual about him because he seemed so at peace. He was, too, as if an animated character skillfully woven into the fabric of the dreamtime’s pandimensional elasticity.
He was digging under this bridge which had been walled under. It was an overpass which had crossed over a body of water many centuries earlier; as a matter of fact, it would have been in ancient times.
The water had now dried up to a near seasonal trickle. Where the posts had come down to span the gorge, between the two stone supports, the underside of the bridge had been in recent times walled in.
The river had become so small that there needn’t have been that empty space on the outer sides of the two central posts that were under opposite ends of the bridge. Perhaps, there was now a damn further upstream or the river had been in modern times simply diverted to make way for man and industry.
When coming downstream the river and facing the oncoming bridge, it was the walled-in section to one’s left where the troll-like ancient man was digging. He was, however, facing upstream digging into the wall.
As I sat there intently studying the feisty old mensch, he got to a hollow in the wall and I was pleased for him because he would not have to toil too long. Truth be told, it was an unusually wide bridge; this was not a foot bridge.
Before he had met the hollow, I had passingly thought that he would be stuck toiling like that forever. He was digging with such earnest fervour and the cement was being dug away as though it were a very sooty soft limestone.
The look of the earth was black really and seemed more like black pudding. He dug into it quite excitedly and to closely look at his actions, it was as though he was working in sped-up animation which totally betrayed the calm, serene bucolic slowness that lovingly warped his very old-souled face.
On realising that only he could get through, he went about clearing out room for the head. He then came running out of there because there were apparently bodies that were buried in there of the people’s château or fort. This was an ancient structure and not unlike Hamlet’s castle.
I didn’t, after all, think it unusual for there to be bodies buried there. He had acted a though he had truly seen a ghost. What in fact these skeletons were, were the bodies of those who had been killed as occult sacrifice to guard and fortify the bastion of power for that area’s overlord in ancient mythic times.
He had not anticipated seeing anything so garish which is why he was so frightened. When he came out, he went off to do something else. I was there with two other people as we raked up the leaves at autumn time.
I started raking the leaves out to the centre of the road because they were down towards the drain in the street; this I decided wouldn’t be good for the storm sewer system. There was, as well, all this extra gravel that the rakes had pulled up.
The woman who was coordinating the job seemed a lot like Amie Tothmanner. She wanted to know what we were going to do with all the bundles of gravel. I told her not to worry that we would dispose of it by placing it on the earthen pathway.
Since there were no longer any horse drawn carriages using the pathway, it would be good for the road. Saying that it was a good idea, she had agreed with me. She then gave the three of us a list.
We were supposed to have gone off to the store to buy something. I knew that what she wanted was some rum punch. In addition, she wanted some extracts so that she could make some baked goods: cakes and pies.
We then got to this store and Mario Moxley was there; soon, I was chatting with him saying,
“Well I don’t know. What do you think?”
We were in this narrow little shop. The shopkeeper was way down at the back of the store. We were together all three of us, plus the shopkeeper, and I reached into the fridge and got one single egg because that was all we needed.
I then decided that we should buy instead a dozen and the others could be a gift from me. There were some essences like maple syrup and vanilla extract. There were some bottles of rums – one bottle of which I directed the proprietor to get me.
I also wondered aloud why we were not getting wine. I then suggested that it would certainly be nice to have some wine. So I tried to get us some wine but Amie would have none of it. I went to this round table on which sat a bottle of wine; there was some wine left in the bottle.
The wine bottle said Château Rouyn which, of course, is where Pandora’s present lover is from. A bottle of red wine, it was in a dark bottle. I felt that it would have been nice to have had with dinner and a fine meal made of it to boot.
The guy who was down in the back of the store, the shopkeeper, was leaning over onto a deep freeze while writing something into a ledger. There were some other items there that interested me: cakes and pastries. I decided that I could definitely take some of them to have for my lunch.
At the time, I was thinking of taking it to lunch in the waking state at my workplace. The cake was a very dark, dark rich affair with very rich thick icing. Peculiarly, the icing was all around the sides with none on the top; I found this most unusual.
In point of fact, it was a very thick piece of icing. The cake sat on its side with the icing closer to the left and the pointed end of the slice, which came from the centre, was pointed to the right. I decided in the end against taking it because it would have essentially involved my having to have stolen the damn thing.
Then I saw these plastic bags of dried fruits and some dried large peas as well. The guy who was with me, who had been the guy who worked at Douglas Haakonson’s, went and started putting the proper price on them because the prices were beginning to fade away.
They were also not properly kept on the shelves and he just couldn’t resist applying his expertise. I actually found it admirable of him.
In this the fourth dream, I was in a car with a man whom earlier I had been visiting in a house. Here we were talking and had clearly been intimate earlier.
The man was extremely wealthy and looked a great deal like the scion of Fiat Motors, Gianni Agnelli, who with his wife, Marella Agnelli, I find a truly handsome couple.
This man had a very strong nose that was weathered but not gin-blossomed. He was silver-haired, very leathery skinned and tan; he looked every bit like a King soul.
We were in the car talking and he said to me that he had spent eighteen years in San Salvador. I shared with him that I had been in Winnipeg for two years.
He was surprised and I told him that I had been studying on scholarship at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet School. We were getting to know each other better and he was very much so genuinely interested in me.
He matter-of-factly said to me, looking me square in the eye,
“You could turn out to be very expensive for me because you have very expensive tastes. I have seen the way that you’ve dealt with certain things and your tastes run along the lines of acquiring things.
“You are very flamboyant. And it’s not that you don’t know; you have a great sense of taste, style and appreciation for art…”
This, of course, is all true.
“…You don’t have the history of knowing how to manage money…”
This painfully is all too true.
“…You could be very expensive for me, dear man.”
