Hold Every Memory Close.

Hold Every Memory Close 2015

Acrylic on Panel

30 x 60 Inches

© Cody Hooper




© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Art, Art Collecting, Contemporary American Art, 21st Century Art, Artists, Painting, Contemporary art, American Abstract Art, Contemporary American artists, American Abstract artists, Acrylic paintings, American Art, American Artists, Painters, 21st Century American Artists, Abstract Art, Abstract Artists, Contemporary Artists, Creative Genius, 21st Century Artists, Modern Art, Modern Artists | Tagged | Leave a comment

Les Femmes d’Alger (Version “O”).


Oil on Canvas

114 x 146.4 cm

© February 14, 1955

Pablo Picasso

Speculative Provenance: Likely the Al-Thani family.  I would like to think that Sheikha Al Mayassa Al-Thani has acquired this masterpiece for her family’s burgeoning collection.  Possibly the most powerful woman in art today; she also happens to be the daughter of the most stylish woman on the planet at present, Sheikha Mozah bint Nasser Al-Missned!

Sold today, May 11, 2015 – which would have been my mother, Harella da Braga’s 95th birthday – she is now reincarnated, having died in August 1980 in Toronto, in London, England is male biracial (Caucasian/East Indian) upper middle class – in New York City for 179$m!


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, 20th Century French Art, 20th Century French Artists, 20th Century Spanish Artists, Art, Artists, Creative Genius, French artists, Oil on canvas, Oil paintings, Painters, Painting, Spanish Artists | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dreamquest to Egyptian traumatic end-of-life experience.

Aida Scene_tht

These rather intensely lucid dreams, one definitely an astral-projection to a past life experience, were rather empowering.  Too, as per this dreamquest, I will ever be rapacious in repaying a debt. 

As a past-life dream experience, I felt restricted and with no control over events as they unfolded.  In addition, as is the case in such dreams, one felt incapable of willing oneself out of the experience. 

There was, for my dreamer self, complete identification with the assassinated high priest whose eyes were those of mine.  Too, I felt all the pain of his assassination – end of life traumatic experience. 

Strangely enough, the daggers’ every stab was warm and searing.  The experience of being stabbed was not exactly as one would otherwise have imagined. 

After having riotously fucked Stuart Campbell for several hours during the night, I finally fell blissfully into sleep on Wednesday, August 23, 1995.  Of course, at the time, I was being hit on by aggressive bottoms in the neighbourhood as sexually addictive redheaded Stuart was the most uninhibited fuck ever. 

Loud in the extreme, he had my neck of Vancouver’s West End hushed into silence as he vulgarly vocalised during sex; Stuart could be immensely graphic when being ploughed and he loved to play rough, long and hard. 

When we broke up, Stuart had gotten a job transfer back in to Ottawa, a Gay septuagenarian neighbour with whom I enjoyed great relations said to me one day in the laundry room,

“Finally, I can get some sleep.  Did he have to be loud every time.  ‘Oh yeah, gimme that big black cock!’  We never could get away with that in my time.” 

We both looked at each other wide-eyed, mouths wide open then high-fived and hysterically laughed our heads off. 

At the time, the Moon transited both Cancer and my second house.  I do know that many a dreamquest to past lives tend to occur during this phase of the Moon.  What’s more, the dreams were audiocassette recorded on tape one hundred and ninety-eight and are to be found in volume twenty of the as-yet published 25 volume dream opus. 

Sweet dreams as ever… I love you more. 


A Martha Graham Modern Dance

I was taking a modern dance class, in the outdoors, with a few others.  We had to do a combination, up on an inclining street, beneath a fiery twilight sky.

Although I had been complimented, on my technique and form, I was self-conscious for having to do all that contraction work.

*God, not for anything in the world have I ever liked Modern dance.  Sorry but I just don’t get it!  END.

During a break, at one point, I slid my back down a wall hiding my cock in the process by remaining crouched.  The choreographer was eyeing me because I was quite rock-hard; it was the result of being enthralled by the gorgeous male dancer who looked on while I danced.

He was quite captivated by my movement and had longingly looked at me.  The deal was that we apparently met in my space, on Sundays, for rehearsals.

There was a piece that was being choreographed, at the time, which we then worked on in earnest after the class.  I would then get in to find my apartment a total mess, paper everywhere, with boxes opened and sorted through.

A tall dark-haired man with a warrior’s good looks was going through his things.  I happened to find some porno magazines of his with which I became immediately engrossed.

They were all Gay porn magazine.  What’s more, I discovered that he had, long ago, been on the cover of one of them.  I then saw a small white photo album and began leafing through it.

The photograph was of a very dark-skinned people.  They were decidedly East African.  They wore lots of colourful clothing with beaded necklaces, both men and women did, plus they wore long bracelets in matching colours.

Their jewellery and clothing were all very gorgeous as were they.  Most of these pieces of jewellery were white.  There were some African persons who were adorned with white body paint.  A very proud and complex people they were.

Each photograph had another behind it; I had a sense that they were of the man’s travels.  They may even have been otherworldly, on another world, of a different humanoid race.  They were not, however, Watusi or Maasai.

Just then, there was a knock at the door when a blonde showed up for the Sunday rehearsals.  However, I told her that there was no way that we could go ahead with the rehearsals this weekend – the space was simply too messy this weekend.

Truly chaotic here; this was a situation which I found too distracting.


An egyptian temple interior

A dark, wood-panelled hall with 70-foot-plus ceiling was the setting of this the second dream.  Here, there was a very stout and powerful, truly majestic middle-aged Sage, in flowing clerical robes.

White and gold were the only colours being worn here.  He then entered at the far end going down a flight of steps.  His was truly a grand entrance; theatrical it was.

I was down by the door, to the right, that led outside.  Down the old wooden pew from me sat two swarthy men; they were clearly assassins.  I slid, inching my way down the pew and made towards the door and away from them.

I did not want to become caught in gunfire, when all hell broke loose, which clearly was the intended objective of these two.  There would only be one leap through the door, to make a quick getaway, once these goons got going with the business at hand.

The high priest took a seat opposite them, some four yards, on the other side of the door.  An acolyte sat on either side of the high priest.  Just ahead of him, warrior-clad guards stood akimbo ready to defend his life.

Others in equally flowing clerical garb stood off to his left.  They wore different-coloured garb than the high priest.  While seated there, I tried figuring out the best way to make it out of there once the goons pounced.

Out the door, to my left, then over the stone balustrade and leaping to the ground – seven feet below – was my best escape route.  From there, a mad dash to make it to the centuries-old overhang.  Bolting some more, I would have to, if they had guns.

However, it turned out that this was not a modern affair.  Their weapons were no better than Brutus’s.  All they had were daggers; however, their motives were no less deadly than if armed with semi-automatic rifles.

Clearly, this was set in an earlier age.  Though it felt like during the Roman Empire, I think that it was even earlier.  Perhaps, it was during Late Kingdom Egypt or even Babylon.

I then effortlessly and slowly flew through the air.  I was now following the high priest as he walked back, with the assassins, giving them an audience.

This man was extremely imperious.  He was simply born to rule.  Clearly, he had a goal of dominance and, no doubt, matched by power or perseverance.  The most interesting thing about it all was that he was a former life of mine.

On seeing the eyes, I immediately recognised them as energetically being the same as mine.  Stout and imperious, he was an articulate discriminating man.

He was about to announce the amalgamation of a whole bunch of positions which would make him a de facto god/high priest/king.  Seemingly, the royals had dissolved to infighting and there was no one among them, old enough or strong enough, to be heir.

He was, for being the high priest, already of royal blood himself.  In the final analysis, his views and his schemes were way too radical; for that, there was a price put on his head.

He was killed; it was a nasty bit of savagery.

I immediately took flight though deeply connected to the body.  I really did want to stop and be with him.  Running along the halls beyond the main hall, I had not a clue where the devil I was headed.

I was as if a lost duckling.  Finally, my detached-dreamer self flew out the window close by.  The two assassins were provincial clerics.

