Anointed by Merlin; A Dream Like No Other.

 

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As the Moon progressed through the early degrees of Gemini, transiting my first house, I would on taking to bed, slip up past the folds of restfulness.  There, I would awaken into the most lucid dream experiences had in long ages.  It was Saturday, July 25, 1992 – long after Merlin’s passing.  

Regardless your combination, there is no greater gift to receive than the love of another to whom one has chosen to completely give of self.  There is no greater validation of love’s superiority than to experience love from another, who has transitioned onto the next octave in that soul’s maturation, in a lucidly awakened dream as this shared between Merlin and me. 

We have all loved and been loved and may you dear dreamer, by opening yourself up, experience your own moments of rapture as I did in this rhapsodic astral plane encounter with the one, the man, the elfin, the fuck-all fabulous, the ganja-smoking, groovy shaman from Babylon, Merlin! 

The mark of a truly great love affair is the fruit it bears… dreams. 

Sweet dreams you, I love you more!

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The first dream was set, at nighttime, in Sandy Point, St. Kitts where I had spent my childhood.  I was playing in the street, well past midnight, with three local youths.  All Rastafarians, too, they were all in their twenties.  I was my present age – thirty-one.  They were younger.  Everything about them was very real.  There was a direct focussed tenor to their gaze; they looked into you.  I felt very edgy with all this probity.

We had been acrobatically playing, in the street in front of the church, in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  Of course, that same church Harella had built twenty-two years prior in the waking state.  I tried not to outshine them, with my leaping tumbles, for fear of escalating the tension in the air.  There was an edge to our interactions.  It was a tension born of my having been so long off-island and their being suspicious, I thought, of my outré sexuality.  

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Just then, I noticed a light streaking across the star-punctured sky.  In a bid to diffuse the tension between us, I drew their attention to it.  However, I soon noticed that its progress was unusual.  There was also something distinctly different about this light.  It caused me to recall similar icons in dreams past – each had presaged rather momentous visions.  Like all those before it, this streaking light seemed a silent observant probe.  Immediately, I became open to what this comet-like streaking star could later reveal.

I began to explain to the youngest Rastafarian who was an impish, sexually-dynamic beauty – he was not the least bit self-conscious of his missing front teeth – that it was no doubt a very high geostationary satellite that had bombed and was now crashing to Earth.  Further, I speculated that it was no doubt an orbiting space shuttle presently reflecting Sol’s intense light.  As I spoke, I knew that I did not really believe either explanation but I thought that the ideas were a good way to ameliorate my position in the dynamic.  The ruse failed to have done the trick.  On returning my attention to the group, I was sent bolting – the leader was menacingly lunging through the air towards me, with a raptor’s ease, in eager flight.  

 

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Soon I also was in flight being chased through the streets of a Sandy Point, St. Kitts which quickly morphed and shifted becoming, more and more populous, like parts of old Havana.  I was not certain which city this was but I was definitely still in the Caribbean.  

I managed to escape into a house where I very energetically fought off their advance, securing the locks to the front door, thereby shutting them out.  I climbed up the narrow and steep flight of stairs, in near-darkness, to the safety of the second storey.  Winded and more enraged than stunned, at their behaviour, I took the time to gather my breath.  I briefly visited with my aunt Pilar do Aragão† and Pandora – the latter whom Merlin favoured the most of my siblings.  They were unaware of the tumult that I had just endured.  

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I took refuge in the darkened front of the house’s second storey.  Next I found myself, in one of those rare dream moments, actually falling asleep whilst lucidly dreaming.  I nodded… on recovering, I found that I had come to in an apartment.  It was one more opulent than the one in which I had just grown suddenly drowsy.  On a red antique chaise longue, in the most beautifully dark, wood-panelled, high-ceilinged digs that I had ever seen, I was now seated.  Across the room was an open door that led out to a veranda.  

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A dark awning provided ample shade and allowed just the cool tropical breezes to laze in satiating the spirit.  To have awakened into this new dreamspace had left my awareness more sensitised… more absorbing.  The dream became more lucid and any sense of time dissolved.  This left every moment infused with a sense of mysticism – magic even.  It definitely felt like the West Indies here, perhaps, old-money Haïti or Guadeloupe if not Cuba.

Slowly, I drank in every detail of the stately furnished room.  There were, on both walls to my left and right, floor-to-ceiling shelves which were not untidily crammed with old leather-bound volumes – some red, some brown, most were black.  Slowly, from where I reclined, I pinpointed my vision to check the titles of some of the books.  Thus I was able to see and read them, as intimately, as if I had gotten up and gone to stand before them closely peering.  They were mostly ancient volumes.  However, the script was not vaguely recognisable like any of the innumerable ones on the other, more familiar side of the dreamtime.

My spirit soared, as I felt fully relaxed, in this most bucolic of dreams.  Strangely, though not unusual for the realm of the dreamtime, I felt that for having looked at these laden bookshelves my mind had absorbed the library’s voluminous wealth.  Just then there was movement, to my right, across the room.  I saw a cat that looked much like Whoopi.  It appeared from behind one of three sofas, skulking towards another, situated opposite across the room.

Each sofa, like the chaise longue on which I reclined, had beside it a small round table.  Each table was covered in either rich, dark earthy damask or actual rugs in deep though muted red.  I was immediately reminded of the round table, across which sat the sibylline woman from Merlin and I, in the dreams of September 4, 1988.  I sat up calling her name,

“Whoopi!  Whoopi!” at which moment, the cat shimmered and became Julio – our black cat at 20 Amelia Street in Cabbagetown who, like Whitney before him, was killed in a hit-and-run as he ran across Amelia Street on New Year’s Eve, 1987.  As I watched the cat disappear behind one of the three sofas, which accompanied my chaise longue, my mouth froze open in amazement.  Whilst I assimilated that one and thought to myself that this certainly was a most unusual and lucid dream, there was utter stillness.

The cat’s metamorphosis had discernibly shifted the vibration of the dream.  Now time seemed considerably measured as compared to its usual frenetic rhythm.  The door in the far right corner then opened… into the room walked Merlin.  

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*I can’t here relay the rapture I felt on seeing him but the ecstatic descriptive of dream audio-cassette recording, for that day, comes fairly close.  END.

Overwhelmed with emotion, my body quivered throughout.  I tried to rouse from my reclining position.  My arms outstretched to him, I greeted him squealing with delight.  He stood, just in the entrance, raising his brows with the left familiarly arched higher.  Staying me with the index and middle fingers of his raised right hand,

“No, don’t get up…” I heard Merlin direct me with the quiet familiarity that our intimacy knew.

This directive I telepathically experienced as though we were squinging up in bed, in the dark, at 20 Amelia Street in Toronto’s Cabbagetown.  Our souls tickled, at such times, as we listened to some glorious thunderstorm drowning out the dog days of a too-hot-and-humid, Toronto summer.  I obliged, sitting upright on the edge of the plush chaise longue, for the first time placing my feet on the beautifully designed and predominantly red rug.  His face warmed towards me in a smile.

At once my mind expanded, simultaneously processing on multiple levels, becoming even more awakened.  Rapture… pure rapture – I was enthralled.  Here again, Merlin wore all the evolved energies that he had in that first dream encounter – that dream, of course, set in a Pacific west coast rainforest that was not unlike Vancouver Island’s Cathedral Grove in July 1978.  A dream, of course, which occurred four years before I would physically meet him in the waking state.

Slowly, he walked the short distance of the room towards me.  A breeze coming from the veranda not only cooled the place but it shifted the ambiance and made the place grow dimmer.  The dimness highlighted the definite soft yellow glow that girdled his entire form.  I sat there thinking,  

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‘My god, I can actually see your aura Merlin.’

He smiled and I was reminded that everything that I thought was instantly being telepathically shared.  I was passive… moreover I was ripened as though I had just experienced an Alfred Brendel recital.  I felt so lightheaded that I firmly pressed down both my palms, into the chaise longue’s plush red velvet, bracing myself.  Merlin came and stood before me.  He was casually dressed in loose, earthen woollen clothing.  A cloak he wore stylishly draped about his narrow shoulders with its cowl removed.

As I looked up into his face, besotted by the beauty of his soul’s magic, he slowly arched his left brow in the way he had always affected when he wanted to be intimate.  Merlin’s magical expression was exactly as it was, that gibbous-Moon October night, when we met in Babylon – which now for him was truly a lifetime removed.  My face liquidly melted away in a smile.  I was warmed by the knowledge that I was dreaming and that here before me was a man, Merlin, with whom I had shared such wonderful fortune. He had shared his grace, along with his beauty and his intellect, in the most magical combination with me.

As we made eye contact, still never having said a word, he slowly knelt into the bay of my open legs.  Enthralled, my eyes slowly and unflinchingly shifted to look down into his as now he knelt before me.  He wore his glasses, his beard cropped close, his hair styled in a leonine full-bodied mane.  Moreover, I was moved by just how much this pose reflected the last night we had spent together – November 17, 1989.  With an acuity rarely achieved in the waking state, my mind lucidly assimilated this rapturous encounter.

Here before me knelt Merlin.  Merlin was the very embodiment of wholesome health, healing my spirit, releasing me from so much of the pain that I had endured.  Like that last night of his life, before dying of AIDS, I was overcome with emotion.  However, owing to the healing that this moment affected, now I wanted to melt in tears of joy.  More than that, the moment’s poignancy rose from how uncannily it mirrored our final encounter.

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About his slender long neck, Merlin wore a necklace of thick, copper-coloured coil that looked not the least bit malleable.  The coil was half an inch in diameter and set with beautiful large crystals of various colours.  The coil moved through each stone’s centre and each stone was deeply etched with golden hieroglyphs.  Although Mayan hieroglyphs bore the closest resemblance, the inscriptions resembled none in this planet’s long history.

The effect of the bronze-coloured coil and crystals was grounding.  The crystals gave off a low rumbling hum that was felt.  It was akin to the definite effect of my pyramid, in the waking state, but easily thrice as intense.  There were seven crystals in all.  Principally, there was the large, smoky rough-hued quartz set at the bottom of the circular coil.  

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Its design slowly shifted from within but its glow seemingly originating elsewhere.  It was huge and by far the most powerful.  One quarter the way around the circle, which was duplicated on the opposite side, there were three crystals.  The crystal in the middle was like nothing imaginable in the waking state.  It was a coppery-bronzed colour with hints of blue-lapis lazuli dust throughout which actually glistened.  

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With any slight movement, the dust shifted becoming copper-coloured.  When the colour shifted, I experienced a correspondingly subtle shift in the serenity that I felt.  The unusual central crystal was flanked by two small and perfectly clear crystals.  They were more radiant and powerful than any multiple-carat diamond yet found in the waking state.

It was actually difficult to sustain my focus on their exquisite beauty overlong.  They were dynamic and seemingly made of the heaviest element imaginable.  I was so pleased to see Merlin.  The necklace he wore was like a grounding conductor.  Seemingly, in order to manifest from his dimension to this dimensional dreamspace, he needed the energies of the crystals to join me.

He wore an argyle sweater that was not unlike one of the pastel ones I had bought him one Christmas.  This one though was an earthy brown which he had, years earlier, interestingly claimed to have preferred.  He effortlessly removed the crystal necklace placing it at my feet.  The humming abruptly ceased.  The crystals’ effect immediately shifted.  I actually felt a cool energy, from the crystals, buzz through my entire body travelling from my feet to the crown of my head.

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I watched as he detached the different crystals and made sure to leave the central one on the coil.  Somehow, he was able to remove the six crystals from the coil though the coil remained a perfectly whole circle.  As he kept placing the crystals, in different circular formations at my feet, he kept looking up at me with the warmest direct stare.  Each formation affected a different temporal lobe and corresponding area of my body.

I was experiencing crystals with a potency that never before had I known in the waking state.  I felt splayed by the experience.  There were times that I felt as though my body and head were being stretched – elastically elongated with an ease nowhere else possible except the astral plane in the dreamtime.  I thought then how absolutely incredible this man Merlin was – how truly fortunate I was to have met him, to have known him, to love him.

The lights noticeably further dimmed in the room.  Next, the central large crystal grew black changing into the most unusual design.  There had been an incredible energetic drain from me – energy which I suppose was collected in the now-transformed crystal which had remained about the coil.  

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From his left breast pocket, Merlin retrieved a little black pouch.  As he looked down at it, I said to him,

“Oh my god Merlin, you are so beautiful…”

I knew that I was dreaming and I was thinking at the time,

‘…I will never be able to meet you, again.  I’ll never see you again.  You’ll never be that perfect mélange of bloodlines that created the magic that was your every idiosyncrasy.’

He looked up and smiled making me again realise that everything, we said without speaking, was so very clearly, readily known to the other.

As he opened the little black pouch, my lips trembled.  I looked at those utterly gentle fingers that, I thought in passing, were now ashes in the earth at Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery,

‘Oh yes… those fingers, those beautiful delicate fingers.

‘Oh my god, yes…’ I simultaneously thought,

‘…These fingers, I will never see; they’ll never touch me again in the waking state – they’ll never exist again.’

Then, as if to eclipse my melancholy, he gently took my right hand in his.  Merlin’s still-sensual hands purposefully began pouring the little, black pouch’s contents into mine.  The touch of him was as intimate and as gentle, an evocative memory, as absent waves heard distantly lapping ashore on the beach in Pump Bay during childhood.  How, as in the still of the night, my mind would race wondering of what new vistas I was yet to dream – when I was a child in St. Kitts.

All along, I had restrained the desire to touch him for he seemed so much more evolved.  Truth be told, I was afraid that to physically reach out to touch him would only dissolve the dream.  Naturally, for becoming emotionally overwhelmed, the fear was that I would undoubtedly whiteout.  However, his touch was so real and so very familiar that I let out a heavy familiar sigh.

Into my palm spilled a dozen, perhaps more, of the most beautiful tiny crystals that were quite powerful.  The touch of them actually made my mind further expand.  My head seemed to contort, once again, with an élan that matched the lightning speed with which I assimilated the intense energies from the clutch of crystals into me.

They were more leaden, easily by ten times, than their small size betrayed.  They glowed and they were decidedly hypnotic.  They emitted a sense of music that was more experienced than heard.  In spite of the fact that they glowed, I brushed aside the beauty of them and chose instead the real magic.  I took his free hand with mine and began holding it, rubbing it, squeezing it.

Even more intently, I looked overjoyed into his arrestingly soulful eyes.  I began groaning, moaning, I was overcome with intense emotion.  This was, by far, the most alive and most lucid dream with Merlin since his passing some three years ago.  I wanted more… I wanted no moment of this great intimacy to stop.

I asked him to remove his glasses so that I could really look at his eyes.  He obliged and when he removed them his eyes weren’t their smoky grey-hazel-faded blue.  They were brown, in fact, but they were his eyes and I thought, ‘My god, you’ve got brown eyes,’ to which he slightly blushed.

He wore a beard; it was the usual bushy affair.  His lips were so moist, I said, “My darling, kiss me.”

Taking the lead, as I had when we met, I held the bottom of his ticklish beard and reached up his face to mine as I bent down.  We kissed each other.  It readily became a wonderfully slow and timeless dance high up our entwined greenhouses.  My spirits soared to even greater heights.  It was the greatest pleasure.

It was quite simply a sensory whiteout.  We did not use tongue.  We just kissed each other on the mouth.  Throughout, until it was no longer possible, our eyes remained perfectly glued to each other’s.  I turned my head to the right to kiss him, again.  It was a soft lingering kiss; it was a kiss of complete surrender in which was communicated so much.

As though he and I were two leviathan creatures swimming together in a sensual medium of liquid blue light, our intimacy was pure movement.  This aqueous light medium was immensely heavy and inhibited our progression to a slow-motioned crawl.  Progressing playfully, as though so many nanoseconds were deleted from each time-stretched moment, we effortlessly danced alone.  We were together and enraptured in a universe just for two – Merlin and me.

It was such great pleasure that, in its shared intimacy, it reflected the idiosyncrasies that we had known so well.  It was a continuation of the dance we familiarly had always intimately known.  It was such incredible intimacy that when the kiss was concluded the dream dissolved…

I sighed, on a deep sustained breath, besotted with the beauty of Merlin’s spirit.  This was a most rare dream, a most soulful of dreams, with the dream magus.   The sound of my breath was so loud that I actually felt the weight of my high-dreamer self as I crashed back into my body from, being astral-projected, high up the astral plane.

I felt fatigued, I felt spent, as is customary with such dream travel.  Whilst remaining still, I kept my lids shut.  Focussing on my weary breath, I allowed myself to drift upwards again.  This time, I melted into true sleep where I could rest and recoup my energies.  I awoke, about an hour later, in the nearly dark room of my tiny Queen Street West apartment in Toronto.  Rested, I was truly rejuvenated after all that astral projection in the first sleep cycle.

As is customary with reparatory sleep, there were no dreams recalled of the second sleep cycle.  I cried…  I cried for joy.  The realness of Merlin was so intense that after crying, for the first time since his passing, I grew aroused after dream contact.  I savoured the beauty of this man, Merlin, my elfin-dream magus.

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Pulling the black, satin blindfold back over my eyes, I slipped onto my stomach between the red satin bedding.  Tightly holding on to a pillow, my left cheek pressed into it and the bedding drawn up over my head, I withdrew into a sweat lodge where I could continue communing with Merlin’s very soul.  

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My right knee drawn up, I allowed my rock-hard cock to ride up against the bedding and away from my tummy.  Slowly, kneadingly, I ground my winding pelvis into the luxury of the bedding.  Ploughing away, beyond its wet folds, I massaged my lusty thoughts deep and high up into the magical greenhouse.  Whispering his name, my lips, my abs and body quivered.

From time to time, I managed my way up onto my toes.  This allowed the exquisite play of cock and bedding to draw out greater pleasure.  My abs ached.  Whilst sweat sheened throughout my shivering body, I shuddered as the inside of my thighs violently tremoured.  Merlin still knew how to work his magic on me.

Losing myself, my breath collapsed in repeated noisy, exhausted, shuddered grunts and groans.  I whispered his name proclaiming my love to that point.  In no other way could I have celebrated this truly profound astral plane encounter with Merlin in the dreamtime.  As ever, hands-free auto-eroticism resulted in a most profuse and exquisitely pleasurable orgasm.

So richly deserving was I to have lost myself this way – beyond the usual daily auto-erotic ritual.  I needed to savour this momentous dream encounter by making a solemn ritual of pleasurable thanksgiving.  I had been moved anew by Merlin’s magic.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support.  Plié, push off and start flying whether awake or dreaming cause this dance called life is the most goddamn beautiful dream.  I love you more.  

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© 2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

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Dreamquest: Past Life As Welsh Warrior-King, Merlin (female) also Present.

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The dream was the first that day and occurred in the B sleep cycle, on Thursday, June 25, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my eleventh house.  As with all past life dreams, this was inordinately lucid, all my senses were piqued.  Of course, there was the sense of being locked in – not being able to change the outcome of events as they unfolded.  

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A marvellous hall at nighttime where I was with a companion progressing through the place.  I don’t quite know who it was that accompanied me.  Then I wandered off and was with myself.  I rather relished having done so.  On the right side of the wall, it was rather dark and dimly lit by candlelight or torch flames.  There were all these books everywhere.  They were of brown-covered, time-faded colours.  They were in the fantasy genre.

Immediately, I was intrigued and got excited when recognising some as the same ones that I had bought before.  Sadly, I had never gotten around to reading them.  Interest peaked in me because I wanted to see what the covers of the books were like.  As a matter of fact, one of the books was opened.  Almost every one of them was opened.

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Somebody had been reading them but hadn’t finished doing so.  Whoever had been reading these books would, as a matter of fact, then turn them upside down on the ledge of the fragile-looking bookcase.  Each night before going to sleep, this was the habit which the reader employed with the books.  I progressed down the length of the shelf leisurely perusing their covers.

There was one there which stood out and immediately appealed to me.  It was brown-covered with a young, handsome man on it.  Another had a man with a dragon in the image.  It was in the fantasy genre and terribly scorpionic in tenure.  Its sensibilities were terribly medieval.  As I kept walking along, I came to this one image on one of the walls.  It was of a very large tapestry.  Immediately on seeing it, I stopped dead in my tracks because it was readily recognisable.

It was something for which every residual resonance harked back to a former lifetime.  It was a stunning tapestry.  It was, as a matter of fact, quite large.  On the bottom of it, there was this writing in red that was very Gothic.  Arcane writing it was.  Though it seemed to be in Latin, I was more so of the impression that it was in arcane Welsh.  There were lots of Ws in the very long words.

I tried my best to read and interpret what it was saying but couldn’t quite make it out.  It did have something to do with a particular event which was depicted as having occurred in the year 1209 or earlier.  The writing was at the base of a stump in the tapestry.  It sat there, a stone outpost that appeared on closer scrutiny, more so like a crypt.  Whilst facing the tapestry, I looked at it and keenly recorded every lush detail of the very real experience.

The head was of this very princely man who was bearded and luminously silver-haired.  He wore a long, flowing, white robe and as one looked at the wall, which was on my right, so too was the tapestry’s actions in that direction.  As he lay there on this large, stone slab, the head of the man was plainly visible.  His head was to the left of the tapestry.  The robe that he wore came and hung over the edge of the stone slab.

The fabric beautifully cascaded over the edge and down to the floor.  It was a wonderful, beautiful, shiny, white robe.  The threads in the tapestry were such that the light striking it, from the room, caught and imbued it with a handsome glow.  There was a woman there in the hallway, where the tapestry hung, who was dressed in medieval garb.  Her arm outstretched, she was looking up with great yearning.  The left arm on her heart, the right stretched up over the head of the prostrate ruler.

Supplicating the gods as it were, she was arched backwards.  She was mourning.  Her mouth torn-open birthed her bloody pain.  She was wailing.  All of this left one feeling such gravity at the sad state of affairs.  Behind her was a large, brawny, warrior-like man.  Basically, her arm was outstretched to block him off.  He carried an upraised sword.  He wore gold chain-mail.  Experiencing this tapestry was very painful.  I just couldn’t bring myself to look at the face of the prostrate ruler.  Immediately, as I looked away, I was instantaneously made aware that I was participating in the action being depicted in the tapestry.

I was caught up in a re-enactment of the tapestry.  Rather, it was a reanimation such that I was reliving the events depicted in the tapestry.  There I was, of all things, lying on the slab.  I was, in fact, the princely leader.  As I reclined there, I immediately became familiar with the body.  Large, mid-aged and overweight, I immediately became fully synchronised with the princely body’s every nuance.  Also, I was instantaneously reminded of that large body which I had ensouled in that dream recall of that past life in Roman times.  In that past life dream, I was murdered at the baths by my very shrewd wife’s centurion guard-cum-starfucker-stud agent.

In between feigning wailing at my loss, the woman was now leaning over me and whispering to me.  Straight away, I realised what was afoot.  I was not yet dead and she knew it too.  We were trying to affect a faux death.  This is why I was covered in all that heavy material which would easily disguise my shallow breathing.  I was supposed to be faking being dead.  Lying there, there was a commotion outside the large, heavy, wooden doors to the damp, empty room in a stone, fortress-like dwelling.  Where it was seemingly at nighttime, there was a great deal of light coming through the high-placed windows about the room.

The man outside the door, who had been shouting in a violent display of temper, barged in and commandingly approached the cold slab on which I laid.  I remained catatonic truly overcome with fear.  He was a very large-bodied, brawny, hirsute study of Sagittarian, Martian energies.  There was a dense concentration of warrior-spirited drive in his body.  On his waist he carried his sword and was one impatient, disgruntled soul.  He wore a chainmail suit of dull gold or bronze.  When he walked there was all this noisy clanking from his armour, chainmail and sword.

He was bearded and much younger than I.  He was long-haired, handsome, like a fierce warrior, with jet-black, glossy hair.  His mouth was youthful, full and beautiful.  His was the intensity of unbridled fearlessness and sheer, brutish force.  He was cool and deadly.  On seeing him, I was immediately filled with fear.  My pulse uncontrollably raced.  All I wanted to do was get up and bolt.  However, I could not have.  Approaching, he began talking to the woman in this strange, archaic, Aryan tongue.  Basically, he was refuting the news that I had died.  In essence he was saying, “He isn’t dead.  Are you trying to fool me?”

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He had the most powerful, booming voice whose echo slapped the damp chill out of the room.

“Look at him!  He should have been dead a long time ago!”

I guess that he was my heir and was quite upset and wanted to claim the title that I had which, of course, was his by birth.  Although he was my son or heir, at the very least, I had a mortal and ultimately fatal fear of him.

“Damn you!  You should have died a long time ago.  Why aren’t you dead yet?”

Then he suddenly stopped as it dawned on him that I could be faking it.  He barked a loud breath of impatience and immediately drew his sword.  At that the woman cried out, tossing herself at him, asking,

“What do you think you’re doing?”

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With the most ferocious force, he brought down the sword vengefully attacking my body.  The sword entered my stomach like an intensely hot spear.  Simultaneously, it had struck my left hip as they both stood to the left of me – as indeed, she was standing in the tapestry.  When he smote me the blade came down and hit me on the hip but then he moved it by thrusting it into my stomach.

Turning and twitching, I rigidly nudged my head to the right in pain.  As he triumphantly laughed, the loudest most vulgar laugh erupted in the hall.  Naturally, had I been dead there is no way that I would have moved.

*As I slept here, I had a corresponding cramp in my stomach.  It was of a sharp, stabbing pain.  This correspondingly made me simultaneously turn away to the right in the waking state.  This was a very, very, vivid dream.  END.

My sense of smell was quite piqued and there was no way to get over my being alive in this experience.  It was very damp with a foul odour of agedness in the air.  My stomach was convulsing and there was a taste of blood in my mouth mixed with the loud smell of faeces in the air.  The woman, my companion, cried trying to explain that I had only recently died thus it was a nervous twitch – a nervous reaction if you like.

She was not very convincing to which he shot back, “Ha, well then if he is dead…” he began walking around her forcefully approaching the head of my body, “…he won’t mind having his head removed!”

All that I could see, from beneath my quivering lids, was her reaching up and lunging as she bawled aloud, “Noooo!”  She reached up her hand and I tried to throw open my lids terror-struck.  However, when the sword crashed down into my neck severing my head at the spinal cord, I swiftly felt a loud thud.

At that there was this immediate abortive blank.  It was abrupt and with great finality.  Gone was the woman’s horrified scream in mid-breath.  I could feel the contact of the sword on my spine at the point of decapitation.  This was, in fact, rather traumatic because abruptly and with great force my life was ended.

*At that point, the moment of blank displacement, I was slapped back into my body instantaneously awaking.  Finding myself fully awake, I was in the midst of raising my head off the pillow as I slept on my back.  When I heard my infamous neck injury snap and being aggravated anew, I had not yet sat up in bed.  I collapsed back into the pillow stunned and short of breath.

It was all so overwhelming that all that I could do was just relax.  I dissolved in a silent, teary cry.  It was the only way to address the tense rigidity that my body had become.  As I laid there it was extremely hard to simultaneously cry and breathe.  I had no desire to get up.  I was simply resigned with sheer exhaustion and the weightiness of having re-lived a traumatic end-of-life experience.  This was a past life which undoubtedly was in the early part of this millennium, in Wales.

This obviously was, from every richly detailed nuance of the very intensely lucid, progressional experience, a slice of a past life.  What was really impactful, even more so than the beheading, was the moment at which I saw the tapestry.  It was immediately familiar and infused with a certain validity which couldn’t be denied in any way.  I wanted to run, to not see it, on first contact with it but was incapable of doing anything.

The tapestry depicted the slaying, of the aged leader, as being a pivotal moment in that realm’s history.  I did not get the sense that the man was my son but rather my usurper.  Regardless, I was rather afraid of this man.  This dream was much like so many others that relate to matters of trauma which resonate to the level of soul itself.

I can remember thinking at the time of that dream of Francesca and of the one with Merlin, in which he collapsed a great deal in that life in Spain with the Ludnezes and I protested by saying, “I want out of this dream, now!”

It does go without saying that as Merlin is a scholar soul, the upturned, unread books – which were brown-covered and time-faded – were a residue of his true soul in essence and agedness of soul.  After all, it was Merlin who nightly read several books, one of which he would conclude.  Until he was prepared to return to one of them to conclude the following night, the others were kept upturned or down-turned about the apartment.

In the event that they were to be accidentally closed, there were even times when he would wedge a piece of pretzel in between the pages.  Of course, I was in the habit of going around and closing the books when cleaning house.  Merlin, time and again, expressed displeasure at what he saw as interference.  I would never mischievously close the books that he had kept opened about our home.  Alas, such is wedded bliss.

Every detail in these dreams was so richly realised and resonant.  There was no way that Merlin could not have been instrumental in this past life revisit and reanimation.  I am confident that Merlin was crucial to the invocation of this past life milieu which awaited my arrival.  Of course, thanks to the jarring vividness of the decapitation, I abruptly awoke.

However, I still felt as though I needed to dream on.  I knew that there was more yet to come.  Despite Whoopi having leapt from the bed anticipating being fed, I chose not to get from bed and do anything.  I would much later after this dream learn, from Mathilde Duchenne’s channelling, that Merlin and I are indeed task companions – he a seventh level mature scholar to my seventh mature artisan.  This validation only made the dream of the library, of much loved books, that much more relevant.

Obviously, that dream set in late-twelfth, early-thirteenth century Wales involved both he and I.  I don’t, however, know whether he was the large-bodied woman who pleaded for me not to be killed or whether he was the Sagittarian-Martian energied usurper/heir who came to make sure that the job was done and I was truly dead.  It was all very lucid and like every reincarnational dream one was incapable of affecting change in the outcome of events.  One was, as it were, simply along for the roller-coaster ride.  END.

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As ever, straighten up and fly right, all the while singing, vocalesing and having a merry old time of it… because you are special and I say that you are damn well worth a flying dream.  Thanks for your ongoing support.  

 

 

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© 2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

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Catherine: A Deeper Shade of Vermeer.

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Girl with a Pearl Earring, Oil on Canvas Johannes Vermeer 1665.

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Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall.  HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.  Doria Ragland.  HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl Dumbarton.  Jane, Baroness Fellowes.  Lady Sarah McCorquodale.  HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.  Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.  

As I stated to a dear friend, “Doria is all the Queen they need in that photograph!”  Not for a second do I buy the notion that HM The Queen stayed away because, when it is all said and done, she does not approve of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  Her