For that reason, he was hesitant to blindly proceed. We were getting into an arrangement in which he would be in a relationship with me. He felt that I needed to be supported so that my creativity could be allowed to fully flourish. He loved my mind.
His only hesitation was that I was going to cause him a bit of heartache because of my inability to manage money. At the time, I was wholeheartedly agreeing with him because I knew that initially when getting into this relationship, I was going to have to acquire the appropriate wardrobe.
This, of course, was not going to be an inexpensive proposition. I do have certain tastes and things would definitely have to be custom-made by the finest designers. I just did not want any old piece of designer schmata either.
“I’ve earned this. This is the style and manner into which I was born to conduct my life.”
“Yes indeed you certainly have…” He whispered looking soulfully into me and rubbing my hands.
We then came into the house and he was going to be going off on one of his frequent business trips. I was saying goodbye to him but it certainly wasn’t as though we were parting for good.
He was, though, saying to me that he was leaving. I came to kiss him and there was a wonderful bouquet that he had; yellow daffodils. I was kissing the buds of the daffodils as well as kissing him.
He was a short man, in fact, not taller than me. This was a relationship that was mature, open and honest. Neither of us was out to use the other and there was genuine warmth and affection between us.
I was reminded a bit of Sebastian Brilman by way of his stature and nothing else. I started kissing him and when he was leaving he came back and said,
“Look, you have such expensive tastes.”
“Yes, and go and get the bottle of Patou…”
This is, of course, Joy de Patou; it is the most expensive fragrance on the planet at a mere $1,000.00 U.S per ounce. However, here in the dreamtime, I distinctly remember it being $2,000.00 an ounce.
*Clearly, the 1000$ referred to the Jean Patou fragrance 1000 which does not cost 1000$ per ounce. END.
I was in Sandy Point, St. Kitts, while focussed in this the fifth dream, in the backyard of the Crab Hill house. I was having quite the time because there was music being played on the CD, over the fence, in Yvette Morehead’s yard.
I went and turned it over which, needless to say, is something that one would never do with a CD in the waking state. The album was Prince’s latest. On the first side, when I turned it over, it had a cover of a Tina Turner song. The arrangement was quite wonderful.
I was dancing in the yard to it. I then stopped and came to the CD player, wondering if I had actually properly restarted the disc because it had sounded like the last song on the other side was currently playing. As it turned out, it was the same last song repeated but it was now an extended version.
I was singing along to the lyrics. It was not Nutbush City Limits but it had a similar beat to that song. This definitely was one of Tina Turner’s hits and was quite racy. Too, it was quite enjoyable to have listened to it in the dreamtime.
There was over in the back of Mutel Ginalette’s garden, and close to Jestina Hendricks’ fence, Prashant Saxena. He was taking a piss and was aware that I was off to his right and so he had edged forward so that I couldn’t see his cock.
I could not have cared less one way or the other anyway. There was a woman who came up and decided that she was going to turn down the volume of the music because it was quite loud.
“This is none of your business. Don’t you dare do that!” I imperiously barked.
I then returned to the disc player and turned back the music to its original volume. She had only just slightly turned it down but at that level, you couldn’t get the full force of the music’s dynamic attack.
I was, in this the sixth dream, in the yard of the High School in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was quite the item because I had on a pair of the highest imaginable, black patent leather stilettos.
I could walk in them and paraded back and forth the length of the corridor, along which the technical studies classes were held: woodworking, home economics, the library and chemistry labs.
I even had on the blue skirt of the school’s uniform. I was quite the item and people were simply knocked out on seeing me. At one point, when I was walking back down towards the home economics room, I passed Vijay Patel and on whose left close to me was Keegan Glenford; this was a much younger and lighter-complected version of Keegan.
Glenford was not at all pleased to see me dressed thus. Vijay was pretty cool about the whole thing and told his companion not to become so upset. Vijay told him that it was just me being me and to leave me be; besides, I wasn’t doing anyone any harm.
I was quite so having fun with myself parading back and forth. All the locals were very much so afraid of me. Shanice Sedgwick who is a Trinidadian from the workplace was down there talking to someone and said of me,
“Well me dear chile, if is wha he want, is wha he want an ting…”
I then came down along the corridor where the auditorium was. Going along, I went past the auditorium to go by 3A1 which was my home form when I permanently left St. Kitts. I was supposed to be in that classroom where the teacher was very beautifully dark-skinned.
He was male and was waiting for me to show up to start class. I didn’t though go in; I walked around and back up the stretch of the corridor while taking long deep-pussied strides.
I wanted all the kids in the classes to see me doing my thing. Then it occurred to me that I could not only walk this vamping stride but could fly as well because it was, after all, a dream.
Pushing off, I began wonderfully flying low to the ground. I was flying; I was so ecstatic to be in flight. I flew up over this tree and then veered off to the left of those two little portable classrooms while flying very low to the ground.
I swerved around going easterly, beyond the classroom, with my feet to the sea. I was headed towards the mountain range. I went around to that two-room cement portable that had been erected and behind it.
I went off in the direction of the two-storeyed building which was added in the early seventies; however, here in the dreamtime, it was not present. Coming around the portable, I immediately touched down and there was Lance Williams; Pandora da Braga’s friend from Cleverly Hill, Sandy Point.
She had long hair and wanted to take a pee but wasn’t too sure whether she could go ahead and stoop down there.
“Gurl go on. Wha wrang wid yu? Nuthin wrang wid hain ah pee… is natrul.”
There was someone else about; she, though, was afraid that people back in those classrooms in the technical block would be peeping out at her.
“Weh even if yu ha yu back tun, dey ain gune see anyting.”
The trees that were in the back of the Roman Catholic Church grounds were very large. There were some straw plants and others. So, while she took a pee, no one up in Lara Wellesley’s house or the Roman Catholic Manse could have seen her.