They were there acting on the order of governors.  They wore saffron-coloured robes; they were joined by other local dignitaries in the entourage.

Clearly, it had been agreed that when the unsuspecting out-of-towners were given audience with the high priest, they would then be expected to begin the assassination.  Subsequently, the priests at the headquarters would finish off the high priest – myself, in a former life.

This was a truly traumatic affair.  I really did feel what he was feeling – the daggers, and there were many, were truly stinging and strangely hot.  The high priest – my former self, was truly surprised.

This man was so arrogant that it had never once dawned on him that he could be killed.  He was so divinely caught up in his rightful place in the cosmos that any such thought would have been blasphemous… if at all contemplated.

His assassination was truly a rude awakening for him.  He simply lacked the ability to see that there was no one around him who was not an enemy.  Much too self-possessed and removed from reality, to clearly have seen things, was he.

I effortlessly flew, in exquisite slow-motion, through the towering trees that stood close to the palatial temple.  Once in flight outside the temple, in my hand I carried a large sword.

The temple was part of a massive complex that covered several acres; it was walled and filled with the most beautifully designed and landscaped gardens.  The temple was made exclusively of wood and was raised quite high off the ground.

There were stone steps to make one’s way up to the ground floor; however, with the exception of the foundation, the entire structure was made of wood.  The wood was exceptionally dark.  This temple structure was made as if from trees that dwarfed the redwoods of California.

A true colossus was this structure.  This was no doubt in Babylon.  At times during flight, I rode the sword.  I was nicely camouflaged in amongst the boughs.

I eventually returned to the grand hall and slipped through a tiny window just beneath the roof.  I was completely unobserved.  From that vantage point, I looked on at the investiture of the new high priest.

The whole thing was a hurried, well-executed affair.  This only validated that the assassination and the investiture had been much-planned an affair.  They were intent on ridding the hierarchy of the rogue high priest who had been a former life of mine.

I waited while the large-bodied Nubian woman slowly paraded down the grand hall.  She was singing the new high priest’s praises.

Once she was directly beneath me, I sent the large heavy sword plunging from the seventy-foot-plus ceiling.  Directly down from the ledge, on which I had been perched, the sword fell.

The tiny window was able to nicely cover me.  While in mid-song, the sword effortlessly slipped through the crown of her shaved large skull as though it was a stilled body of water.

The soprano gulped, in the midst of a shrill note, after which she collapsed to the rug-covered floor.  She did so remind me much of Jessye Norman.

Though the eyes were similar to the grand dame’s, the face was totally dissimilar.  Too, it must be added that she did have the same strong bone structure as does Jessye Norman.

Before the priests could retrieve it, I then willed the sword to be returned to me.  With that, the sword came back flying through the air with lightning speed.

My hand stabbing out through the tiny ajar window, I caught the sword’s handle just in time.  I had had no desire to have them, as it were, trace the sword back to me.

Here in the dream, when astral projecting, I was rather large-bodied and Hannibal Barca-like in stature.  He, my former life, was also fiercely warrior-spirited.

The body being used here was that of the assassinated high priest who was killed much later in life.  In his youth, he had been a fierce warrior of impressive stature.

However, he had grown august and rotund with age and change in station.  Obviously, I had been trained as a swordsman in youth.

I was astral projecting in his youthful body because, at that point, I was a younger soul.  As a result, I would have appeared – between lives – in a younger projection of the reincarnated personality.

What was quite clear though was that, immediately on dying, there was a rapacious need to avenge my death in some way.  Immediately, the crowds screamed and came rushing to the aid of the much loved soprano.

From way above, her mammoth corpse was as if transformed; it became as if a mount with a bloodletting river.  From her body, they then began looking up in my direction towards the closed tiny window and shouted aloud.

Meticulously, I locked the tiny attic window; it was for ventilation and, I do believe, releasing birds during temple rituals.


central bathhouse Vienna

Just as I made to flee, in this the third dream, I happened on a gorgeous Black man; he was in his late twenties.  He was a powerhouse of energy.  He reminded me of Alan Warrenton; he was, like Alan, also very well-hung.

He captured two young slaves who had been there to clean up, this hard-to-reach area of, the palatial temple compound.  As a matter of fact, they had just swept and cleaned up much of the incriminating evidence that my presence would have left behind.

They were then taken back to a pad which had a couple of beds in it.  On one bed Heathcliff Mars-Provencher slept, on his stomach – his white underwear down to his knees.

As I approached, he stirred, turned over and revealed a hard-on.  Presently, it was being sucked by another slave whose sole duty it was to perform fellatio on Heathcliff Mars-Provencher when beckoned.

The phone close-by silently rang; its light indicator had begun flashing.  The guy then gave me the phone; it turned out to have been Isha da Braga.

I hadn’t a clue why she had been calling me as she had very little to say.  Yet she kept on sticking around on the line not saying much.  This was all the time necessary for the authorities to have traced the call to where I was presently staying.

As he took a shower, the large-bodied, well-hung Black was just about to go fuck one or more of the half dozen slaves.  I had actually gone over to the shower to spy on one of the young slaves who were there to have sex with the man.

All the slaves were High-Yellow, young and exceptionally well-hung.  This particular slave, in the shower, was especially well-hung; he was about no more than 22 or 24 years old.

He was semi-erect and had a very large cock.  I was then quick to destroy the pages of notes that I had earlier taken that made detailed observations of the previous dream; all of it was rather incriminating for me.

I discreetly dumped it into a dumpster as we were being led off in the early morning light, out on the street, of a city which looked fairly modern.  The authorities here were armed with guns and wore bulletproof vests.

Though completely incongruous with the past-life dream, there was no doubt in my mind that the two were related and not separate in the least.

I had had no sex with anyone here.  Nonetheless, I had been really hoping to be fucked by the monster man-meated Black.  More than that, I had hoped to fuck the living daylights out of Heathcliff Mars-Provencher – yet again.


Photo:  Metropolitan Opera production of Giuseppe Verdi’s Aida.

Martha Graham

Egyptian Temple interior

Central Bath house Vienna


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Dance dreams, Dream sex, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Longreads, OBEs, OBEs in dreams, Out-of-Body Experiences, Past-life dreams, Photography, Reincarnation, Shamanism | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Extending the hand that wields the unsheathed sword.


As two dreams presented herein: The seminal dream of this lifetime and older souls commune, deftly illustrate, knowing one’s power and knowing how to use shamanic energy, is key to staying in the game.  



The first dream saw Merlin and me doing something which gave him great pleasure: going to the theatre – if he wasn’t directing moments in the theatre.  Of course, the friends with whom we hooked up in the dream were none other than the actor, Wayne Robson and his wife.  Wayne and Merlin met at the start of both their careers in Vancouver where Wayne was born. 

Merlin, of course, suffered betrayal by one of his oldest and trusted friends and professional associates.  The effects of the betrayal were horrendously horrific on Merlin’s psyche.  Naturally, Merlin was as non-confrontational – he did, after all, have a goal of acceptance – as I can prove a most indefatigable of foes. 

Once betrayed and socially ostracised, Merlin and I were simply ignored as lies were told and a tight circle of friends did what cowardly humans can always be expected to do when the spectre of death looms large as in Merlin’s case it did.  After all, there was Merlin full-blown with AIDS and therefore not likely to get so-called friends work any time soon. 

So for long months, I had seethed and kept my tongue, rage and intentions in check.  However, sooner or later, I was confident that Merlin would need my support.  The dreams of the September, 4, 1988 were all about that betrayal, how it would play out and my role therein as Merlin’s lover, companion, defender… to say nothing of task companion. 

After having betrayed someone whom I loved – Merlin – more than anyone, you can bet I did not hesitate to unsheathe that sword of light when it was required of me.  Faster than a sneeze, I cracked open a can of master-class-crazy and went to war in defence of, my lover and companion, Merlin’s honour.  In the end, blood-soaked skeletons saw the light of day and in a small, tightknit theatre community careers were fast ruined and work was never to be had again in said community. 

Decades later, the betrayers have remained banished and likely more sodden than when in these parts fraudulently masquerading as artists.  As for me, I continue flying without moving, ever beautiful of spirit and still not given to cocksucking a bottle of gin… to say nothing of giving a living fuck about fools who would have the fuck-all temerity to hurt someone as phenomenal as my dream lover, sexy-as-all-hell shaman and exquisitely beautiful of spirit, Merlin. 

The dreams were lived in astral plane lucidity and splendour on Thursday, July 4, 1991 long after Merlin’s passing.  Too, that day the Moon barrelled its way through Aries and my eleventh house.  The dreams were audio-recorded on cassette tape seventy and are to be found in the forthcoming seventh volume of the dream opus. 

Dream with fervour and in defence of that special someone whom you had to die and be reborn to finally meet so that your souls could alas find safe haven in each other’s gaze, go on, rip your talons in and make a sorry bloody mess of any fool who would have the temerity to interfere in the magic you weave together.  Life is no dress rehearsal… you are special for being here at this time, in this world, in this age… draw strength from these dreams and reanimate the magic you share with that special someone. 

Sweet dreams as ever and don’t forget to unsheathe your sword of light and lay waste to anyone who would trammel on your right to be a being of light, love, joy and carnal wonder.  Don’t forget to push off and start flying… cause you can! 

For your love and support, I am both immensely grateful and enriched… please spread the word on this WordPress joint; it does my soul good to see the crowd grow… can’t ever have too much company. 


Vancouver Art Gallery

I was with Merlin, in this the first dream, and we attended a concert.  When insisting that we go off to a theatre performance, we had tickets that I had gotten.  Our seats were fairly good ones.

I knew that we were supposed to have met Wayne Robson and Geeta Gurucharan there.  As we came in late, Merlin was being considerate of the audience.

There were a lot of empty seats so he had told me that we did not have to find the particular seats.  Instead, Merlin insisted that we simply sit down as soon as possible.

On entering, it proved to be an amphitheatre with seats that were of a heavy old wood and styled like Gothic church pews.  The seating was very thick pine with each row being continuous bench-like seating.

I soon pointed out to Merlin, who was not his usual take-charge self, that I had found Wayne and Geeta.  They were seated way below and close to the ancient-looking stage.

“Come on, let’s go join them.“

I was very outgoing and sociable, in fact, totally unlike myself when we were together.  We went down warmly joining them and sat down.

I entered the row first warmly greeting them with Merlin following after me.  Geeta was closer to me than Wayne.  However, they hadn’t responded.

As it turned out, Geeta was just out of it.  Here, in the dreamtime, she was totally bloated and exhausted.  Looking absolutely bone-tired, Geeta was simply out of it.

Then Merlin got up and went out of the theatre.  Naturally, I got concerned so got up and went out to find him in the lobby.  Someone was holding him up and it just pierced through to the core of my soul to have this experiential vista resurfaced.

I leapt for him heavily, painfully sighing,

“Oh my god, Merlin, please.  Get up!“

At that, I reached down a hand to him which he took.  As if made of animated steel, I empoweringly drew him up to me with fierce determination.

*My movement was reminiscent of the power that the exalted, warrior dream shaman exhibited, when he entered the hall in chainmail and helmet – in the totemic dreams of September 4, 1988.

While intensely focussed, I cycled off a massive bleed of my life force through my arm to resuscitate Merlin.  The moment that he took my offered hand, he became energised anew.  END.

Wrapping my arms down about his waist, I held him up holding him very tightly.  I then began bleeding even more of my life force into him.  This was a massive energy surge from me to him.  I pleadingly said to him,

“Please, oh god, this can’t be happening.“

One thoughtful woman went to get a doctor who was in the house.  She soon returned from another set of doors and had been wearing a beautiful purple blouse that was made of sheer linen.

To let me go use a house phone to call a cab, I pleaded with her.

“An ambulance won’t do.  I need to call a cab.“

Off I went to call a cab but had no luck, on getting past a number of recordings, when reaching the companies that I had called.  Then who should I see but that big, tall blonde girl from work, Marlene Gibbs.

She was with another woman.  As they perceived it, they were standing around gloating at mine and Merlin’s predicament.  They were happy because Merlin had AIDS.  They were being such sarcastic assholes.

To say the least, this was quite upsetting.  To add insult to injury, while I tried calling for a cab, this overgrown blonde drunk kept on interfering saying,

“Look, I do want to use the phone, you know.  Faggot!“

At that, I hung up the phone thinking,

‘What sort of fuck-all dream is this?’

I immediately ignored the stilettoed cum-farting-in-the-rear and nothing more than a heavily-trafficked bipedal-cum-filled-urinal in the front excuse for a woman… to say nothing of a human being and went back to be with Merlin.

Merlin had earlier pointed out, as we walked to the theatre, a magazine that said: Visionaries.  The periodical was put out by VAG as in the Vancouver Art Gallery.

Bearing that title, it seemed to have been about an exhibit being mounted at the gallery.  When we were then sitting there in the house, before Merlin had left to be ill, he had passed the art magazine to Wayne saying,

“Hey, take a look at this.“

“Yes, yes.  I know, I have it already…“

Merlin never really said much to me throughout this dream but it wasn’t because we were estranged.  Rather, it was more his being weakened and in that end-of-life cocooned state of being.

On returning to him, I kept on caressing Merlin trying to bolster his spirits.  He was just very sick.  I realised that I had to go back and try to get a cab on the phone again.

So I did and tried to get some more phone numbers to have at my disposal this time.  I still wasn’t having any luck.  So I asked the proprietor, who was a man, to interrupt the persons using the phones to allow me to call for a cab for a gravely ill companion.

I told him, I just wanted to get out of the place with Merlin because people here were being deliberately callous and rude.  They had been turning their backs on me, not letting me have the phone, when clearly it was obvious to everyone in the lobby that Merlin was not well and needed looking after.

I told the proprietor that, just now, I had no time to suffer anybody and their bullshit.


Eaton Mausoleum MPC3

Later on, I was driving with someone.  Merlin, too, may have been with us.  As we drove through the picturesque grounds, I was much reminded of Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Everything was gloriously in bloom with lots of white flowers predominating.  Just then, I let out a pleasurable sigh, saying,

“Oh god, I wish that I were working in the daytime again, in an environment like this.  To be able to smell the flowers again, I’d give anything.  It’s so lovely, so wonderful.“

Quite simply, this was a most idyllic drive and quite wonderfully uplifting an interlude.  This was a dream of sheer beauty.  This was such a dream of high moment such that mere words could never do it justice – hence the brevity of the dream descriptive.


Photo:  Arvin (far left) Wayne Robson (standing rear) Merlin (seated facing camera).  August 1988.

Vancouver Art Gallery.

Eaton Mausoleum, Mount Pleasant Cemetery, Toronto.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Actors, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Award-winning artist, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Dreams of Merlin, Dreams of Task Companion, Longreads, Photography, Shamanism, Stage performers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

In Service To The Awakened Astral Plane Habitué.

Robert Mapplethorpe

This next truly shamanic dream was lucidly lived on Sunday, August 17, 1997 while I then lived in Montréal.  At the time of the dream, the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house. 

What’s more, this dream dealt with the initiation of a former friend and brief lover from my years in Vancouver.  Kirby was a fey, wildly idealistic man-child with a most beautiful spirit.  From the moment with rough-sexed at the Club Vancouver bathhouse on West Pender Street, I knew that we would be fast friends.  

More than that, I instinctively knew that Kirby, before he boldly advertised, was sick with full-blown AIDS.  Kirby had the largest, most beautiful eyes.  Sadly, as his illness advanced, Kirby began experiencing AIDS dementia which was not especially palatable.  Too, with his imminent passing, Kirby chose to become lost in religiosity a form of indulgent madness for which I have no patience. 

In any event, the dream dealt with my questing to the astral plane to serve as a guide and shamanic mentor to the newly self-aware Kirby as astral plane habitué post soul-sleep.  At the time, my pyramid was still back in Vancouver about to shipped out to me; however, I had a good collection of trusty crystals to keep me both grounded and focussed. 

This was an immensely empowering dream for self and I should think, as well, Kirby. 


An absolutely fabulous dream this, the first, would prove.  This was a dream encounter with Kirby Ayers-de Sibley who definitely is now an astral plane habitué.

Kirby was rather severely ill as if full-blown with AIDS.  Kirby also appeared terribly disoriented and as if sleepy.  So very sad it was to have witnessed this.

*I knew right away that this had very much to do with the fact that Kirby has just awakened to the realisation that he has died.

He has been caught up in the long reparatory phase, some call the soul sleep, in which the energies are repaired.  He was awaking from his long lonely sojourn in which he was expecting St. Peter to have appeared.

I have spent so many long moments in meditation, reaching out to Kirby and awaiting for him to respond.  He has not been able to all this time because he has been so somnambulant and, as it were, in the dark.

Kirby’s soul was questing through his own personal mythos and had now moved on; finally, his soul had decided that there had to be something more.  END.

Now his wings unfurled, Kirby was beginning to reach out to those of us who loved him and deeply cared about him.  Though not surprising, it was still sad to see him in an old body that reflected the hard sojourn that had brought him here.

He wasn’t yet aware that he no longer needed to be identified with and bound to his former life’s AIDS-ravaged body.  That aside, it was truly glorious to have seen him.

His energies were not yet fully focussed but they were so pure and refreshingly clear.  This was like the marvellous innocence which Kirby radiated but now, it was being expressed at an even higher octave.

Such a joy it was to have encountered him.  I knew that I was dreaming and what it all meant.  I was quite pleased that he had reached out and I was more than happy to have been there for him, to serve as a guide of both dimensions to him.

Seeing Kirby Ayers-de Sibley filled me up just as equally as when I saw Merlin come through the door into that salon in the dream of July 25, 1992.

Pouring out my very soul to him, I said,

“Oh Kirby Ayers-de Sibley.  Oh Kirby.  Come here…”

I then however reached the distance between us, arms outstretched and hugged him.  In that embrace, I exploded the light in all its intensity and filled every quadrant of his universe with my love.

Talk about being wide-open without anything to hide.  Utterly relaxed, we both stood there fully naked.  I tightly held on to him and felt his abundance of warmth.

By sharing my own life-force with him, I was intent on building up his energies.  Reaching past his right cheek, I warmly kissed him while still tightly embraced.

So very good it was to have found this one, Kirby.  I pleasurably groaned while drinking in his vibrational signature.  I passed my light energies through the solar plexus and into his.

Into his right ear, I heavily breathed and allowed him to awaken to being alive but at a different octave.  Soon, much to my surprise, Kirby became aroused.

Goodness, it was good to have had this aspect of his totality awakened.  Of course, after his long, slow end-of-life passage, Kirby needed some good hot sex.  He needed the energetic play.

At the time of his tumescence, I had moved to his left side with my hips pressed into his.  In all honesty, I was aghast on first seeing him; he had been naked with his body looking completely spent and ravaged by AIDS.

Alarmed at having found him in that state, especially so long after his having transitioned, I had initially shuddered.  I didn’t want him to be thus focussed.

Of course, I knew where he was coming from.  After all, Kirby’s cosmological perspective had caused him to awaken to the real deal later rather than sooner.

Nonetheless, he was fully healed and sexually playful.  There was no way that I could have snubbed him.  He needed me to be there in the role of guide to him.

If this meant that I had to be a sexual partner for him then so be it.  This was all about healing.  I needed to stay with him, to be able to look past the harrowing memories of Kirby’s experience that led up to his passing of AIDS.

Making sure that he found his way in the familiar realms of the astral plane, I needed to have stuck around.  I may not be an astral plane habitué but being as adept a dream shaman as I am, I was more fully aware than Kirby was to that point.

I had no qualms about a sexual interlude between us.  Straight away, I knew that I could readily use sex between us to affect healing deeper within his astral self – at least, while he moved away from the life just concluded.

I suggested to him that we go try and find ourselves a place.  I hadn’t a clue where we were except that, of course, it was somewhere on the astral plane.

For that reason, the peripherals of our surroundings were darkened and seemingly fading into nothingness where dimensions bled one into another.  As a matter of fact, it was a familiar border.

So ambling about, we eventually arrived at a large astral plane bathhouse scenario.  After having passed of the horrid sex-related scourge that is AIDS, it was nice place for one to have ended up on awaking to the discarnate experience.

Kirby was so very horny, I couldn’t get over it.  Certainly, he was never this horny in the waking state when alive.  I fully understood this as he marvelled at my body with an almost feverish ravenousness.

He was so beautiful to look at.  Those large, clear and utterly innocent eyes of his were sheer magic to behold yet again.  What was really interesting was, though he so obviously desired me, he didn’t quite know how to ask.

Kirby was aware that I was different in some way.  He could sense that I was not like him.

This, of course, was due to his being just awakened to the awareness of an astral plane habitué.  Kirby was not quite sure if persons with whom he is dealing were aware that they were dreaming or, more importantly, if they would remember the dream.

He was concerned if we had condoms; there clearly was a vestige of his former awareness which was no longer applicable.  Obviously, there were some minor adjustments that Kirby had yet to make.

*When incarnate, to the point of seeming like a manufacturer’s sales rep, Kirby was zealous about condom use.  END.

I assured him that I would be okay for having to fuck him without rubbers.  Then I smeared my happy Johnson with thick, lard-like white lotion.

Kirby Ayers-de Sibley, when standing before me, then bent forward while turning around.  I spread open his gorgeous arse, which always reminded me of Merlin’s though more athletic, and readied to awaken the dream shaman deep within me.

Slipping into him was the warmest, most effortless silken passage.  Kirby was a true joy to have fucked.  On entering the plush looseness of his arse, I became even more lucidly aware.  Alas, the dream shaman had been aroused deep within.

My stamina was phenomenal.  This was all about affecting uplift in his spirit.  I was performing magic; this was intense energy work with sex having been the medium of choice.

I was quite aware that this was my reason for fucking him.  This was pleasure but my greater thrust and objective here were spiritual.  Doing the work necessary to uplift Kirby’s spirit and reintegrating the disparate parts of his totality, now that he was fully awakened into the discarnate state, was my focussed intention.

I did so much grunting and hard, guttural breath work as I beat out the life-force from me into him.  The experience of fucking Kirby and the energy work involved simultaneously engaged my spirit on many levels.

We were in deep communion, on alternate levels, wherein the energy work was taking place.  This was quite intense and taxing on me.  One immediate benefit of this energy work was that the longer I fucked Kirby’s ready willing arse, the more robust and healthy his disease-ravaged body became.

He was coated in a fine sheet of sweat that I could smell.  Too, there was a lot of radiant light shimmering off his body as it became more and more muscle-bound.

This experience was like a composition performed for the first time and one which was created from a place of knowing and guidance.  There were changes of tonality, movement as we shamanically forged into full discarnate self-awareness.

Above all else, this was an extremely intense undertaking of energy transference.  A truly healing dream experience this was.  Excellent work for which I was very pleased to have served as a facilitator to my noble friend and now fully actualised astral plane habitué, Kirby Ayers-de Sibley.


Photo: Ken Moody and Robert Sherman

Platinum Print

65.1 x 55.9 cm

Artist Proof 1/1, Edition of 10

© 1984, Robert Mapplethorpe

Provenance: Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

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Happy 100th Birthday Billie Holiday!


Billie Holiday.


God Bless The Child

Voice: Billie Holiday

Composition: Billie Holiday, Arthur Herzog Jr. c. 1939


Fine and Mellow

Written: Billie Holiday c. 1939

Live TV recording 1957.

Voice: Billie Holiday

Piano: Mal Waldon

Double Bass: Milt Hinton

Guitar: Danny Barker

Tenor Saxophone: BenWebster & Lester Young & Coleman Hawkins

Baritone Saxophone: Gerry Mulligan

Trombone: Vic Dickenson

Trumpet: Doc Cheatham & Roy Eldridge

Drums: Osie Johnson


Strange Fruit

Written: Abel Meeropol c. 1937

Composition: Billie Holiday c. 1939

Live TV Performance

Voice: Billie Holiday.


Lover Man, Oh Where Can You Be.

Written: Jimmy Davis & Roger Ramirez & James Sherman c. 1941

Live performance 1958, Oakdale Music Theater, Wallingford, Connecticut.

Voice: Billie Holiday

Piano: Mal Waldron

Bass: Milt Hinton

Trumpet: Buck Clayton

Drums: Don Lamond


One of my all-time favourite Billie Holiday tunes.  I first fell in love with it while working at the Underground Railroad Restaurant on King Street East just west of Sherbourne Street back in the late 1970s – all while finding time to run around the city taking ballet class and studying in high school then later at York University – when Salome Bey was doing her Cabaret show and her husband, Howard Matthews was part owner, along with Jazz drummer, Archie Alleyne.  There was an intense and wonderful Jazz education!

Too, there was that memorable Sunday Brunch in late 1982 at the actress, Patricia Neal’s grand Upper West Side apartment which Merlin took on a short-term sublet.  Frederick Jones and his Puerto Rican-born lover were there, along with a couple of dancer friends of mine and, of course, fellow dancer and friend of Merlin’s, Miguel Godreau.

Merlin the night we met, Friday, October 1, 1982, had excused himself from dinner at the Afro-Cuban restaurant, around from my West 49th Street apartment, on 9th Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen.  He had gone to make a phone call – ah yes, there was an age before the cellphone’s ubiquity – and cancelled getting together with Miguel.  They had been dating after Miguel had appeared in Ken Russell’s 1980 film, Altered States starring, William Hurt and who at that time was a member of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater.

Just in case, I had proven an utter bore, Merlin had made alternate plans; however, after I had passed most of dinner to the groovy music massaging his burgeoning lap across the deuce from me with my nimbly dexterous pointed feet, Miguel did not stand a chance.

Besides, one does not exactly say no to one’s task companion when first meeting on the physical plane… again, especially when it was planned.  In any event, after fruit-filled pancakes drowned in Canadian maple syrup, Merlin and I – who by then had had multiple ménage-à-trois with Miguel – blew each other soft kisses while he sat admiringly looking at Miguel and me slow dance to this truly haunting tune.

Merlin almost never danced; however, our pas de deux between the sheets has left Merlin an unsurpassed lover of magical skills.

Happy Birthday Billie Holiday and, wherever you are, may your current incarnation be a most blessed lucid dream.  You know, I really ought to do her overleaves…

Godreau, Miguel 17/10/4629/8/96

This fragment was a fifth level mature artisan – first incarnation at this level – in the

preservation mode, with a goal of rejection.  Miguel was a realist, in the emotional part

of moving centre. 

Miguel’s body type was Saturn/Mercury. 

Miguel’s primary chief feature was arrogance with a secondary of martyrdom. 

Miguel was fifth-cast in the fifth cadence of the fourth greater cadence – strong sage

casting influence.  Miguel is cast in entity seven, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod/node

414 – he is a cadre mate of Arvin’s & Merlin’s. 

Miguel’s artisan essence twin and his scholar task companion are both discarnate. 

Miguel’s three primary needs were: expression, freedom and power. 

Miguel shared 14 past lives with Merlin while having had 8 past lives with Arvin. 

Recently, this fragment has reincarnated in Belgium and plans to be a musician/dancer. 


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century American art, 20th century American artists, 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, African-Americans, American Art, American Artists, Art, Artists, Black creative artists, Creative Genius, Jazz, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Singers, Stage performers, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Big Yellow Taxi.

© 1974 Live TV performance

© 1970 Music and Lyrics Joni Mitchell

Guitar & Voice: Joni Mitchell

Album: Ladies of the Canyon

Reprise Records

If you must, before you go, let me just say thank you… for your beauty of spirit and unsurpassed creative genius.  I love you, Joni.  Love.  Light…


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, 20th century Canadian art, 20th century Canadian artists, Art, Artists, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Creative Genius, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Painters, Singers, Stage performers, Visionaries, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Dreamquest to Mount Ni.


Some persons so profoundly enrich your life, regardless of the length of time you share together, that this union ends up transcending death and transcending time itself.  This next dream speaks to just such a stellar human being whose light greatly enriches one’s spiritual journey and set the tone to one’s spiritually focussed lifetime millennia later. 

However, this dream clearly was past-life-related in essence.  There is no getting around the fact that I had transcended the spiral arms of time and revisited a momentous occasion during a past life of mine.  Of one thing I was certain, at the time, the dream’s central figure had not been myself in a past life. 

What’s more, as with dreamquests to past lives, I was in flight or observing the details of the past-life in question from an out-of-body perspective.  In my experience, being thusly focussed – detached/observant – has proven more common than not. 

Without a doubt, this was one of the most remarkable dreams of this incarnation.  This most momentous dreamquest occurred on Friday, August 28, 1992 while the Moon then transited both Virgo and my fourth house wherein is posited my natal Pluto which sits at one of the corners of my grand mutable which involves Mars, retrograde Chiron and the Moon. 

This intensely potent dream is to found on audiocassette one hundred and twenty-two.  As such, they are to be found on the as-yet published volume XIII of the twenty-five volume dream opus.  As ever, sweet dreams be yours; there is no other way to truly know and love self than by being honest enough to look within the folds of self and become awakened in the dream realms.

Never mind the crapola dream interpretation books.  Breathe in, breathe out et voilà, you disrobe from the confines of ego and you are awakened… you are dreaming.  What else is one to do when so grounded in self, in one’s truth, than to push off and start flying.  We are magical, you and me and for that, I love you more!  Thanks again for your ongoing support. 


Standing there, it was very bright out but also extremely cold.  I was altitudinally, very high up, where the air was quite brisk.  As the air was quite thin, this high up, breathing proved laborious.

As a result, one really got to deep breathe with each breath.  As a matter of fact, it was very yogic being at these heights.  This definitely was in another time and was definitely in Asia: the Himalayas, Tibet or more likely to the east in China but definitely not Japan.

More than likely Tibetans, these were a darker-complected, broad-faced people.  A priestly eminent sage had recently died and his body unceremoniously lay in state on the bare flat ground.

As his corpse lay in state at the funeral, there was a pyre prepared that awaited to be lit.  His family was attendant at the ceremony.  Instead of being in saffron robes, he wore the most beautiful purple robes.  For me this left me confused as the purple would signify a dignitary, if not royal, rather than priestly person.

His corpse lay in the most wonderful casket that was made from inch-thick bamboo reeds that were wrapped in a braided manner.  Rather than his corpse being inside a casket, it was more so a flat altar on which he lay.

The reeds were cube-shaped and hollow in the centre and they had a lovely look to them.  He did, in fact, wear more than one layer of clothing.  The robes he wore were silken and there definitely were gold threads woven into the fabrics.

What’s more, they were wafer-thin garments of pure gold which was revealed within the folds of the opened purple cloak.  The cloak was very regal and had large flared sleeves.  There was something decidedly dynastic rather than priestly about his robes.

As he lay there on the ground, my perspective was that of someone standing at the foot of his corpse; I was, however, hovering in the air.  This man had a most incredibly serene expression on his stilled face.

There was a shack at the head of his corpse which served as an altar.  Some Buddhist monks were pendulously swinging canisters filled with incense.  They all carried elaborate umbrellas because, although it was sunny, there simultaneously was a light drizzle.

The family was gathered at the right of the altar – stage right of the altar, if you like.  To the left were other dignitaries: the priesthood, scholars and nobility.  There were several relations of his present.  He was a very elderly man.  He had lived to a very ripe old age.

His skin was very, very beautiful and wonderfully preserved.  His skin was so fine that it seemed as if translucent.  Though ancient, his skin was still handsomely hugging the bones.  A very proud handsome face was his.  His was the sort of wonderfully noble face much like that worn by Pierre Elliott Trudeau.

A strong-featured face was his but one which had a lot of integrity in it.  His face was serenely drawn because he was at peace.  More than that, his was the face of a very wise and truly old soul.  How he had been in life was now clearly revealed in his final expression.

He had achieved a very high state of consciousness during his just-completed lifetime.  I was told, by my higher self, a great deal about this man and his culture.

These high adepts apparently believed that they had to spend at least 800 years of incarnation, serving in some capacity, within the confines of their ennobled culture.  They had to serve in a priestly mode, as monks, in that particular order.

As initiates, they chanted in every lifetime of the several that it would take to serve out their 800 years of incarnation.  This place and these people were incredibly serene beyond being merely stoical.

The deceased was not, however, priestly.  He was though seen as the penultimate high priest because he had been a revered sage – a truly wise man.

A female relation quickly turned away her head because they were about to lower the corpse, on its bamboo bier, into a vat.  It was hard to tell whether this was a slight body of water or a flammable liquid.  The procedure was all very symbolic and ritualised.

The families were all present.  All the women who had given up their sons, to serve in the priesthood, were present.  They were not in contact with the monastic life but were deeply respected and shown much appreciation to.

About what the initiate’s life entailed, this did leave the relatives with some degree of fear.  One of the deceased’s sibling’s granddaughters had a wonderful child with her.

She had her son slung about her hip.  Though she had abruptly turned her head away, the child had curiously kept looking on at the proceedings.

She then began walking away and shielding the child.  She seemed so much like Isha da Braga because of the degree of fear that she exhibited.  All that I could think was that she really needed to work past such fears.

As a result, I began reaching out to her in a bid to heal her of her fears.  Soon, it became readily evident that my healing energies were not being picked up on by her.

This was a joyous ceremony, otherwise, because it was a celebration of a life that had come to a successful end.  His was a life which had had a beginning, middle and an end.  All that he had set out to do, he had ended up accomplishing.  Too, he was much loved and revered within society.

Somehow, in some way, it would seem that he and I were connected.  That connection to the deceased old-souled dignitary had enabled me to have dreamquested and accessed this experience.

This was definitely an experience which happened in another and earlier time.  The light here, being reflected from the sky, was so blue that it was beyond anything ever experienced in our current age.

The Chi, starlight and air were so crisp, serene and intense that one’s vibration was immediately elevated for being infused by such a high concentration of negative ions.  As a result, one was left being thoroughly lucid as though this were a natural state to be in.


As much as this is a past-life dream to which I had quested, I was clearly not the deceased.  Obviously, I had known the deceased and such was the positive impact he had had in my life that it impressed itself on my heart for millennia. 

Of course, that past-life to which I dreamquested featured the eminently renowned sage to whom I was an advisor.  That incarnation of note occurred 2,500 years ago. 

At the time, I was a young-souled sceptic with a robust intellect who was a favourite of the much older-souled mentor‡.  Of course, that mentor was none other than one of the greatest philosophers of human civilisation on this planet, Confucius†. 

That past-life connection to Confucius would greatly influence the choice on my part to be spiritually focussed rather than not in later incarnations. 

Confucius’s overleaves to immediately follow along with my overleaves during that past-life when a trusted advisor to Confucius.  I was then a young soul but a sceptic as now. 


Confucius 28/9/551 BCE<O>479 BCE

Michael: Confucius was a fifth level old sage with warrior casting; it was the third life at that level.  Power moded, Confucius had a goal of growth and was a pragmatist.  Confucius was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Confucius’s body type was Jupiter/Mars.

Confucius’s primary chief feature was Stubbornness and his secondary that of impatience.

Casting for Confucius was third cast in fourth cadence; he was a member of greater cadence four.  Confucius’s entity was seven, cadre one, greater cadre 5, pod 414.

Confucius had a sage essence twin and a warrior task companion.  The task companion was present during the incarnation; however, the essence twin was not in order to avoid distraction for this sage of note.

Confucius is now reunited with his entity and not incarnate.  As a reunited entity they are at Causal plane level 1.  Confucius’s life task was successfully completed and related to the expression of world and universal truths.

There were 4 past lives associations with Arvin and 8 with Merlin.


Michael:  A life of note that we think this artisan may well be interested in took place in approximately 500 or so BCE when this fragment was an associate, so to speak, of the fragment who was known as Confucius.

He and the old sage would often speak of the parables that the sage chose to include in his writings and suffice it to say that the artisan was instrumental in helping the old sage flesh out ideas that then were honed into a finely tuned presentation.

As the artisan was a young soul and a skeptic, he oftentimes pointed out inconsistencies much to the amusement of the sage who many times humored the artisan with witty repartee.  This was all in all a positive incarnation and does fall under the lives of note and influence category.

This, of course, took place in China.

Arvin’s past-life (male) when known to Confucius. 

Michael:  Past-life Arvin was fifth level young soul artisan, second life at soul age.  The mode was perseverance and with a goal of growth.  In that past life, Arvin was a sceptic in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

Body type was then Saturn/Venus

During that past life, the primary chief feature was that of arrogance and the secondary self-deprecation.

Neither the essence twin nor task companion was present.

Former Chinese Arvin’s three primary needs were: acceptance, power and freedom.

These two fragments were close but not sexually intimate as the old sage, Confucius, was generally disinterested in sexual relationships.


Art: portrait of Confucius in later years.

© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Essence Contact in Dreams, Flying dreams, Longreads, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, OBEs, OBEs in dreams, Out-of-Body Experiences, Past-life dreams, Reincarnation, Shamanism, Visionaries | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dream intimacy when pages come to life.

At bed reading

On the weekend, Saturday, March 21, 2015’s matinee performance, I attended Four Seasons for the Performing Arts.  There, I took in the National Ballet of Canada’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland ballet.  Wow what a marvellously magical and superbly realised vision of imagination, creative genius and great theatre.  A thoroughly besotting drink for the soul it proved. 

So richly deserved a drink it was – what with being beset by predatory boors partout… all anyone ever wants to do is just get out their door and get about the business of running errands.  No such luck, though, when at times you run into persons who can never seem to see beyond their sphinctered perceptions. 

Too, a few weeks ago, I went off to St. Michael’s Hospital to see a urologist as prostate issues have plagued my family.  So there was I for the follow-up appointment and after having had my pissing monitored by a bizarre contraption, I then sat down with the supremely seductive Sikh intern. 

Delicately, he wondered how often I daily masturbate to which I ventured into a zone I almost never inhabit – modesty – when replying,

“Once or twice daily.” 

Then he suggested that just to be on the safe side, as I have taken to directing a mist or two to my crotch of the coveted ‘Bleu de Chanel’ eau de toilette, I undergo the examination.  Since the procedure was only going to be five minutes no more, I figured being probed I have ever welcome.  There was I minutes later sterilised and screaming like an abductee aboard an alien craft being probed by soulless Greys. 

I then went downstairs to the pharmacy and picked up the prescribed drugs only to have the Indo-Canadian from the Southern Caribbean pharmacist declare that I ought to be careful because one of the side effects of the drug is possibly fainting when being auto-erotic.  Without so much as missing a beat, in a Trinidadian accent that had him unselfconsciously laughing, I declared,

“Tiger this getting old business is no joke, you know.  But what a piece of madness this, yes.  Tell me ‘bout me, I now have to look forward to fainting five times a day…” 

After the surgical procedure, for the next three days, there was bleeding each time urinating.  That was a bit alarming to say the least.  If that were not bad enough, my dreams became suddenly deluged with sexualised fare beyond the norm as though fuelled by Viagra.  Heck even Buster, a cat which is given to attacking the mailman and delivery persons was lying around in the dreamtime masturbating with the same blasé élan as yours truly in the dream herein entitled, “The Other Johnson Wax.” 

A few days after taking the pharmaceuticals, the next of the possible side effects kicked in.  What pray tell is the point of having a damn toy if it does not work?  There was I trying to get my lubed up groove on and at climax there was nothing… nada… zilch.  Oh what stark nightmare this! 

This bit of terror was good for all of two days after which, I downloaded every Nacho Vidal porn I could find and applied myself with bruising relish until alas, though no Vesuvian episode, the briny water of life did flow anew.  

More than that, on to the business at hand for which you are here…dreams – the elixir which makes all of life an enriched dance in spirit.  The dreams shared herein occurred on Monday, December 18, 1995 while the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house. 

As such, they were audiocassette-recorded on tape number two hundred and three.  Said dreams are to be found in Volume XXI of the twenty-five volume dream opus – a true ode to imagination and stellar intellect… to be sure. 

The first dream involved an encounter with a sexually dynamic, sage entity mate.  The second dream involved an encounter with an august-souled writer and what we achieved in that dream was the most extraordinary essence contact.  This truly was a most glorious pas de deux. 

Dream, my darlings, for you are grace incarnate.  Dream with abandon for as you weave your magic into reality, you are expressing the poetic wonder that is your soul.  Dance, plié, push off and start flying, for we are cocky egrets of light, love and all that… you and me.  Who loves you more? 


2 men on motorcycle

Here, in this the first dream, I was in the outdoors and it was fairly balmy out.  I suppose that it must have been early-morning time.  More to the point, it was an indeterminate time of day with no discernible direct sunlight.

Grey out, it was also autumnal in feeling.  Though it seemed likely on the West Coast, it did not vibrationally seem like the West Coast.  In any event, I had come from the yard of a large house and had gone walking down the narrow street.

I then noticed that there was a man on a motorcycle, as I progressed along a knoll, riding alongside the street.  On coming down, I approached the motorcycle.  Pandora was about, as well, in this dream experience.

The man instinctually was familiar and god he was magnetic.  My response to him was primal.  Pandora wore a long red dress; it was a jumper.  Falling down to mid-calf, it then flared out.

When I approached the man, Pandora then came out from the gates to the property.  He was so devastatingly handsome; he was undoubtedly Black Irish.

Dark-haired plus ethereally pale-skinned, he had the most beautifully bewitching eyes.  He was dizzyingly handsome.  Pandora was off to the rear and right and I told him that she was my sister who, until recently, had been living in Paris.

He then began talking about both Prashant Saxena and Dave Stamp.  Somehow, I had a sense that this man was connected to Gilberto Rao, Prashant’s roommate, at the level of soul.

Apparently, both men were now on speaking terms again and Dave was going to be moving back in with Prashant.  However, I was not inclined to think that it was him as Gilberto is definitely Portuguese.

I asked him for a ride home on his motorcycle.  I simply wanted to be next to him and be able to hold on to him.  However, when I got on, I initially held on to the back of the seat.  He was wearing a thick black leather bodysuit.

He was so super sexy and a fairly ectomorphic, mercurial-bodied man.  As we rode past, I winsomely waved to Pandora.  Eventually, we headed down the street where we made a right turn.

We would then have the street dead-end into a lot where a building was under construction.  This was going to be a very tall skyscraper though, at present, only a mere two storeys stood; it was going to be an all-stone structure.

On slowing down the motorcycle, we went into the site’s bare yard through the opening in the wire fence that served as a makeshift gate.  His feet were touching the ground as he inched the large, black and steel, mean steed through the fencing.

We then had to go around all the locations where there was shovelling and carpentry.  There were several of these work stations while, at all times, the building was to the right.

We rode into a section, from which one couldn’t then get out, which was walled in on all three sides.  So he turned around the motorcycle, at which point we made our way back out, going onto another street.

With that, we drove about enjoying the ride and the power of the chromium steed.  Completely relaxed, I reached forwards wrapping my arms about his torso.  As we drove on, he did not protest.  As a result, I felt even more intimately connected with him.

There was a deep genuine communion between us.  Still further into the ride, I began slowly making my hands down the front of his body.  I made them down to about his hips and then began gently letting my hands relax and tense about his cock.

He still did not protest and allowed himself to comfortably lean back into me.  Pleasurably sublime a ride it was.  We were then going along a street which ran parallel to the one on which he had picked me up.

Some disturbance suddenly broke out which saw us immediately bolting for cover.  When we escaped without injury, we were now on foot.  At this point, I began telling him that we should venture off on another path.

As he decided that it sounded like a good idea, we did as much.  Eventually, our meandering got us into a part of town which seemed much like Manhattan’s East Village.  There I saw a café that I recognised from many a dream past.

I knew that we could go off onto another street as we were being pursued anew.  Two things had changed at this point.  For one, it was now late at nighttime and for another Isha da Braga had joined us.

We went as though going south in the East Village then went onto a tiny side street.  There we saw a tiny house to whose door I rushed.  I began banging on the door though Isha was hesitant to do so.

We were gladly invited in by the Blacks who lived there.  Once inside, we were told to stay down on the floor.  The persons pursuing us had guns with them.

I insisted that we not be anywhere near the front of the house but in the centre of the house.  As we sat around in the centre of the room, I did not bother to start drinking my drink because I thought that these people could have unwittingly been accomplices of our pursuers.

Perhaps the drinks had also been spiked, with a strong soporific, to knock us out until the pursuers could come back and apprehend us easily enough.  Isha threw caution to the wind and hungrily drank down her drink.

She had been so sped up with fear that she was thirsty and also neurotic.  At least she had not, as yet, gone berserk.  Shortly after we had entered the house, Pandora appeared and joined us.  To say the least, it was good to have had her grounding companionship.

Later on, someone came to the front door impatiently banging to be let in.  They did go to look but I stayed where I sat huddled on the floor.  Interestingly, it turned out that it was Tucker O’Reily – Isha’s lover for many years on and off.

He went around to the left of the house and on seeing him Isha went chasing after him.  She was desperate but it was hard to tell whether her desperation was for his safety or because she yearned to bed him at once.

Here, too, Pandora was wearing the red jumper.  Speaking up, Pandora announced that she would not be held hostage and terrorised by anyone.

She thought that it was stupid to be hiding out like this.  For her, it was psychological warfare which was more insufferable than combat.  So, just like that, she took her leave of us and headed outside.

Pandora began walking along the street that ran perpendicular to the house.  She would be going along the café where she could easily have been apprehended or even fatally shot.

However, she could not have cared less.  Soon, some persons started coming around the house – one of whom looked very much like Carlton Akins when he was much younger.

He was part of the party that had come to apprehend us.  Sure enough, bullets started flying.  Meanwhile, Isha had bolted back inside the house after having gone out to chase after Tucker O’Reily.

Not wanting to be terrorised like this, I decided to get myself out of this mess.  With that, in order that I may become light and thus render myself invisible to the thugs, I began upping my vibration.

Successfully, I had managed to have pulled off the transition to the light body and become invisible.

Thus, I was able to spirit my way on out of what was a no-win situation.

*The motorcyclist here, though not Black Irish, I would in time meet in 2010.  Of course, it was the dynamic actor, Pierre-Louis Longchambon.  Pierre-Louis’s Michael Overleaves are now included at the end of these dreams and are to be found in the Michael Overleaves Appendix page.  END.


interracial kissing2

I went into an old bookstore which, in parts, did seem like a library.  I ventured into one salon, in this the second dream, where I approached a scholarly woman and asked her if she had any books by the author, Wilson, T. W..

She directed me to go around the corner close-by and to check the shelves there.  I did find his works and the author turned out to be a White Briton.  My reason to have investigated his writings was that he was a known old soul.

I had been keen on becoming familiarised with the writings of an old soul.  There were about half a dozen volumes that he had written though not very thick ones.  They were stories with some being compilations of plays and collections of short stories.

I took three in all and one of them was fairly thick.  Then I noticed that it was not Wilson, T. W. rather that was my being confused by T. S. Elliot, the famous writer.

Rather, his initials were Wilson, W. T..  When I had shown up at the counter, there were lots of books there.  Familiarly, it was so old and scholarly here.  Everywhere, there were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with ancient volumes.

The woman was a plump friendly soul.  When I told her of my error, she had told me that she had wondered the same thing after I had taken off.  When I had said Wilson, T. W., she had been so sure that I meant Wilson, W. T. that she had not corrected me.

Though I had looked at the titles, there in the dreamtime, I cannot now recall what they were.  She checked the books out, by computer, then gave me a single slip of paper for all the books.

Besides the fact that I thought that I should have received a single slip, for each of the three books, she assured me that it was quite okay.  I then put the books down on the counter, to browse in earnest, when a male and female White couple came to the counter.

They had some complicated math equations that they were working on.  They were supposedly doing homework.  When I took up my books to leave, I had had to come between them but paid them no mind.

I had inadvertently taken up a scrap piece of paper of theirs on which they had been doing some of their math calculations.  I noticed the error as I left so turned back to return it.

These two were looking after me, with truly vile contempt and their faces pinched and seething, as if to say that not only was I rude but was also a damn thief.  I returned the paper paying them no mind.

Coming from the store, I was really pleased to go off and read the works of an old soul.  Rushing home, I got into bed and began voraciously reading the books.

There was a miniature wooden stature of the same old-souled writer standing with legs akimbo.  His expression was fiercely proud.  He cut a handsome ectomorphic figure.  The wood was a warm dark wood.

Next to the miniature study on the bottom shelf, at floor level, were some large thick volumes about Africa.  They detailed the history of anthropology in Africa and its relationship to African art.

As much as I wanted to devour them, for now, I wanted to stay focussed on the task at hand.  Comfortably snug in between sheets and covers, I intently looked across the room at the old soul writer’s statue only to have him manifest in the room.

On sitting up, he gestured for me to stay where I was then he lazily ambled over and slipped onto the bed with me.  I was besotted.  Being in this man’s presence was truly a spiritual high.

He was open and accepting, slipping into bed and laying his thoughts bare before me, inviting me to drink of his very soul itself.  I was completely blown away.

He immediately reached across and began warmly hugging me.  Next, he rolled over on top of me holding onto me.  Still fully clothed, we started passionately writhing.

Though a passionate intense affair, there was overwhelming warmth to the experience such that I completely surrendered to the flow of the dance.  Most of all, this was one of the most real astral plane experiences yet.  I was fully engaged and uplifted for the experience.

There was no better way to have validated his old-souledness than to have experienced his very soul itself, while communing soul-to-soul, as we were.

He was so liquid, fluid and loving that it was completely arresting an experience for me.  This had seemingly been a life of this man’s in Victorian England; as a result, I did not quite know what it all meant.

I had no idea whose reincarnational past-life history I was picking up on.  Nonetheless, it was all very interesting.  I reached up, tightly holding on to him and simply cried out for joy.  This was truly blissful.

What really made this moment meaningful was that I could have experienced the love, which I shared with this man, for having had such a great love with Merlin.

I whited out though did not awaken which was rare… to say the least.



Here, in this the third dream, I was in a large house and attempted to call after a cat which belonged to us.  I went out and opened the door to get its attention.  The door led onto a veranda and, in that sense, it did remind me of the house in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.

I was as if in the girls’ bedroom when opening the door, to the veranda, in order to call the black cat.  To get its attention, I had whistled to it.  I then went into another room, in the familiar house, where I encountered Harella da Braga.

When asked if she had seen the cat, she replied that she hadn’t.  She offered to call it for me and began whistling while I went to check in other parts of the house which, though familiar, was not exactly the Crab Hill house.

While Harella called the cat, Florence ‘Flori’ Pole came out of her house onto the veranda and tossed out a tree that was beginning to die.  The tree had been planted in an old and dented white enamel potty.

The tree was much like a shaddock tree but bore miniature fruit.  Dark, it was 4.5-5.0’ tall.  Florence tossed it from the veranda straight into the lime-green dump pan on which was written: P.H.D. – Public Health Department.

As she turned to head back indoors, I good-naturedly called out to her.  I went excitedly rushing, back into the house, to tell Harella that the reclusive Florence was just outdoors.

I wanted to get my camera so that I could have a picture of her and use it to do her overleaves.  Harella then came out to join me on the veranda while I bore the camera this time.

Now the High-Yellow Florence Pole stood there a dark-complected Black man who was easily 6.8 feet tall.  He wore glasses and looked rather debonair and dashingly handsome.

I began noisily taking a whole roll of shots of Flori who was now a fine-looking brother in shades.  I used the zoom lens and was able to see his eyes quite clearly in focus.  Interestingly, it was as though his eyes were not being obscured by both distance and the tinted shades.

Laughingly, the metamorphosed Florence Pole asked what I was doing taking her picture?

“Boy what are you taking my picture for?  That’s just so weird, taking my picture.“

Of course, by this she/he meant that it was positively meaningless of me to be taking her/his picture in the dreamtime.  Right she/he was too.  After all, like money on leaving the dreamtime, I couldn’t take it with me.

Here, it was now day time out.  We were as if at the back gate to the yard of the Crab Hill house.  I stood with my back to the gate and road while the man stood with Harella, in the backyard, beneath the genip tree.

I never did take Harella’s picture.  Harella did remind me that it was possible that there would be a light glare on the photos when they developed.

There was a point when I wanted him to move so that I could really get a good look at his eyes but he wouldn’t budge and accommodate me.  He much reminded me of Timothy Jupitus; tall, big-boned and fiercely warrior-spirited.

Though he easily weighed in excess of 300 pounds, he was not a heavy and – by no means – fat man.  Solid, he was in the same mould as professional basketball player, Shaquille O’Neal.


Longchambon, Pierre-Louis 17/3/1976 Toronto, Canada

This fragment is a sixth mature sage – fourth life at this level – in the power mode with a goal of growth, a realist in the intellectual centre, moving part. 

Body Type is Saturn/Mars. 

Pierre-Louis’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary is impatience. 

This fragment is second cast, fifth cadence, greater cadence six.  He is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, Pod 414 – he is an entity mate of Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

No essence twin or task companion charted in session. 

*This does not mean that neither exists, they simply were not channelled during that session.  Furthermore, though it does rarely occur where a fragment can have no essence twin, all fragments however do have a task companion.  END. 

Pierre-Louis’s three primary needs are: expression, freedom, and power. 

All told, there are 18 past-life associations between Pierre-Louis and Arvin and 14 past-life associations with Merlin. 


Photo: Male model reading in bed

Two men riding a motorcycle

Male intimacy

Taking a photograph


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

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Acrylic on Canvas

126 x 100.5 cm

© 1988 Jean-Michel Basquiat

Provenance:  Private Collection as of 2005.

One of my favourite pieces in the current Jean-Michel Basquiat exhibition at the AGO.  The reviewers in both the Globe and Mail and NOW magazine haven’t a fucking clue what they are talking about; certainly, in the case of the latter it is the sort of sly invidiousness that one can ever expect of Canadians in their cool animus towards Blacks and the Black artistic aesthetic.  Later for the likes of sphinctered, snow-driven dreck comme lui…

Of course, all that glorious fecund green serves as a good enough reason to say, Happy St. Patrick’s Day.  As James Joyce so deftly illustrated, we are all Irish for being possessed of imagination… we are all dreamers – I certainly am.  I love you more!


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century American art, 20th century American artists, 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, Acrylic on Canvas, Acrylic paintings, African-Americans, American Art, American Artists, Art, Art Exhibition, Artists, Black creative artists, Contemporary American Art, Contemporary American artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Artists, Creative Genius, Painters, Painting, Private Art Collection, Visionaries | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment