Heaven’s Break.

Heaven's Break

Heaven’s Break

Acrylic on Panel

48 x 48 inches

© 2015 Coody Hooper.


Recently, Cody and his lovely wife became first-time parents.  I don’t know, perhaps, it presumptuous of me to say but I do believe that this new lightness and attack is influenced by the addition of the marvellous little woman who recently joined and completed their world.  I love this painting.  Congrats, again, you three.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

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

I Remember.

Michael by Warhol

Michael Jackson by Andy Warhol.  On this the anniversary of Michael Jackson’s birth, I thought to pay tribute to one of the most inspiring creative geniuses to have ever graced this world.  This is a work by Andy Warhol which is part of the Revolver Gallery’s Andy Warhol: Revisited – A Pop Art Exhibition in Yorkville at 77 Bloor Street West, Toronto.  One of the truly fantastic shows to have graced Toronto in long ages.

I finally got to attend a couple of weeks ago with my brother and my only nephew –  in town for the summer from the Bahamas.  We had a good visit and the show was the most spectacular show I have seen in long ages.  Beautifully curated and just intimate enough that it doesn’t end up being overwhelming or, more importantly, underwhelming.



Michael Jackson: August 29, 1958 [-O-] June 25, 2009.

Here’s a dream, previously shared in this unique and utterly unrivalled blog of mine, of Michael Jackson being his marvellously shamanic wonderful self.  I love you more, Michael – sweet and blissful dreams.



Remember The Time, Michael Jackson, © 1992 MJJ Productions Inc.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Dreams, Music Video, Art, Art Exhibition, Michael Teachings, Dream Shamanism, Shamanism, Reincarnation, Dreams of famous persons, 20th Century Art, Artists, Writers, African-Americans, Black creative artists, Award-winning artist, Portraiture, Michael Overleaves, Singers, Stage performers, Visionaries, Astral plane habitué, Dance dreams, 20th century American artists, American Art, American Artists, Painters, Music, 20th Century American art, Musicians, Photography, Creative Genius, Essence Contact in Dreams, 20th Century Artists | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Muse.

The Muse

Oil on Canvas

66 x 71 cm

© 2015 Wim Heldens


Exquisite.  I would not be surprised if these two aren’t task companions.  Of course, Wim is an oldster whose Michael Overleaves are to be found on the Michael Overleaves Appendix page herein.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Dutch Art, 21st Century Dutch Artists, Art, Artists, Award-winning artist, Contemporary art, Contemporary Artists, Contemporary Dutch art, Contemporary Dutch Artists, Creative Genius, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Modern Art, Modern Artists, Oil on canvas, Oil paintings, Painters, Painting, Portraiture, Private Art Collection, Realism, Video | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

What Beautiful Magic This! Make Some Noise!

Oscar Peterson                                           Oscar Peterson 15/8/1925, Montréal!


C Jam Blues.

1964.  Live Denmark

Piano: Oscar Peterson

Bass: Ray Brown

Drums: Ed Thigpen


Boogie Blues Etude.

1974.  Ronnie Scott’s Club

Piano: Oscar Peterson

Bass: Niels Pedersen

Guitar: Barney Kessel


Night Train.

Piano: Oscar Peterson

Bass: Ray Brown

Drums: Ed Thigpen



1987 Live Tokyo

Piano: Oscar Peterson

Bass: Dave Young

Guitar: Joe Pass

Drums: (Martin Drew)


1964 Live Denmark

Piano: Oscar Peterson

Bass: Ray Brown

Drums: Ed Thigpen


© 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, Award-winning artist, Black creative artists, Canadian artists, Creative Genius, Jazz, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Photography, Pianists, Shamanism, Stage performers, Visionaries | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Look Who’s Coming To Dinner!

A Cheesecake 2015

Recently, I caught up with old friends; a bunch of Leos all, we decided to get together and share our birthdays which all six fall within an eight-day period.  I still have yet to actually meet someone born on August second, my actual birthday. 

In any event, there just had to be that dinner guest that made a point of being a dumb-as-fuck catty fag who spent most of the dinner trying to throw shade my way.  Bitch please, I long ago turned in my Gay card – why be a card-carrying member in a society which is marked with intense racial animus towards Blacks?  

I simply do not play.  Go be Gay and all that that stands for.  I don’t lisp and I especially do not suffer anyone who does. 

Naturally, there was overlong discussion of that silly White male dickless wonder-looking attention whore whose appearance on the cover of Vanity Fair was the final straw for me.  Dominick Dunne is gone as is Christopher Hitchens – what soft hands he had and such sad lonely eyes. 

In any event, the cumfarting twit was fast taken to task when deliberately regurgitating the usual media hate-fest now at fever pitch about Bill Cosby.  Well, of course, he is guilty – he is a man and a successful man. 

Which successful man doesn’t have access to readily available sex?  What the fool guest did not get was what was really at play in all this, namely why is that fugly – tell me, her retroussé-ugly face does not resemble a bat’s in extreme close-up – lawyer’s obsession with Black men? 

First it was Michael Jackson, then on to Tiger Woods and now Bill Cosby.  Better watch out Will Smith, hell Sidney Poitier is still alive… no successful Black male in America beloved and respected by the media is safe. 

Look at what a laughing stock Tiger Woods has become.  All three men, as most people and that idiotic dinner guest – about whom I coolly hissed while looking unflinchingly at the roast on my plate, “What is this doing out of the oven?” – fail to realise, had a legacy which was beyond the norm. 

Clearly, it isn’t about merely being Black; it is always about having ventured into uncharted territory.  Who can deny Michael Jackson’s stellar genius?  Who could have imagined anyone achieving, let alone conquering Tiger Woods’ spectacular accomplishments?  Then there was Bill Cosby, after Norman Lear had given the noctambulant masses the image of what Blacks ought to damn well be, presenting perfectly normal middle class Blacks without rage, baggage and drug issues. 

In short order this klanswoman replete with invisible hood has devoted her professional life to latter day lynching of Black men with legacies which are too unpalatable for the likes of her ilk to suffer.  As it is, I was in no mood to suffer some lunatic Jewish queen and his need to raise his rear right leg and piss all over Blacks with smug conceit known only to the equally smug few. 

Clearly, there were no Black men in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book or by now our honorary Klanswoman would have trotted them all out by noose to that most effective of poplar trees, the television medium and then onwards to court to effectively circumcise their legacy. 

The day prior as I rode from job three en route home to take a nap using my snazzy new CPAP machine and attend one of three parties over two days, I had quite the little adventure.  Riding alongside me as I rode in the street – I never ride my bike on sidewalks, a white BMW edged next to me. 

Inside, there were Whites in back and front seats.  With windows rolled down, they cruised along to keep pace with me as I leisurely rode and enjoyed the feel of blazing sunlight on my skin.  As is customary, I wore my shades. 

“Oh look it’s Ray Charles.  No wait, I think it’s Stevie Wonder,” said the dumb-as-fuck-looking blonde in the backseat smugly looking out and grinning her more-gums-than-teeth, saurian-lipped-hideous and blissfully ignorant face at the sight of me. 