I then came down again and was parading about for the third time. This time, I passed these two girls and one of them said,
“Me arm ya…” And cutting up her eye while stopping to watch me pass.
“Arh yu dus damn jaylus. Shut yu arss.”
As a matter of fact, it was this third time as I strolled down the corridor of the technical block that I had passed Vijay Patel and Keegan Glenborg.
I then finally went into the classroom. I was, to say the least, very late; on top of that, I was supposed to have been making a presentation. I had known as much but that was why I had been stalling. I took off my stilettos and threw them in the corner, to the right of the door, and then put on some sandals.
The teacher said,
“Yes, here he is and he’s just come back.”
I had supposedly been given instructions to go to this compound, like an agricultural site, and make a report. As it turned out that the teacher had been there and I was going to try and lie my way saying that I had been on assignment when, in fact, I hadn’t.
I decided to improvise because I thought that as I started talking, knowing that I was dreaming, I should have been able to have an inner vision of the actual site.
That actually did happen. So, with that, I bantered on and described the agricultural grounds as I saw them with my third eye. Thus, I was able to accurately say what was what – even though he knew that he was there all the time at the agricultural grounds and hadn’t seen me.
My descriptive, though, were so precise that he couldn’t refute it. This was supposed to have been either in St. Croix or St. Thomas U. S. Virgin Islands. I could tell him that he hadn’t seen me, when he was there, because my aunt Pilar do Aragão had taken very sick and I wanted to go be with her; this meant that I had left before he had even arrived.
So, in the end, I had only been at the agricultural site for one day, and briefly at that, and then had flown over to be with my aunt in St. Croix. One was supposed to have been on the site for a number of days, to take care of the gardens, because it was part of a school project.
The whole thing about it was that it was revolutionary. One planted certain flowers along with certain vegetables. The insects that favoured the vegetable plants, especially the tomatoes and others, were very much so adored by the bees, wasps and birds like hummingbirds that came to feed of the rich nectar of the blooms.
As I spoke, I saw it all being acted out under a very cloud-bare blazing sky. I was looking at the kids in the classroom. Since they were much younger than me, I was able to readily command their attention and respect for being an adult.
They were teenaged and being a teacher to them, I was quite so enjoying my role. I soon realised that there were more dimensions to my life than just being a school teacher.
This first dream proved an extremely involved affair. A dream it was in which I went off to a performance, at nighttime of course, but it was as though it was onscreen. Before the performance began, there was a comedian up on stage.
There were many wings to this performance because it was set in a house. This performance was, in fact, a period piece. The people who were watching this were very much so out of time. This was set in the Victorian era. There was a very nasty – racist in fact, send up of ‘the savages in the jungle’.
This was all in British accents and very nineteenth century language.
*As I had meditated before sleep, I opened myself up to experiencing insights into past-life reincarnational data. As it turned out, I would end up having much insights to my past.
This was set in the parlour of the very affluent Victorian residence. There was a White comic up onstage, not unlike Tom Kneebone – who is possibly one of the most loathsome pieces of bigoted shit, I have ever met.
Otto Dix asshole that he is – the pinched, sphinctered nobody faggot. The thought soon occurred to me that one of the reasons why I loathed Tom Kneebone, on meeting him, was because he was so much like that comic I was presently experiencing up onstage.
Evidently, my visceral connection to the very racist performer was because he was myself in a former life in Britain; this was possibly a life lived as a White male. The comic was not Tom Kneebone but he had the same racist, pinched, WASP lack of tolerance and awareness as the Otto Dix asshole – such an ill-evolved piece of shit. END.
The comic was presently entertaining the guests in this particular salon. He was doing this whole thing about, ‘the Pickaninnies’, ‘the darkies’. He had to have an accompaniment to show their gargantuan, elephantine dicks and clearly from the way that he was holding it, it wasn’t even yet erect.
He was all bulging eyes that rolled with wide-opened mouth. Everyone was just spellbindingly charmed by his wicked witticism. I, dreamer Arvin, was not in the least entertained by it. In fact, I felt greatly embarrassed to see him.
This truly was like having to face embarrassing skeletons in one’s closet. The dream then led into this performance that they were putting on. The performance was actually quite funny.
Everyone would leave the salon and then come back in. They all had on Victorian dress and wore makeup specific to that era. At one point, all the women came back in from where I saw – through an open door, there were people off to the left in a smaller room who were not performing.
They were crowded around on divans. There was a large open space on the floor where the exquisite rug sat. There was one woman there who had a bad sniffle who kept on sniffling and was near consumptive.
“Why doesn’t she just get up and get lost?” I impatiently thought.
I was closer to the main players. These were people who were sitting in the salon in front of me. There was a whole cluster of them immediately before me and to the immediate right of the large white doors that led you from room-to-room.
Exiting that particular room, into which I looked where the performance was taking place, were some doors with the half close to us open and serving as the wings to the stage.
Up in front of the mantelpiece was where the performers came on to do their acts. They were quite funny. There were parapluies that had wonderful little floral designs on them.
The performers were made-up in such a way that their faces looked like bouquets and resembled large English white and faded yellow roses; they would have been very oversized roses.
The faces of the persons were very much in keeping with the zeitgeist of the Victorian era. This was the look that was proper in that time; therefore, the souls that had been incarnate at that time were wearing those faces.
At two separate occasions, everybody seated in the salons had to get up and leave and come back in. The last time that they came back in, all the women were dressed in long, flowing tangerine-coloured dresses that dragged on the floor.
All the dresses had little flowers on them. The tangerine colour was muted by a sheer fabric of white silk overtop the tangerine bodice. Leaving it a seeming faded colour.
All along the grid patchwork were these tiny roses that were the colour of the fabric underneath the tangerine-coloured material. The look was very beautiful.
As they spoke, there was wonderful repartee going around the room. This one woman was croaking away saying,
“Oh why don’t they go to church, anymore? Doesn’t anybody go to church anymore?”
She got up to make the point, going around the room. She came back and sat down on the arm of the chair. Her husband was very stout as he sat there in an armchair.
One chap, who was on one of the chaise longues where some of the other spectators were seated, was bantering away. In a sage-souled sort of way, he was very dynamic.
The costume changes between sets went on almost forever; at such times, the salon would become abuzz with lively discussions about whatever socially or politically was au courrant.
Of course, that was anything that was superficial and that they – at their level of society – found très amusant. This particular costume change was quite long and some of the players who were going to be participating in the next piece were seated on that particular chaise longue.
They were talking amongst themselves, when this one man said,
“Well, I certainly hope that you don’t go, looking like that.”
This was a very cutting double entendre because, though the dowager was quite the frump, it was really a comment on her horrid-looking face – this, mind you, in an age long before plastic surgery could come to the assistance of women of her class.
The woman’s face was very puffy, dowdy and too full of makeup. She, so without a clue, replied,
“Well, what’s wrong with me going like this?”
“In a dress, there is certainly something wrong going like that.”
This was very, very witty racy banter. Much of the banter was filled with double entendres. The poor frump was daft and didn’t quite get it. She was wonderfully being sent up by everyone.
“Oh dear me, I never quite seem to know what to wear. The fashions changing all the time, I can hardly ever keep up…”
This only made for more cutting, though hushed, laughter. I don’t even know but it was at this point as she spoke and I saw her in close-up that I wondered if, perhaps, she were not Francesca.
Just as in that last dream encounter with Francesca during the onset of menopause, I experienced the same visceral connection with the subject. Now I was experiencing her at a much later stage in her life. She was a late septuagenarian. She was still very much so into the heavy makeup but, at this point, she suffered from senility and was pronouncedly neurotic.
Then everybody looked out at me and asked me if I had ever seen it presented like this before because one of the things that they were talking about was an expedition that had just returned from ‘Deepest, darkest, Africa, in the Jungles.”
This was, in fact, a production of Romeo And Juliet that was set in colonial Africa. They wondered of me if I had ever seen so racy a production. All these people were very sophisticated sagely persons. Safe it is to have assumed that they were all very much so artisan-like; that is to say that they seemed possessed of goals of discrimination and were predominantly repression-moded.
“Well actually, I’d seen the original Classic production.”
“Yes, but have you seen any modern updates of it?” She asked, meaning the Victorian version.
“Well, no. Well I did but it was when I was at school, in Sandy Point.”
Of course, they didn’t get it at all and found my accent far too queer for words. Besides, it was all very postmodern as far as they were concerned.
At that point, in this beautiful, large high-ceilinged place, the lights in the salon went down. A movie screen then appeared and Diana Ross was going to be the mother to Juliet and the Juliet was a beautiful, beautiful, long-haired High-Yellow heroine.
The Juliet seemed East Indian but wasn’t. She got up and went running to the window because Romeo was calling her. This, however, was a filmed version of the Shakespearean classic. She was wearing a black and white checkered dress that had no sleeves. In point of fact, it really was more like a jumper.
She was so gorgeous; the young actress was stupendously radiant. She was praying and the camera was a slow, sweeping crane shot that kept on rising up away from her left profile. She was so beautiful and her face was filled with so much earnest and yearning.
She was quite the stunning little actor; she was a teenager. Too, the actress was not Diana Ross’s daughter, Tracee Ellis Ross but someone who had a stunning High-Yellow resemblance to Diana Ross. Too, like Diana Ross, the young actress had the same stunning large eyes and had very, very gorgeous, long, long wavy hair.
Her hair was thick and cascaded down the length of her back to just above her arse. She was very gorgeous. When she ran to the window, she was as if a ballerina from the way she held out that beautiful delicate, tiny face on that exquisitely long neck of hers.
Looking out the window, she dreamily called down,
“Oh Romeo. Romeo. Romeo.”
Truly, it was sheer magic… spellbinding.
*For the record, at no point during the life of Queen Victoria was I then incarnate in England. I was, though, incarnate during the reign of King George III. Of course, at that time, Merlin was also then incarnate and we were lovers and artistic collaborators.
Merlin was female while I was male during that past-life rendezvous. I believe that I was seeing Merlin as he then was – female and in her 70s and suffering from early dementia. Of course, it is likely that at that time in her life, I was already passed on and therefore there was no one with whom I identified at the gathering. END.
I then went off, during this the second dream, and was walking in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts where I saw these people. One of them had one of the most interesting faces. She was female, had a very unusually large face and very beautiful teeth that were somewhat compacted.
She was very lovely and dark-skinned. This woman though was unusual-bodied; her head was very, very large and her body by comparison very squat and unusually so. To be precise, her body was like a dwarf’s.
Her legs were very stubby and bulky. One thing though, this woman could run. She had a great deal of power in her. A lot of Earth planets that were fixed to be sure. I was thoroughly fascinated to have looked at her.
Passing her, I said hello and noticed that she shut her eyes. That was when I realised that this woman almost never looked at anyone. Then finally, I drew her attention and directly looked into her eyes.
This was like looking into a soul itself. Her eyes were so large. Hers were as if seeing the eyes of a giant cetacean up close. Yet, they were eyes on a human face. These eyes were extremely large with the lids half-collapsed over them.
The brown of the eyes was dappled and mixed in with some blues with little streaks in the blues. Talk about beauty! These eyes of hers were very, very old-souled and very, very powerful eyes.
At the time, I thought of how much they reminded me of the eyes on the totemic cranes that I have seen throughout my life. She just laughed and turned her head away.
She was a woman of substance and great grace; not unlike Jessye Norman, in that sense, was she. I specifically focussed on her right eye. Hers were not unlike the dappled blue-green colour, when he’s wearing his contact lenses, that Owen Hawksmoor’s eyes take on. Without a doubt, her eyes were quite gorgeous.
Predominantly brown but there was a lot brown and red streaks in the white of the eyes. These were from very large bulbous blood vessel. The whites of them were very white, almost caramel-coloured on closer inspection, from the timeworn passage of their agedness.
Boy, this woman had a lot of strength of character in that body; hers was a solid, solid body. I then came back over this little barbwire fence while following this guy.
“We can’t go getting ourselves scraped,” I thought at the time.
As we were passing, there was a window to our right that looked into a house. We went and sat down to look at the screen; this was the channel on which Romeo and Julie was supposed to be playing.
Protesting, I said that this could not be the case because it only meant that I had missed so much of it; after all, I had gone and wandered off. At that point, there was someone on the screen reciting a Shakespearean soliloquy.
This, however, was an updated version of the text. I started watching it and got back into the film. The one thing that I didn’t like about it was there were lots of flies on the set. For having been made uneasy by all the bugs, I got up and walked about for awhile.
When I got back into the production again, it was as if looking at it from the Victorian salon again. This time, however, it was slightly different. To myself, I thought,
“This is so much like Toronto.”
That was because, like Toronto does in the summertime, this production had all these damn flies. All the people around me in the Victorian salon didn’t get what Toronto meant at all. As well they understandably would have, they had looked at me very strangely.
There were flies all about which I kept on swatting out of the air. There was a whole scene in progress, when I decided that I would just have to see it again or, perhaps, get it on videocassette; I had simply missed too much of the production. I realised too that I could easily go see it when it makes it to the Revue second run cinemas about Toronto.
I turned and left at that point.
I was next, in his the third dream, up on this raise with Isha da Braga. We were there together doing something. We were discussing the fact that I needed more money. I told her that my PIN number, for some bank card that I had, was 8411.
She called up the bank and was being pushy with them. She was telling them that she had been very ill and incapacitated. For being bedridden, they would therefore have to let her have the money in cash with me acting on her behalf.
She assured them that I would be right over and to let me have the funds. While she was talking on the phone, this Black woman and her White husband came by. The man wore glasses and they were very much so in love and were embracing each other.
There was a little girl with them to whom I meltingly said,
“Come here sweetheart. My goodness! You have American money and you have a $10.00 Canadian note there, I see, and a $20.00 too.
“Why don’t you let me have an American bill? And some of those Canadian bills because you’re not going to need the Canadian bill.”
“Why? It’s my money.”
“Okay then, fine. Come on over here and give me some sugar.”
She was off to my left and wrapping my left arm around her, I kissed her on the cheek and said,
“Return the kiss, please.”
We kissed and did so in the French style; on both cheeks. I was looking down at her parents and they were quite sweet and in love. At the time, I was thinking of Pandora da Braga. However, I couldn’t make out the mother’s face all that well from the table where I sat with Isha.
The table was a square, black, metallic-with-glass-top affair. As a result, the table was covering the face of the woman and I couldn’t make out whom she was. At the time, I thought of Pandora and her present beau.
Then this child appeared and it was like a doll; she was so tiny but was in fact as if a pygmy. She proved to be Barry Thomas’s younger sister.
Every time that she bawled her neck extended and craned up into the air and was pinkish-coloured like a white doll; she was actually a Black baby – you could tell from her facial features.
She was very much so alive but she was in this rubbery body that was like a doll’s. I had put her up on a mantelpiece to sit because she was just so damn noisy and obstreperous.
Penina had come and disputatiously confronted me about what had I done to the poor little girl. I got up and went to take a pee while Isha was on the phone and, on stepping into the bathroom, I was shocked and horrified.
On looking in the mirror, I saw that Isha had cut my hair at which I let out the most enraged operatic scream,
“Isha! How could you do this to me?”
What had happened was because of the way that I had been lying on my back, she had managed to cut off all the hair on the side of my head up to the top and on the other side as well.
It was the most ludicrous cut. In the back, my hair was still long and left the length in place.
“I don’t want my hair looking like some bloody Mohawk warrior’s.”
To see the roots of my hair which were unpermed, I was truly pissed off. This was not something that I wanted and didn’t want this frigging fascistic cunt fucking with me. I was so incensed at her.
I returned to confront her, finding her lying down in bed, and she immediately went on the blind defensive,
“I don’t see anything wrong with it. Besides, it’s already done and you might as well cut off the rest,” she derisively dismissed me.
“Isha how could you do this? This is exactly like when you had destroyed my writings.”
Impatient with her indifference, I launched through the air at her and began beating the living shit out of her; hitting, slapping and kicking her, I was truly enraged. Grabbing anything that I could find, I beat her with it.
All the rage that I had felt at her for destroying my writings back in the mid-eighties came flooding out.
*Back then when she had been confronted, she launched into a clawing defensive attack of me, while we rode home in a blinding rain storm from Solomon King’s wedding in Rochester N.Y. END.
Earlier, I had gone to get my brush with which to brush my hair and on not finding it, borrowed hers. On brushing my hair, I noticed that the brush was really scraping my scalp; with that I was horrorstruck to look at things in the bathroom mirror.
On seeing what she had done, I sucked my teeth and decided then and there to kick her arse. I knew then and there that this would not have happened had I taken her to task, blow-for-blow, back in 1985.
Also, I saw this brown bag, my large black canvas bag and a shoulder bag, all mine. In the travelling bag were these two tickets because I was going to be travelling.
I was really upset and pissed off at Isha as she laid there under these green sheets. Penina came into the room and tried intervening on Isha’s behalf by trying to get me to accept the fact that what had been done was final and for me to just get on with things.
That only more infuriated me and, turning on her, I screamed,
“Oh Penina, why don’t you shut up? You’re so damn stupid, you would agree anyway.”
This woman then came who was very Jewish and it turned out to have been, Ariel Gothberg. She wore this dark purple turtleneck bodysuit, over which she had a brown very, very thick woollen jacket. The jacket had lots of gold zippers that showed down the front and length of the jacket.
Too, the jacket had no collar to it. On either side of the sleeves, there were gold zippers that went midway up the arm. Also, there were two on the breast; there was one zipper each over each breast for pocket openings.
They had little golden tassels that held the zipper. The look was quite nice and was in brown and black. Ariel looked quite smart. I asked her what she thought of my hair looking like that.
“Well it’s your hair and it’s natural. I think the natural version looks kind of nice, anyway. Well, you’ll decide what you have to do with it.”
She then went off up these stairs and I thought,
“Yeah, right. Fuck you, you bitch.”
There, she joined two or three other smartly dressed persons. I came around and began leaving and went out into the outdoors. There, I stood by a shed talking with somebody about things in St. Croix, when a large plane went overhead.
I thought this plane too unusually close to the ground. Too, we were close to the ocean. The building was a long white shed, like a greenhouse, beyond this sandy slope with clumps of long grass that held the sand from drifting too much.
We were standing just beyond a stand of trees; they were palm and sea date trees. The ocean was rather tranquil and gently breaking. The feeling here was beautiful; it was truly bucolic.
I then saw a large plane come by, which was like an American Airlines plane, except that on the back of it, it had this large caboose; a large unusual extension to it that flared out. This was most unusual such that there seemed to be no exhaust.
The plane was very silver on the bottom. The plane had the red and blue stripes along the sides like an American Airlines carrier would; however, it did not say American Airlines and was very, very long.
Long and sleek, like a Boeing 727, except that it had no mid-fuselage wings; there were, though, some smaller wings way at the back of the plane. As it effortlessly sailed through the air, I thought,
“Oh dear no, it’s going to crash.”
As it was going by, it bizarrely veered off to the left head first. Next, it shot up into the air and then came down. I scream aloud horrified for the passengers aboard. Immediately, of curiosity, people began running towards its obvious crash site.
I went running around the corner of the building to check things out. There was smoke in the air but it was general pollution from the community. There had been no smoky fireball.
“Oh dear, I think it crashed…” I helplessly said to a man who reminded me much of my uncle Michel King, rather than his brother Marcel King.
“No, it didn’t.” he confidently said.
Another plane then came in and, at the time, I remembered that I did have a flight to go catch. At that, I went running and hurried out of there by going around the building.
This was a wonderful, large hangar-like building. In this building, there was a great many people. Saw several travellers here. I had to go up an immensely long flight of stairs to get up to where the plane was.
This proved a pure white aircraft with two propeller engines on each its wing which were running at the time I arrived. They were, these wings, very extended. I demanded that they cut out the engines so that I could safely make my way to the man who was at the gate.
He was an older dark-skinned man in uniform. He could have been Egyptian, Hispanic, East Indian or Arabic. I had to pay him to get aboard the plane and it cost $14.00 for the flight.
Incidentally, as he told me that I recalled that the PIN number was 8411 which coincidentally does add up to 14. I gave him a $20.00 bill. He told me not to worry that it was already running late and assured me that I would get my change on board the flight.
I boarded the plane which was unusually low to the ground. On entering inside the plane, it was as though you were outside again and had to go up a further flight of stairs; these stairs were like the ones earlier that had gotten me to the tarmac.
Penina was concerned because on this flight, which had just come in, there was supposed to be a little boy that we were supposed to have met. The boy was coming from Nevis. I told her that I was really frigging pissed off and could not have cared less about any little boy.
So we got into the plane and it, too, was unusually-interiored. There was a wide enough single aisle with all the passengers in seats that faced each other. This immediately reminded me of when I was a child, prior to having taken my first flight; I had always envisioned the seating arrangement on board an aircraft to be like this. Of course, this is not the case.
We did pass a number of little boys as we moved down the aisle. There was a little boy on the right of the aisle and I thought that, perhaps, that was him. We kept on going down the aisle with Penina following after me. There were, by the way, lots of potted plants on board the aircraft.
The craft was white-interiored as outside and there was lots of sunlight coming through the top of the aircraft which was all glass-topped. The ceiling was really like a long trough of a greenhouse because there was a drain that ran the length of the aisle.
What’s more, it was very humid inside the craft. Many, many potted hibiscuses and some of them were in bloom. One had fallen over and, just where the stem exists from the pot, it had broken. I felt for it and righted the pot. The plant sadly kept on dangling over.
I called the boy’s name, which was something like ‘Orello’, to which he immediately answered an alert yes. He was way in the back of the aircraft; I pointed him out to Penina and told her to go take care of him.
I told her to get off the plane with him because she wasn’t supposed to be travelling anyway. I then went up to the front of the craft and there, there was a large opening. Once again, it was as though one were in a hangar or large indoor room.
There was a girl doing some homework while other people were lost in reading what clearly were scripts. The studious girl was very stout and wore a school uniform. She was very light-complected, early teenaged and definitely Black.
A tall, gangly White man came in who was very much so old. He was incredibly gentle and soul-soothingly so. He was as if a gardener or caretaker. He sat next to me and warmed me further when he asked,
“Do you have piece of paper, please? Just something to write on…”
“Well, I don’t even know,” I really wanted to help him out and be of service to him. He was so sweet-spirited like Catherine Angelica Montpelier or as Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the Queen Mother, seems; his was that kind of evolved grace of spirit.
I couldn’t immediately find anything and, in the meantime, the girl was not prepared to part with any of her school paper. There, I told him when pointing in front of me to a little desk on which were some clothes and my bag. I got out my bag and started talking to him.
He was very, very wonderful and very old-souled in feel. He was very healing to have experienced. He reminded me of James Tramble or Merlin’s guide as I saw in those dreams – the tall magus.
He commenced writing on this piece of paper and he asked me my name and I replied,
“Arvin Merlin da Braga.”
I then gave him my statistics. I told him that I was born on August second. We talked on some more and then he asked,
“And what about your friend?”
“Oh Merlin? Merlin Ben-Daniel. Merlin A.”
When he had asked me my name, I had initially said,
“Arvin M. M, as in Merlin, spelt lin, and which incidentally was my lover’s name.
“Merlin; spelt the same as my middle name.”
As we spoke, I grew more and more intensely lucid and light-headed; strangely enough, it was as though I were channeling.
“Merlin B. B, as in Bechbache, which is his mother’s family name, Ben-Daniel.”
We were talking about Merlin and he was doing all this write-up about Merlin and me. He then turned to me and said,
“Well, anyway, I’m leaving you now and I want you to write this down.”
“Is it a number you’re giving me?”
“Just some important information. But you must remember it and you must never forget it.”
What he said was,
“Proper posture leads to purpose and prosperity in, time.”
He said it with the greatest enunciation and slowness. There was a woman who stood out in my mind as he spoke. She was very much so like Francesca who was down below, outside an opening in the airplane. She was inside the building at a window looking up at me and saying,
“I will be with you, don’t worry. And I’ve remembered it, I’ve recorded it. And I’ll keep reciting it to you, if you need me to.”
The gracious gentleman then left. He was not unlike the yogic-centred serenity of Yehudi Menuhin. At that, I had a sense of motion and that we had travelled. The sensation was not for very long but you just knew that we had covered massive distances in what seemed a mere breath.
He was right-handed as I watched him write with the greatest of care. At one point, he had stopped and disjointedly said as I spoke of Merlin and me,
“You’ve a very distinctive accent and it’s so layered. You can see so many languages in it.”
“Well, yes that’s because I’ve lived all over the place, actually. My upbringing was very middle class in the West Indies, with maids, in fact.
“I like speaking this way because it is who I am. It’s about intellect.”
“Right you are.” He smilingly said.
We got to where we were going but he was no longer with us. We deplaned and came down the considerable flight of stairs. Everybody had formed about this courtyard and was walking around. Most people who had deplaned had been White.
All the kids were in the rear and we were separated – the kids and I. I then left everybody and started walking ahead because I wanted to go and get Penina who had shown up and was running to go and get Orello now that he had arrived.
She wore this long floral-printed dress that proved to be a jumpsuit that turned into culottes. The dress was brown, yellow and green which were all one inch slats of colour.
The fabric was a predominantly off-white, faded yellow jumper that had these yellow, brown and green horizontal slats that were crammed together and haphazardly spaced. They, nonetheless, created a wonderful motif on the fabric.
As it turned out, I was supposed to have been deplaning to get aboard a larger plane to continue on with my flight. I had, however, missed my flight for having interacted with her. This had mightily upset me.
Initially, when she had come aboard the first flight with me, I had turned to her as we progressed down the aisle and asked if she had remembered to get all my bags.
A second flight, not unlike an American Airlines carrier, had come in through the air and landed. This had proven my signal, to start moving, to get aboard the initial flight. When I deplaned, I was supposed to have gone to another flight.
For some strange reason, everybody was marching in a circuitous route. They went down this street and turned off to the right, then went down this wide boulevard and into another courtyard.
That courtyard contained another plane on which one had to board. An East Indian sareed woman had looked back at me and energetically said,
“Hurry, hurry, hurry because the engine has already started.”
“Don’t worry…” I had evenly replied.
You could see the engine and when it started, the wing that had been turned horizontally raised vertically. The plane was in a compound that was surrounded by a large white fence.
Going up to the courtyard the steps were white and the interior of the building and all the low-lying buildings around were all pure white. For that matter, it seemed like very permanent whitewash paint.
“…I’m coming. I’m supposed to be on this flight,” I had called out.
When I was making my way there, there was a large wooden gate that had a glass in it. One of the things that had kept me distracted was that I had gone into this room, where Penina had been, and wanted to look at the Romeo And Juliet drama again.
Instead of being able to get that on television again, there was now a video music station on. This, by the way, was set in a large room. Irene Cara was singing a song in a music video.
As well, as some other Black entertainers, Natalie Cole was also there. She was in a living room in that segment of the video which was for a love song. Natalie Cole was participating in the video but not singing.
Irene Cara wore a black tunic overtop black narrow-legged pants. Natalie Cole wore black and white and they were very much so enjoying themselves. Soon, remembering the petite beauteous East Indian woman – who had a striking resemblance to the author, Gita Mehta, I caught myself being distracted and went running out of the lounge.
She had been telling me that I was supposed to, in fact, be getting onto the other flight. So off I went by running down the boulevard; this was a narrow stretch of earthen road. Even though it had long been closed, I had mentally opened the door to the craft.
The stewardess was slowly closing the door when I leapt through the air and forcefully pulled it open. The engines, all of them, were already running. They had had to stop the engines so that I could make my way past them to get aboard the flight.
I showed her my ticket and very wittily said,
“Here’s my ticket. I’m supposed to be on board this flight. Thank you very much.”
Again, the interior was much like a waiting area and a greenhouse at that. There was a sense once again of light coming through the glass-topped ceiling of the craft. The craft’s interior was all whitewashed.
There were a lot of people standing there; mostly, it was guys. The first thing that I noticed was that they were all dressed in white and were dressed in period piece. They were dressed as in the latter half of the eighteenth century – the Age of Wolfgang A. Mozart.
I passed the flight attendants who were off to my left and up towards the flight cabin. There was the familiar large open area which sat off to the right of the skylight. There was a narrow door that got you back to the body of the plane.
They were in the open where the craft had an earthen floor. Too, it was very humid and damp here. These were all young and White males; they each wore a white clinging tunic that went down to just below the knees. They wore tight breeches with white socks that came up to above the knees.
They wore white shoes which were large with white buckles. Large-sleeved white shirts most of them wore; although, some wore shirts whose sleeves were as the conventional style of the waking state.
They were very young, all of them, and very dark-haired. They had the faces that were exactly peculiar to their age. The hairstyles, the makeup and the expressionism, it was exactly what the aristocrats of late eighteenth century Vienna looked like.
On entering this craft, I had immediately noticed that there were little rooms as in a salon in eighteenth century Vienna. There were these white doors with glass panes for two thirds of them.
There were little concert hall boxes, no less, that were set up on the inside of the plane. While drinking in this most unconventional of plane interiors, I could distinctly hear the engines whirring away outside the craft.
We were going to take this flight on which, during the trip, there would be a performance. Everybody was an actor and like that man on the chaise longue with the wicked tongue; they were very much so sage-souled. Next, I went to go take my place.
There was a box where the performers would sit as in an opera house but it was, of course, on the ground as this was not a Boeing 747 series type airliner. The opera box was lined with red carpeting and red velvet. The seats were all one embankment and quite plush.
There was a doorway inside which was a man who was crouched down. He was dark-haired and had a mole just below his left eye. He was most handsome and looked like the soulfully august aristocrats of the court of the Hapsburgs in the Age of Mozart.
His face was very, very unusually large. He wore a ponytail that was tied back with a black ribbon. He was crouched down just inside the door to my right. I looked off and saw him and smiled. He looked up at me and was quite smitten by me.
I realised that I had found my place and came in to the box to sit. We were going to obviously do a drama that was clearly Romeo And Juliet, set in the Mozartean era in the city of Vienna.
I got so very energised to be in the company of these people, whom I clearly knew at the level of soul, that I squealed and laughed aloud in anticipation of the great fun we would share.
At that, I awoke in bed for having delightfully squealed aloud.
*I was not chagrined to have awakened at that point. I had already been refamiliarised with all these persons. There was something very much so familiar about the handsome-moled man.
We did look at each other, as I took my seat, and I was passingly reminded of Merlin beyond the eighteenth century energetics that he wore in that life; he was familiar, intimate and a companion.
That was all the very layered and very enriching and very pandimensional aspects of this dream. The experience was very real and I was very much so in my element. That dream initially was definitely set in the Victorian era and the people there were all familiar.
They were all White and very much so alive. I guess that this was very much so an astral plane projection in time to experiencing aspects of past lives. I was able to use the astral plane to transit the spiral arms of time and enter two different time frames in which I had clearly been incarnate.
This was very much so the nineteenth century and the height of the colonial era. Here was someone who had just returned from an expedition to deepest, darkest Africa. They were very much so British – straight down to the accent and the language as it then existed.
The most important insight that I learned, for having revisited that lifetime, was the racism that I was exposed to, engaged in and was much informed by which in this life I am so repulsed by, passionately impatient with, see and understand so clearly for what it is and where it comes from.
The second flight’s oeuvre into Mozartean Austria was I am certain more about getting insights to a past life of either Merlin’s or someone with whom I share as strong a soul connection. Perhaps, no doubt, it was someone on the order of my essence twin.
I am not convinced that this was Merlin in a past life because though I didn’t see the eyes in close-up, I knew them not to be his eyes. Truth be told, the eyes are always the dead giveaway in these instances.
The packaging changes from life to life but the eyes don’t except to change colour and, of course, growing older and softer with the maturation reincarnationally of the soul.
**Further insights that I would like to add at this time. I do believe that the latter dream of Mozartean era harkened back to when Merlin and I were incarnate together, again lovers and were court musicians. This, however, was during the court of one of the English rather than Austrian monarchs.
I believe if memory serves me correctly that we were then incarnate during the reign of King George Hanover III, which was during the 1700s to early 1800s. In any event, I also sang, it was usually to smaller audiences of aristocrats and Merlin played the harpsichord.
This is channelled information by Sarah J. Chambers who channelled The Michael, prior to passing in 1999.
**I should also think that the man with the extra-large head and the striking large mole below his left eye should have been more readily discerned. Merlin’s dear friend, the actor, Joe Morton, is the one who would fit this bill. Indeed, Joe does have just such a large mole below his left eye.
The only difference between these two was their disparate races. The White male’s was the exact same large mole and at the exact same position as is Joe Morton’s. Further, this Caucasian male’s teeth were exactly like Joe’s as they are in this lifetime.
Again, apart from their disparate races, there was one other difference between Joe Morton and his past-life male counterpart. Joe’s mouth and lips were bigger and fuller respectively and Joe’s comparably was, to say the least, a more elastic and expressive face.
To say the least, that was rather insightful a past-life dream sojourn. Joe, of course, is in the fifth/sage position in his cadence which not surprisingly would leave him inclined to being so sage-like and regal in essence; this regal energy is due to the power mode energy which innately infuses all fifth-cast fragments especially those in cadences 1, 5 and 7. Joe, of course, is in the first cadence in his greater cadence.
Photos: Montréal in winter/large art-filled NYC apartment/large manicured garden /Troll/Gianni Agnelli /Denon Stereo System/Man in high heels/B/Victorian salonists by Lucien Davis/ Tracee Ellis Ross and Diana Ross for GAP/Cetacean old soul eyes/Boeing 727/Hanging plants in greenhouse/Gita Mehta/Irene Cara/Natalie Cole/Opera Boxes/Joe Morton.
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