Their laughter was that hideous semi-feral clipped affair known only to the White tribe when it is enjoying being racially predatory and making sport of Black lives.  The big White male next to her who likely preferred fucking her in the arse than not, called out, “Hey bud, guess what?  No more Jell-O pudding for you!” to which there was even more wicked gales of laughter known only to Blacks when being racially preyed on by Whites who will ever swear up and down that there is no such thing as racism.  Hell, the term racial predator does not exist. 

So nice to know that by millennium’s end, this murderous Saurian predator masquerading as human will be yet hunted by an even more menacing terror – those who think nothing of cutting empty brain-dead skulls from bodies and placing them in the small of the back.  Yes dumbasses, you too like Rome will fall and you too will yet be the hunted. 

Next, the male driver who howled with wicked delight then did something that never before had I experienced, for the next block and a half – he rode alongside, matching my speed, never allowing me to drop behind or overtake his car – he turned on the windshield wiper which naturally saw wiper fluid jet beyond the car’s roof and left me good and drenched. 

I got home  a sticky, stinging ashy-white mess as anti-freeze fluids and sweat took their toll in the glaring heat for several kilometres.  Long had it been since I had been reduced to tears at having been racially attacked. 

So as this arse-eating venal swine sat across from me going on ad nauseam about Bill Cosby, I quietly excused myself and took to the host’s bathroom where I feverishly texted my delightful Panamanian-born Montréal friend, Raoul de Castro and told him where to come find me and spirit me away from this gold-and-diamond-thieving arse-eating fool. 

Returned to dinner, while I patiently awaited Raoul’s arrival, I began speaking of the audacity of New Jersey paying out one million dollars to Holocaust survivors in the state who numbered more than 40k.  How many were there in Florida, Illinois, Arizona, New Mexico to say nothing of California and New York?  Were they being paid for Holocaust PTSD too? 

Why pray tell were American taxpayers making any such payments when the Third Reich had not occupied America nor for that matter had the Holocaust occurred on American soil?  Funny how quickly some can go from being smug to being downright accusatory. 

Once challenged with fact, the fool began accusing me of being anti-Semitic.  Some things truly are as predictable as flies on shit as Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would ever impart. 

Our idiotic otiose dinner guest soon demanded of our host why he was allowing our dinner party to be ruined by all this slanderous anti-Semitic talk.  Grabbing my Samsung Note, I gladly shared the news article on the Jerusalem Post’s website which heaped praise on the New Jersey governor for being a good little porcine Goy and paying out needless, to say nothing of dubious, guilt money. 

All talk of Bill Cosby ceased as the subject was changed to the Andy Warhol show here in town – which I have yet to see but soon shall.  Soon enough, and well before dessert, Raoul crashed the dinner party and rescued me. 

As we left, in a manner that was crass and as can be expected of a sage soul born in the year of the Monkey, Raoul called across the room to the South African-born boorish Semite and waved at him in a gesture that was decidedly born of the Reich, “Farewell to all that!” 

Naturally, Raoul was in town because at the weekend it would be the annual Caribana or whatever it is now called.  I never attend, too much Sun and crowds – two things which cause my vampiric soul to cringe – you’d be amazed what working night shift for more than two decades will do to your reaction to sunlight. 

Raoul was in town because like me, also leonine, it was the annual fest of big Black American cock.  Can’t never have too much of a good thing indeed! 

Alas, drink of my spirit and savour this truly beautiful dream where I dined on the astral plane with my task companion and then astral plane habitué, Merlin.  Now there was a true Semite; above all else, he was a remarkable human being. 

As Raoul and I rode by cab from the horrid dinner party in the Beaches, I remarked how rare a light Merlin was to him.  During those seven years that I knew him, Merlin never once referred to himself as a Jew. 

He was not ghettoised, he had nothing to prove.  What was even more remarkable in those seven years, Merlin always referred to everyone whom I had yet met as ‘my friend…’  So it was that on Halloween 1982, we went to ‘my friend Joe’s’ pumpkin kill party and pleasantly surprised was I when we got to the 12th or was it 14th storey apartment in the upper west 90s and his friend Joe turned out to be Black – of course, that friend Joe is the actor, Joe Morton. 

This was the most remarkable thing about Merlin, meeting all his friends over the years, was like being at a reincarnational ball, you were ever surprised when the door opened and you finally met ‘my friend’ so-and-so only to discover that they were Japanese, Chinese, Jewish, Black, Armenian… whatever.  No wonder I have never had patience for ghettoised fools like the boor at the abandonned dinner party in the Beaches. 

The dream was lived in telepathic lucidity befitting not merely entity mates but task companions no less.  At the time, Luna did as is her wont, she grooved through Leo and thus my third house like Sarah Vaughan some lazy, syrupy scat. 

That Wednesday, I was coming near the end of my stay in Vancouver as it was April 16, 1997.  Too, the dream was audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and twenty-nine and is yet to be found in volume XXIII of the twenty-five volume dream opus. 

Say what you want but intellect is the most beautiful flower on this world or, for that matter, any other across this vast universe.  Befitting a late mature artisan of pronounced scepticism, aren’t you glad that that I can readily see through any shabbily concocted fraud?  

Yes, indeed, Vanity Fair has no time to report on Ferguson or the #BlackLivesMatter issue, any more than it cowardly avoids reporting on taxpayers’ money being brazenly scammed in New Jersey – about which you can damn well bet Vanity Fair and its editorial staffers are cognisant.

On one thing I am uncompromising: If you don’t like Black people…  Fuck you!   

Life is but a dream and sweet it is when you fear nothing and no one.  Sweet dreams, you are more magical and beautiful than you know.  For being focussed herein, I am both grateful and honoured by your patronage. 


a stag light arrangement

A rustic restaurant at nighttime, which was wide-open with lots of exposed wooden beams, proved the setting for this dream.  Seated with my left side to the aisle, where the waiter came and went, I was at a table for four.

There were persons, across the aisle from us, to whom I really did not pay much attention.  Who should though be on my right but Merlin!

While interminably waiting to be served, we silently sat there.  Before being taken, our order took almost forever.

Leaning forwards from behind us, a waiter finally did appear.  Smiling, he asked us to come with him as he now had a table for us.

So, we got up and began walking back with the waiter.  We were as though going to the back of the restaurant.

We moved through a beautiful interior which was nicely, dimly lit.  The flames here were live flames in glass beaker-like vases.

Too, there were the most spectacular antlers and horns displayed high up on the walls.  Some of the horns were on the ceilings about the light fixtures.

All in all, it was a beautiful ambiance here.  Too, there were rustic paintings on the walls that I paid little attention to.

The seats in this section allowed you to face out into the aisle with your back against the wall.  I had been concerned about our not having been served for so long.

Though we were not saying anything to one another, I was not concerned about that.  There were no doubts that Merlin wanted to be there with me.

We passed much of our time together, lost in a silence which was born of our being communicatively engaged, on alternate levels of reality which precluded speech.  We were being exclusively telepathic.

We sat side by side, facing out to the dining room, which gave us a commanding view of the persons on display.  The atmosphere here was very nice.

I quite enjoyed being with Merlin.  There was nothing more sublime than our silently sitting there, while together taking a meal, by candlelight and some mellow Jazz instrumentals perfuming and further intoxicating our very souls.

*Christopher Hitchens’ Michael Overleaves now to be found in Michael Overleaves Appendix.


Photo: White truffle chocolate strawberry cheesecake from Daniel et Daniel

Antler/horn lighting fixture.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Actors, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Dreams, Dreams of Merlin, Dreams of Task Companion, Jazz, Longreads, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Architects Home In The Ravine

The Artchitects Home In The Ravine 1991

Oil on Canvas

200 x 275 cm

1991, Peter Doig

Provenance: Private Collection; sold at auction in London, England, 2013 12$m.



How did I not know of this creative genius before?  Well, apart from not being awash in multiple millions… I have watched this painting for the past several weeks truly enraptured.  Of course, thanks to the schadenfreude that was Evan Solomon’s demise – goodness, if you sneezed, it’s very likely that you would have missed it – I have finally found Peter Doig.

Of course, I don’t look at TV so his departure from CBC would have been more readily noticed.  Moral of the story: do not ever try extorting money from the rich… and a lawyer to boot – Bruce Bailey.  Goodness, what could he possibly have been thinking?  The greedy twat… adieu!  Goodness, I have not laughed so hard in long ages.

As Sunday is my birthday, I am going to be shaking tail feathers – it’s also Caribana  or whatever it is now called – and being feted over the next couple of nights.  Happy summer, sweet dreams and my but I love this Peter Doig painting.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century British Art, 21st Century British Artists, 21st century Canadian art, 21st Century Canadian Artists, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Art Exhibition, Artists, British Artists, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Artists, Contemporary British Art, Contemporary British Artists, Contemporary Canadian art, Contemporary Canadian Artists, Creative Genius, Modern Art, Modern Artists, Oil on canvas, Oil paintings, Painters, Painting, Private Art Collection, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dreamquest to probable future life.

A masked ball

These rather lucid astral-projected dreams occurred while Merlin was still then incarnate in summer of 1989. 

I have come to realise that many of the dreams that have to do with being astral-projected to past or future lives often occur when the Moon transits cancer.  For whatever reasons, this seems to be a strong likelihood in my experience. 

I really don’t think that it matters much over which house my Cancer rules.  Rather, it seems more telling that ruler of Cancer, the Moon, is in my case found in the seventh house. 

Too, it should be noted that though much of my second house is dominated by Cancerian energies, Gemini sits on the second house cusp with the cusp of my third house being 20º of Cancer. 

Truth be told, they were rather insightful dreams to have experienced.  As such, these dreams occurred on Sunday, June 4, 1989 while Merlin was then incarnate. 

Too, at the time, the Moon magically transited both Gemini and my first house wherein my Mars sits nicely conjunct the ascendant.  This placement of Mars – along with its grand mutable square associations to Luna, Pluto and Chiron, tends to have me attract persons of less evolved spirituality who are ever ready to project their base emotions my way. 

Of course, it goes without saying that I am always unwavering in deflecting that dense energy with lightning shamanic speed.  Keep your dreck away from my aura! 

More than that, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on audio tapes nine through ten and are to be found in the as-yet published Volume II of the dream opus.  Sweet dreams as ever and as has been recently observed – nothing says wretched existence like bipedal canines who fixate on their quadripedal kin. 

One can only hope that most of these otiose overbred castoff humans do not eventually breed.  What do they know of either art or dreams the lot? 


A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

In this the first dream, I saw Nicole McHugh.  She was cooking with a White man in a kitchen.

He was standing around and was quite friendly so offered to help out, that sort of thing, out of the goodness of his heart.  She had these large trays of food.

She was cooking a great deal of food for a great many people.  The flame was an open blue-white one and, somehow, he put his hand over the flame to pull out a tray – yet it did not burn him at all.

He did not react to it.  I thought that he must have been cooking for quite some time, and been accustomed to these flames, to have had the flames not burn him at all.

He did go off and he had a glass of water – some of which he drank.  I went over and I thought of saying to her and did, “Would you like a spritzer or something?”

She did, in fact, say, “Yeah, that would be nice.”  She had sweat on her brow because she had been working very hard.

I then went outside to look in my locker because I did, in fact, have a locker there.  In an earlier scene, I had put some stuff in said locker.

There were some washing machines – tiny, tiny washing machines.  This place resembled a dormitory in the basement area of a co-op or building where people lived.

I was somewhat upset because my locker had, somehow, been displaced and replaced by washing machines.  They were tiny, little brownish washing machines.

I had opened the lockers just to see if maybe my lunch was inside them where, in fact, it should have been – inside the fridge.  There was, however, nothing inside the lockers.

There were one or two other lockers at the end but mine was more or less in the left of centre.  There, in place of my locker, was where the washing machines now were.

Nothing was removed except the one locker.  I did open it and it wasn’t mine.

Inside were the contents of somebody who reminded me of that Black guy who worked part time at Nature’s Own.  Tall, handsome; his mother had nicely positioned him into the company.

I then went off to get the stuff when I saw a man who seemed to be Bert Jacques but it wasn’t him.  He was walking a little girl who was one of Madella Jacques, rather, Maryse Jacques’s daughter.

She was a sweet little girl who was wearing a blue dress.  She was quite light-skinned and sunny.

He was walking her outside and coming across the bridge past our yard in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I was in the yard and where the orange tree was under the genip tree, in the waking state, I was putting monies into a slot.

I remember taking money out of my pocket to put in – 50¢, I had had two quarters.  I noticed that there was a token as I took the money from my right pocket.

When I saw the token mixed with the money I thought, ‘Oh I must be aware not to do this.’  I then got the dime and I was trying to put it into the slot but it was having problems going in.

As a result, I moved away the metal part of the slot.  Interestingly enough, you could then see the tree.

I then put in the coin but you still did not hear it fall inside with the rest of the money.  I then peeped up because the slot was higher than my field of view – higher than eye level.

As a result, I had had to poke the money in; it was a dime.  However, it was sort of flat on its side; it was standing up so that the face of the coin was looking out at you.

I was poking it in to help it to fall in.  At this point, while I was on the veranda of the house, I was aware that Nicole McHugh was coming down the lane.

I had been looking into the garden where the curtain trees were on the south side of the property.  Here in the dreamtime, however, the curtain trees were gone.

In their place were three or four little baby curtain trees coming up.  The rest of the land was dug up and it hadn’t been watered.

The soil was drying out and so I said to myself that I would have to water it.  I thought I would have to go inside and get some seeds or plant some wonderful little flowers that were going to bloom.

Until the curtain trees grew up, I figured that they would add beauty to the place.  So on remembering, I said to Nicole, “Oh yes, let me get you the spritzer.”

So I went and I got her the spritzer.  She came and was then going in the house.

A lady then came out of their house and there was some sort of consternation.  As it turned out, a White woman had a little terrier-like dog.

The dog had a black collar and the same fur as a Calico cat.  This had been Nicole’s cat which the dog had obviously bitten up or eaten it up or whatever.

So there was quite a great deal of consternation.  Nicole was standing up outside a wooden half-dilapidated house.

On the far right side, there was a cement staircase much like the arrangement at The Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  That part of the house, the cement part, was also crumbling.

Vida McHugh was there with Nicole and someone else – a little girl.  The girl who had had the terrier was being rude.

She was cursing and saying, “Watch yourself wid me.”  She had wanted to get in the door, from out on the landing, but the McHughs were in the way.

So she cursed and carried on.  Eventually, she ended up rushing her way into the house.

Then I immediately was on the inside of the house where I watched this drama unfold.  The events were as if an Opera and I said to myself, ‘My goodness this is Opera.’

Truly, this was much as if Opera.  Then persons were coming in and there was movement – people coming down and pointing their feet.

They had on wooden toe shoes.  As the movement progressed, there was advancement then retreat.

There were different forces of people.  Like a ballet really, it was all being done in silence.

They had on long period costumes.  The dramatisation was interesting.

Next, there was a sense of seeing the same woman, and everybody else, being extremely studious.  The one woman was in a large area that had stained bronzed, clay-coloured, sand-coloured glass.

She was in the pews with the man who had been helping Nicole earlier.  This was set in a large area and she was studiously reading the Bible.

She did take the Bible to be the literal word of god.  Everybody else was more or less of that bent – I thought that it was so sad.

At this point, I was struck by the fact that this was where the Christ was going to be reborn.  London, England, in fact, was where this was going on.

At this particular point, Diego Lunamas was about because there had been lines of people who were in the balletic part of the opera.  Diego had been one of them.

At the time, he was sitting down on a set and it was lit by blue light.  He was being grilled by this asinine White guy who was talking about, “Well if you believe in oversoul 7, then you also believe in overbigtoe 7, and what about oversole 8, and overhead 7?”

He was making fun of the philosophical concepts by way of the anatomy because oversoul could have been spelt, as though ‘sole,’ as in the sole of your foot.  He was really stupid.

Diego was saying, “I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.”  On Diego’s behalf I interjected saying, “Through my experience, I’ve read the Seth Material which I find far more well put together an idea construct.”

At this point Seth did, in fact, come through and began channelling.  His voice was booming and it shook the entire place to the beams.

This was happening outside in the street between the McHughs’ and our houses in Crab Hill, Sandy Point.  A stage had been set up in the street – a bluish-white lit stage.

I thought about Diego and the guy who, was in front of him, wore a blue-white costume.  The booming voice was coming from behind the McHughs’ house.

Everybody was absolutely scared because here were these god-fearing, fear-obsessed people.  Totally dismissing them, this was a booming voice which claimed to be Seth; the channelled voice then began calling them fools.

They were very fearful.  I thought that it was absolutely great.


CHT163698 Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from 'Les Orientales' by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo) by French Photographer, (20th century); Private Collection; (add.info.: season of the 'Ballets Russes';); Archives Charmet; French,  it is possible that some works by this artist may be protected by third party rights in some territories

CHT163698 Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from ‘Les Orientales’ by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo) by French Photographer, (20th century); Private Collection; (add.info.: season of the ‘Ballets Russes’;); Archives Charmet; French, it is possible that some works by this artist may be protected by third party rights in some territories

In the second dream, I was in a wooden dance studio.  The floor was wet because, in place of resin, they used water.

I had a sense that it was in the past, however, I seemed to be my present self.  Even so, there were aspects of me that were different.

I remember the way that I postured and used my face; I knew that I had very Caucasian features.  I could see the tip of my nose and yet I felt like I do now.

*I was not so much Caucasian-featured, if there’s actually such a thing – frankly there isn’t.  I was, though my present self, actually Caucasian.

I was present in the exact same body and I was my usual-personaed self.  However, the body was no longer Black but White.

The packaging had changed but nothing else had.  END.

Ahead of me was a guy in black trousers – nylon stretch trousers.  He was, in fact, the reincarnation of Vaslav Nijinsky and again male.

Again, he had very mercurial energies and he was a mover.  He had exceptionally large thighs.

He could phenomenally jump and leap about.  He was just incredible.

When at the barre, I was directly behind him and then just behind me was Pandora.  Although, truth be told, it wasn’t Pandora herself but an aspect of Pandora’s.

I never really had made eye contact with Pandora.  I remember after we had finished the barre, Nijinsky went and laid down on his stomach – in the frog position to work on his turnout.

The girls then went and they were feeling his muscle tone because it was quite unusual-looking.  His feet were so pliant and flexible as well as his calf muscles.

He had eventually turned over because Dannie Cyrta, who was one of the instructors at the head of the class, was saying, “Guys, just leave him alone.”

When we were then doing the grands battements, I remember being really elongated and holding my port de bras.  You had to do it turned out, doing grand battements, turned out to the front.

You had to do it out, towards the centre of the room.  Also, then in second position, you were facing directly ahead of you.  When doing grand battement en arrière, you did it out again.

The arm positions were up and in second position.  When you did grand battements en arrière, you would put your arms up again as though you were peeping under your arm – when you were in arabesque doing the grands battements.

I remember before I was doing the exercise, while I was doing the current exercise, I was thinking of how I would do the position and how I had to use my port de bras.  So I remember standing there in développé and you had to do these grands battements in plié and, somehow, I was in plié and I was holding my back up in port de bras.

My back was absolutely perfect; my port de bras and torso were perfectly open and I wasn’t sticking out my chest.  I was thinking, ‘This is so improved.’

I remember my neck being quite elongated, with head held high, as a result.  I was wearing a navy blue woollen set of tights and white dance slippers.

My feet were beautifully pointed.  There was a sense of looking up.

Interestingly, my whole sense of self – attitude and posture was all about looking down my nose.  This was when I realised that there was something about me that was Caucasian – physiologically.

*There was a half-mirror across the room and I was never at the front – the girls, of course, of custom were.  That was when I looked and found myself, I was indeed Caucasian more Tartar than not – dark-haired.

I had a strong sense, for looking at myself in close-up without moving, that my eyes were smoky-green-coloured.  My nose though aquiline was flared in the Tartar style and my teeth were gap-toothed.

This is not uncommon a feature when someone is currently Caucasian but was Black in their immediate past life – in fact, I was told by Sarah J. Chambers that it is always the case without exception as she was instructed by the Michaels.

Case in point, Madonna Ciccone, the Pop icon, who in her immediate past life was Black American entertainer, Bessie Smith – she has the same gruff raunchy persona.  Prior to that, though not immediately before that life, her soul was then incarnate as Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

Vis-à-vis Madonna, her life is a completion of the agendum she set out to accomplish, in her immediate past life.  She thought that it sucked being Black and a woman in showbiz.

However, her immediate past life did give her an understanding of the way the world works.  So she decided to take the world by the balls, a ‘give-me-what’s-mine’ approach, as it were, this time around.

Madonna, as per her immediate past life has the same talent, same drive, “Now give me what’s rightfully mine!” Power to her!  END.

Dannie Cyrta was, unusually so, very nice to me.  She was saying, “Yes, yes Arvin.  This is perfect and is much improved.

“Everybody look at Arvin because this is the way it should be.  This is as close to perfect, as you can get, in the way your torso ought to be.”

*Imagine that – the Mormon princess, Dannie Cyrta, being remotely civil towards me.  She even feigned to pretend that I was not a strongly projecting phantom as she treated me back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s School.  END.

I remember the Nijinsky-like character, coming off the barre to look at me.  The other people who were behind me were peeping around to look at me.

I felt very open and joyous.  Mine was a really good, good feeling.

When we were doing the exercise and I was holding my torso, Dannie Cyrta and the rest of the people were discussing and saying, “This time he’s really ready to go out and perform and he’ll be okay.”

I felt that way too and I knew that I was going to be okay when I went out and performed.  My body was quite together.

I was prepared within myself to face an audience.  I felt really good for being in the studio.

*Dannie Cyrta’s energies were extremely unusual and contrary to what they were during Winnipeg days.  I felt there was a good feeling in this class.

What was really sad, though, was that Dannie’s behaviour had much to do with the fact that I was not Black but Caucasian.  In that sense, she truly was ‘the blind’ because she still did not realise that it was me.

To her, it was someone named Arvin but more importantly it was someone who was White.  More than that, Vaslav Nijinsky is a mature sage entity mate of Merlin’s and mine.  END.


A green-eyed tartar

In this the fifth dream, I saw a beautiful hairless White boy who seemed Tartan.  He was dark and handsome.

He also seemed to be a mélange of White, East Indian, Oriental and Black.  He could well have been one or any of all those ethnicities because he actually had a bronze or even Hispanic look.

He had a bronzed hue to him.  He was not however, for being so hued, extra-human.

Such that he seemed somewhat High-Yellow, he had taut smooth skin.  He was extremely good-looking.

He seemed like a male prostitute or a gigolo.  He was half-naked and teasingly aroused.

I was quite attracted to him.  I made a play for him.

He seemed to be in the lane up by ‘Aunt’ Edith Dean, outside by Beryl Babbin’s wall, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I made a play for him but he dismissively brushed me off.

He then moved off and went along his way.  I felt quite rejected and naked really.

Afterwards, I was thinking that perhaps I should not have made a play for this person.  Nonetheless, I had and I was not fulfilled in my desires.

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

*What’s really interesting, too, is that he was basically a younger version of the Tartar, green-eyed, ‘Arvin’.  So, in essence, though in the body during the dance class, I would see myself at a younger age.

At that time, however, I was outside of my younger-future-self’s body.  I was resoundingly rejected by him – that is precisely what I would have done at that age.

Later on, of course, I was taking class with the reincarnated, Vaslav Nijinsky.  A class it was which was being taught by Dannie Cyrta.

I shudder to think that in my next life, I will be a male prostitute, gigolo.  Then again, it would not have been the first life passed in the much-maligned profession of providing succor to the sexually-repressed and the sexually-obsessed.

Long after this dream, I have since learnt that my essence twin is now reincarnated.  He is male and was born during the second decade of the new millennium.

He is born to German, Japanese parents and lives in Germany.  Our overleaves are quite similar though he is a realist.

They are, in fact, rather writerly overleaves.  Too, one or both of his parents are artists; I believe that the mother has been a dancer and the father a portrait painter.

Perhaps, I was picking up on him in this dream.  If not, it may well be me in a near-future incarnation.


Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

Sandy Point, St. Kitts seen from Brimstone Hill Fortress.

Vaslav Nijinsky in costumed for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.


© Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved

Posted in African-Americans, Artists, Creative Genius, Dance dreams, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Longreads, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Reincarnation, Stage performers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Happy Canada Day!


New Flag

Oil on Canvas

Charles Pachter


Wheatland – Canadiana Suite – Oscar Peterson Trio 1964.

Piano:  Oscar Peterson

Bass:  Ray Brown

Drums: Ed Thigpen


Oyster Catcher 5_91 Robert Davidson 2009 Serigraph

Oyster Catcher


24 x 30 inches

Edition: 91

© 2009 Robert Davidson

Provenance: 5/91 Art Collection Arvin da Braga.


Happy 148th Canada – for more than half my life, I have had some truly remarkable, uplifting experiences while living here.  Too, I shared a great love with my Canadian-born task companion, Merlin.

Regrettably, I could neither find the dimensions nor year of creation for the masterful Charles Pachter flag which I would presume is an Oil on Canvas.

Happy Canada Day – my life experience has been immensely enriched for having remained focussed here in this great land.

© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, 20th century Canadian art, 20th century Canadian artists, 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, 21st century Canadian art, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Artists, Black creative artists, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Artists, Contemporary Canadian art, Contemporary Canadian Artists, First Nations Art, Haida Art, Jazz, Modern Art, Modern Artists, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Oil on canvas, Oil paintings, Painters, Painting, Printmakers, Serigraph, Stage performers, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The stingray: a fitting metaphor.

The racial predator's fantasy

These next dreams, the last one in particular, deftly illustrate the effects of the projections of the racial predator’s collective psyche.  My response to the attack was decidedly callous as I had been the intended target of this aggression. 

I find it rather interesting that of late there has been an increase of talk of terrorism with regards to racially predatory behaviour towards Blacks – prime example being the recent murder of 9 Blacks while at church in Charleston, South Carolina.  Conveniently, the perpetrator was not gunned down by the police as so often is the case for Black males during encounters with police in America. 

More interestingly, the murderer in having lived made the usual convenient explaining away of the racial predator’s attack less convenient.  After all, the young racial predator – I don’t know his name and can’t be bothered to find out – did admit to being racist and his attack being racially predatory.  Yet, voilà, there is no such thing as the racial predator. 

As is becoming more exquisitely evident, numbered are the days when one can simply deny then cruelly laugh one’s head off at the plight of racially preyed on Blacks then take to the beach somewhere in the Sun to laze and poach.  Alas, the racial predator’s idyll is fast being ruined as has occurred recently in Tunisia. 

How can one possibly expect to not have millennial karma exact its toll for what has been done with predatory zeal to the ‘inferior’ human fare the past half millennium?  What the racial predator has done to us will, before the end of this millennium, be done to them in kind.  Just as Rome, so too will the racial predator’s well-armed civilisation pass. 

Enough about those who, as though semi-feral jackals forever en chaleur, laugh their heads off at others’ expense… on to the business at hand.  These stark but beautiful dreams were lucidly engaged on Sunday, September 5, 1993 while I then lived in Toronto and spent much time in Washington D.C and Manhattan while juggling relationships with Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem and a roué Brazilian lawyer who tried stealing my art collection. 

Naturally, the Brazilian roué’s scheme did not turn out too well.  The Washington D. C. lawyer’s weakness for addictive sex proved, in the end, his undoing.  The dreams were recorded on audiocassette one hundred and forty-six and are to be found in volume XVII of the twenty-five volume dream opus. 

At the time, the Moon transited both Taurus and my twelfth house.  As ever, thank you for your support, dream like the shamanic lone wolf that you know me to be.  To hell with the madding crowd, these fool poseurs have no more ever had an original thought than a depraved corpulent Untouchable has ever eaten with both hands… 


A couple of queen anne armchairs

Isha da Braga and I were together in a living room, in this the first dream, and we were having a riotous fight; it was fireworks to the max!  We had been fighting over the decoration of the living room.

This was a sunken living room in which there were two antique travelling trunks.  Meanwhile, Isha had gone off and gotten all this furniture.  In particular, there were two ridiculously oversized Queen Anne armchairs.

They were tastefully upholstered in the finest quality plush black leather.  However, this must be stated, they were hideously oversized.  Along with this, there were some sofas.

Two parallel pathways were some 1.6 feet wide, if that much, making it virtually impossible to have negotiated the furniture in this place.  There were absolutely too many furniture.

Four columns tastefully partitioned the main seating area of the living room.  On the other side, it was more spacious as all that sat there were some armchairs.  This part of the space served as an opened up library area.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered the three walls; every last space totally crammed and weighed down by too many books.  On one of the selves, at arms’ level, there was a row of tchotchkes.  I found it rather healing being in this room.

Isha was dead set on furnishing it with her own furniture and nothing else.  The damn thing was so gaudy, really tacky.  Definitely not quality antiques, at all, save for two tall tables which had lovely spindly legs.

They were about 1.6 feet square on the top and 4.5 feet high; one of them had a shelf that was some six inches below the top of the gorgeously designed table.  There were things on the low shelf.

A dark wood, they were both exquisite and undeniably authentic antiques; quite beautiful they truly were.  Three-legged, they were splayed like a tripod’s legs but which never extended beyond the 1.6 feet parameters of the tabletop.

The shelved one was over in a corner of the room.  Next to it was a tall, beautiful, very polished chest of drawers; it was in the Danish Modern style.  On top or behind it was a really tacky-looking round mirror; juxtapose the fine antique piece, it really ruined its beauty.

I told Isha that it could stay because it was a genuinely fine piece of furniture.  Nonetheless, I impressed on her that there were too many seating pieces.

Besides which, they were in too-tight formations and every one of them was facing in towards each other.  That sort of placement left for rigid socialising, I assured her.  Stubbornly, she would have none of my criticism.

This was what she wanted and there would be no way that anyone would be able to ever distract her from her objective.  She knew best and again, somehow, she was convinced that familial iconography was the final arbiter.

She was older and, therefore, knew better.  Nonsense!  I fast got infuriated with her.  Just for being in her presence, I developed a really grinding headache.

There were several tchotchkes about the room that were mine.  As soon as I had seen them, I thrilled to the memories that they associatively triggered.  Many of them were from my days at 122 Mortimer Avenue.  They were so beautiful.

Yet, there she had two of the tackiest coffee tables besides the trunks.  They were her things; therefore, they were going to stay and were more stylish than anything that I could possibly have owned.

This so reflected how deeply impossible this woman is to live with.  Before losing my cool, I turned and walked away going up from the sunken living room.

On my return, Isha and I soon began arguing again about the decoration of the living room.  To get away from her, I had had to head over towards one of the bookcases.  I pointed out to her that there was no way to manoeuvre one’s way around these chairs to get to the bookcases.

There was simply no room.  What’s more, the damn chairs were too cumbersome to have to move each time that you wanted to get anywhere.  For the nth time, Isha let me know that she did not care what I thought, it was her place and it was fine by her.  Indeed.

Going over to the library, I noticed that there was one section beyond the columns where there was a wonderful white shelf.  On it was a beautiful pyramid that was part stone, part metal and part wood.  The parametres of it were in a soothing coral pink.

The base was golden while the sides were white and though looking like marble, it was not all stone in places.  In all, it was four inches high and broken at the apex.  As well, it was chipped down the side.  As soon as I saw it, I instantaneously remembered it.

I absently mentioned to her that I couldn’t believe that she had still had it about.  The object was so lovely.  This, however, seemed to have resonated with a past life of mine from somewhere.

Leaving the room, I came back into the living room proper where Isha argued about whether or not certain furniture should be moved.  Nonetheless, I emphatically told her that I wanted all the chairs moved from where they were.

Quite simply, there were too many pieces: three love seats, apart from the two large sofas, plus those ridiculously oversized Queen Anne armchairs.  They were too much in too small a space; an untenable and impractical proposition they were, I stated.  Though arranged in two distinct arrangements, it was still a bit of overkill.

Much too overcrowded – so that even if you had a dinner party, trying to get people to go sit afterwards and talk, the seating was too close and claustrophobic.

She got livid.  However, unable to admit that I had a point, she simply stormed out of the room.  Knowing that the thing was just not settled, I walked away from there.  The matter would have to be resolved in the waking state, in the first place, where much of this disturbance had been rooted.


Bette Davis in the role of Jane Hudson in What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? The classic horror film, which has just turned 50, is being released on Blu-ray

Bette Davis in the role of Jane Hudson in What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? The classic horror film, which has just turned 50, is being released on Blu-ray

In this the second dream, I got aboard a bus in a city which much reminded me of Toronto; more specifically, it seemed to be on Broadview Avenue.  This was very late at night, coming on to early morning, as daylight set ablaze the sky and hungrily gnawed away at nighttime.

The bus was, even for this time of day, very crowded.  One woman, who sat directly behind the bus driver, seemed like a bag lady who was about 55 years.

Soon, it dawned on me that she had long ago become completely dysfunctional.  With her was this huge rag doll that was over four feet tall.  A dirty over-brushed blonde wig was held in place by a series of Voodoo doll-like hat pins that glaringly stuck out from the head through the wig.

The doll was to her immediate right and she kept it standing upright on the seat.  For all intents and purposes, the doll’s silence is what had drawn my attention to them.  That was when I realised that it was not a child nor was she the most grounded of souls; it was most bizarre.

Seated there, she spoke to the doll as if it were alive; she was interacting as animatedly with it as one would a living child.  To say the least, the whole thing was unsettling.

A few stops later, a few guys came on who would have been no more than 16 to 17 years old.  They were quite rambunctious teenagers; they behaved in that goofy way that the recently hormonally-charged do.

One of them on seeing that the seat was partially free, as the child/doll stood on the back of it looking out the window, went and sat on the edge of the seat.  Chatting away with his buddies, he hadn’t a clue about the real deal here.  While they spoke, he laughed aloud at some lewd in-joke of theirs.

Losing controlled, he had forgotten that the child/doll was behind him so collapsed back into her/it.  He had lost spatial awareness of there being someone/something to his rear because, in essence, he was correct; there wasn’t anyone but a mere ragdoll.

The doll was dressed in a dainty floral-printed white dress that was in the moo-moo style.  When he leaned back into the ragdoll, before he could react, its owner/mother became deranged – this, after all, was not so far a stretch for her.

Screaming aloud, she became truly hysterical.  Grabbing the ragdoll, she was screaming and carrying on.  For Christ sakes, the damn thing was just a bloody ragdoll; nonetheless, she was going on like it was a child which had been crushed to death.

Certainly, it cannot be said of the awkward teenager that he had deliberately done so.  He was just oafishly cracking up; it was no doubt over some sexually-charged anecdote.

People who were standing beside me, as well they should have, giggled their heads off.  Finding it much too uncomfortable, I got off at the next stop.  Most of the other persons who got off, I suspect, also did so not because they had arrived at their desired stop.

Even as the bus rolled off, she was still being loud and hysterical.  Standing there, I was wondering what trauma had brought her to this point.

I also wondered if she was actually on the astral plane, already dead, yet reliving aspects of her immediate past life’s realities.  Too, I wondered if she was without the slightest clue that she had already passed on.  Finally, the whole scenario was all too bizarre.

Getting off, it was like being on Broadview Avenue just a couple of blocks north of the Danforth.  I had been on the east side of the north-south street – Broadview Avenue.

Meanwhile, the bus kept on its way.  Just then, I saw this exceptionally large grey cat with wonderful warm green eyes.  Somehow, I had the sense of it that it was feral.

There was something about it that said that it was not on the ball.  The oversized feline wouldn’t warm towards me.  After having run into ‘Baby Jane’ on the bus, I was not about to go pushing my luck with this creature!

I instinctively knew that were it to have meowed, it would reveal the fangs of what was definitely not a cat.  At the time, it had been down in the drain and so I reached down to pet it.  Though it purred, it did so growl while its eyes became glazed and glinted.

On moving, it was easily forty pounds large; it was humongous.  Its tail aggressively flashed as I reached in again to touch it.  With that, I righted myself and hurriedly moved on when I saw a regular-sized domesticated cat.

The domesticated one appeared to have come from behind the monstrous feline and looked more or less the same colour.  The regular-sized cat did, however, have a prettier coat than its monstrous counterpart.  Such a wonderful, beautiful creature it was.

The second cat couldn’t have been more than six months old.  This cat, however, had grey eyes.  On seeing it, I sweetly cooed to it,

“Hello, my dear…”

Even before I could touch it, it sultrily threw itself on the sidewalk while waiting to be caressed.  Of course, indulge I did.  The young feline had the warmest, most sonorous purr.

While it was exposed, the large semi-feral-looking forty-pounder came up on it and proceeded to lick it on the back of the head and neck where I had already petted.

Protectively, it feverishly washed the young cat’s body while the other growled as though it was about to attack the larger for washing its skin clean of my sent.

I found the whole thing a bit too much so an anthropomorphic projection which only left me feeling uncomfortable.  With that, I decided to take my leave of them both and hurried along on foot.  The whole thing was a bit on the bizarre side, thus, I took my leave of them.

Never did I look back; I knew that they were going to break out into a fight.  There were no doubts in my mind that the forty-pounder could easily maul and kill the young cat.


A messy kitchen sink

Next, in this the third dream, I was inside a house which felt like the one that I had been in earlier.  Now I was in the kitchen where it was dark, however, I could make out a sink overflowing with dirty dishes everywhere.

A small curtain was artfully parted in front of the window that sat above the sink.  Looking outdoors, it was coming on to dawn though still dark out.  There was a switch close to hand, to the right, as I stood before the sink.

The switch was besides the door which led out onto the back landing that led to the backyard.  Turning the switch several times, suggested that the light outside was blown, as nothing happened.

Seeing that it was still on the dark side out, I decided against going out there to explore.  Coming back inside from the landing, I started putting away the few dishes that were clean.

Just then, Isadore da Braga showed up and was being very friendly.  Straight off the bat, I did not want to be in his presence.  As he had to go outside to do something, he asked that I turn on the light.

I thought it strange that he would ask me to turn it on.  When I did, as he moved through the door, it did come on much to my surprise.  Slyly, Isadore looked back at me as if to say,

“You see, I know best, don’t I?”

Most uncanny; his energetic vibration was uncomfortable.  With that, I thought to go one better and simply willed myself out of the dream altogether.


A flying menacing stingray

I was down on a beach, in this the fourth dream, where it was bright out but not too sunny either.  A white-sanded beach, the water was sparkling blue and cold too.  On getting into the water there were swarms of tourists there, who did their best proprietary thing, staring me down in a nasty bit of WST – waking state transference.

They seemed more so European rather than North Americans.  While swimming in the water, I experienced a degree of excellence.  I was able to move in the water without the use of my limbs.

Indeed, I was flying in the water – much as I had been swimming in the air doing the sidestroke in the dream in the ‘A’ section of today’s dreams.

As though I were high in the air in flight, there were even times when I submerged my head completely beneath the water’s surface and was able to propel myself at will at great speeds.

I moved as though a frisky adolescent dolphin swimming through the water; it was very thrilling an experience.  The shore where all the tourists were, they were by now looking on at me with some fascination, was always to the left.

At no point was I ever more than four feet out to sea.  The water was unbelievably clear and pristine.  As I flew beneath the surface, I shifted onto my right side as though doing the sidestroke.  Here too, I did not have to use my limbs to propel my fast-moving body.  My movement was all affected by my focussed will.

Just below the surface, I looked out to shore and watched the fascinated tourists; they were all, for the most part, standing up and observing me.  The tourists drifted by in a slight warped blur; this was affected by peering through one medium into the commonality of the comparably dehydrated medium of terrestrial life.

*None of the symbolism of this dream was lost on me.  For being in their rigid compartmentalised mindsets, they were unable to experience life pandimensionally, limitlessly.

I deflected their racist WST by rising to a higher plane of consciousness.  Thus, I demonstrated the beauty of the mind when free of their sphinctered, perpetually projected, predatory darkness.

I was being very shamanic here.  There was nothing in this that had anything to do with showing off.  Rather, with such a large audience, I couldn’t resist uplifting their minds to seeing things beyond the confines of their conceited notions that their perceptions are the only valid ones; theirs, indeed, are the only ones.  Full stop.

At one point, I noticed about five feet back of my toes was an enormous black stingray.  Immediately, I flew clear of the water and veered off to the left while heading for shore.

Into the bed of blackened kelp which was suspended in the breaking waves, I then touched down.  Leaping clear of it, I then ran up the shoreline.

As can be expected, there were some diehard tourists who could not see beyond their enculturated perceptions; they saw this as so much entertainment and laughed their heads off.

While I ran up the shoreline, the tourists were now being very noisy.  The stingray had leapt clear of the water and headed ashore.  Like me, the stingray was now effortlessly flying through the air.

Black with a white underside and a wingspan easily in excess of seven feet wide, the stingray looked unmistakably sentient.  Its tail, interestingly, was always erect becoming a drag-creating rudder as it cruised through the air at great speeds.

Staying my ground at the last minute, I threw myself clear of it and onto the sand to escape it.  The ray really did look like a miniature stealth bomber.

While in the sand, I had looked up making contact with its probing eyes; they were intense black-within-black orbs that one could really feel.  Quite scary, in fact, were they.

From the air, it swooped down onto a collection of small kids.  They were up on the beach plateau and playing in the sand.  Moving through the air, it really did look like some scale model of an EHV – Extra-Human Vehicle aka UFO.

There were three kids playing there on their knees.  Before we knew what, it landed on the child whose back was turned to it and began mauling the child.  Protesting this grotesque nightmare having descended onto the idyllic scene, screams rang through the air.

As it wrung life itself out of the tiny boy’s body, the giant stingray violently jerked its body from side to side.  Its movements were exactly like those of a great white shark when feeding.  Then again, rays are members of the shark family.

As the giant menacing stingray fed on the child, you could even hear the cracking of the child’s tiny bones.  Obviously, there was blood and gore everywhere.  The split tail excitedly quivered as it fed.

*Needless to say there was much symbolism here.  Was this killer stingray the product of their collective ‘blinded by hate’ psyche being projected onto me?

The stingray had been gaining on me and clearly about to attack.  Had they unwittingly unleashed something that only ultimately backfired on them?

Since I was not acting out of fear but of self-preservation, not sensing fearfulness in me, the creature didn’t attack me.  Instead, it attacked the most vulnerable aspect of the White racially predatory, fear-based collective psyche: their innocent unprotected offspring.

Of course, one has to state here that the earlier dreams of chaos in the home between Isha and me are connected to what unfolded here.  Much of the racially predatory shrapnel that one experiences during the course of the day, in this society, leads to inordinate tensions in home life.

Naturally, one almost never discusses these innumerable instances of being racially preyed on.  There is too much emotional tumult involved in revisiting it.  As a result, one ends up with pent up volatile energies being acted out in the home because naturally when one has no label for a subject, it quite effectively does not exist and therefore cannot be addressed.

Alas, the racial predator does exist and the fact that the racial predator has no intentions of ever acknowledging his existence is no reason not to label the subject as such.  For not labelling the racial predator as such, one has no defence against the subject and therefore one ends up in a vicious cycle whereby one preys on the very persons who are supposed to be one’s support system.  END.

The attack was truly horrific.  While feasting on the young boy, this creature was having itself quite the time of it.  An energy which ultimately had been directed not at the child but onto me, I suspect.

As the tourists descended on the scene to try and beat off the creature, I leapt into the air in flight yet again.  This time, I rose into the air a bit higher than before.  Surveying the water, I then dove down deep into it and continued flying through the water.

I had been there to enjoy myself and I had no intentions of letting their projected fearful paradigms mar my being able to enjoy the abandonment of spirit that I had been exploring.

Fully submerged in the water, I flew on at even greater speeds and left the unfortunate dross behind me.  From beneath the dark kelp began appearing a large eel that was thick-bodied, blackish-brown and easily nine feet long.

Looking more like a boa constrictor confidently cruising, he began gaining on me.  Speeding up my vibration, I flew clear of the water and dramatically soared high into the air.  Next, I started flying away at incredible speeds.

Travelling towards the light of a beautifully warming Sol, I closed my lids and drank in its beautifully healing energies.  On opening my lids, I inadvertently awoke.


Photo/Art:  Black Man in America

28 x 32 inches

Edition: 1200

© Laurie Cooper.

2 Queen Anne armchairs

Bette Davis & doll – What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? 1962

Flying Stingray


© Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Animals, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Flying dreams, Longreads, Photography, Shamanism | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Oh my god, Merlin!

A Studios Condo photo

Sometimes the most remarkable dreams prove not to be the operatic ones that took more than an hour to bring forth on awaking and audio-cassette recording the odyssey just lived on the astral plane.  This next dream, of Merlin and me, was brief; yet, it proved one of the most rhapsodic dreams had of Merlin. 

At the time, I was then living here in Toronto and was seeing both Daryll Newcombe and Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem whose Michael Overleaves are now to be found in the Michael Overleaves Appendix page.  Of course, I would later learn that not only are they both sages but they happen also to be sage entity mates of mine. 

To say the least, they both ever felt like kindred spirit; you just know with entity and cadre mates.  One has the sense of the other person that they are family; there is a bond which one cannot deny.  Both passionate, they were however not given to drama and frankly weren’t just plain crazy which is time-wasting I never tolerate. 

In any event, yesterday while I took photos for my newly begun Instagram page: www.instagram.com/arvin_da_brgha I would look west along Richmond from University Avenue and see there a building which I had dreamt of while then living in New York City in the early 1980s and hadn’t a clue in which city it was.  Of course, the condo is the Studio2 which I rather like. 

Naturally, in the dreamtime as it hadn’t yet been brought forth from the creative spirits of the architects involved, it was a colossal affair which was easily in excess of 100 storeys and was covered in ivy and with trees everywhere on every available balcony. 

More than that, the dream of Merlin and me occurred on Wednesday, September 15, 1993.  At the time, the Moon then transited both Virgo and my fourth house wherein is posited my Pluto – sitting as it does on the cusp of the IC and forming that rather complex grand mutable square with retrograde Chiron, Mars and Luna. 

Beyond all that, the dream was audiocassette-recorded on tape 147 and to be found in volume XVII of the XXV volume dream opus.  Sweet dreams as ever and may you live each moment just as gloriously enraptured as I was yesterday as the overture to the National Ballet of Canada’s Sleeping Beauty began and the most lucid of flying dreams was begun. 



I had been travelling through the streets of a city, at nighttime, which seemed like New York City.  I knew that, real soon, I had to get home.

En route there, I passed a large car that was so immensely beautiful.  The look suggested that it was a Rolls Royce phantom.

The luxury car was parked in an island in the centre of the conjunction of several streets.  There was a small car-park in the centre which is where the lone car, a definite Rolls Royce phantom, was parked.

Though the look could have seemed Parisian, I knew that this was more so New York City.  Behind the large car, which was sloped in the back, a small antique white car pulled up and parked.

A convertible sports coupe, its top was presently up.  Clearly, for display purposes, they were parked there.

Across from them was a building in the middle of the roadways where the streets converged.  It was a V-shaped building like the flat-iron building in New York City.

Apart from that, I then went indoors after having walked along the street past three cafés – one of which was rather upscale.  The place was rather expensive and on the intimidating side, although, I knew for a fact that I lived here on this road above the cafés.

Someone had made comment about my living well beyond my means and acting as though Merlin and I were still together.  I could not have cared less.  This was not the case at all.  I simply wanted to live in comfortable surroundings.

I told them as much and to shove off.  When going up the steps to the apartment, the stairs up were exceptionally steep and narrow as all hell too.  This aspect did so remind me of being in Paris.  Incidentally, the railings on the way up were green.

When climbing onto the banisters, I enjoyed myself though it was all very precarious.  When I got up to the top of the steps, I realised that there was still someone inside.

I thought at the time that Merlin was already long gone from the place.  When I got in, I noticed that there were some blue-aquamarine clothes on the bed which definitely were Merlin’s.  What’s more, he had recently taken them off.

On first entering the apartment, I looked around and Merlin was there and off to my immediate left.  Goodness, it was so good to see him, I thought, ‘Oh my god!  Merlin!’

I laughed aloud then screamed with delight.

Meanwhile, he was standing on his left leg and crouched over while taking off the other of his dark brown socks.  Merlin here looked a little older than when I last knew him.

What was striking, however, was that the skin on his face was very loose as though he had lost a great deal of weight.  He had never said anything to me; rather, he affectionately nodded at me with his eyes warmly smiling into me.

Nonetheless, it was really good to see him.  As I had not been expecting to see him, I became instantaneously overwhelmed with emotions.

As I stood there liquidly bleeding my very soul into his, the whole room instantaneously seemed to come alive.  During that interlude of soul-to-soul communion with Merlin, I fell in love all over again.

This process was akin to the sheer rapture which I experienced with Merlin while we flew side-by-side.  Of course, in that dream we were in the standing position while flying into the light.  The dream was, at that time, very lucid an astral plane encounter.

So intense was this experience that I abruptly awoke.  Merlin simply glowed as I bled him my soul’s light.  All things being mutual, Merlin in kind did the same.


Photo: Studio Condos, Toronto, 2015

Arvin and Merlin at a Cabbagetown dinner party 1985.


© 2015 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Astral plane habitué, Dreams, Dreams of Merlin, Dreams of Task Companion, Essence Contact in Dreams, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Photography | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment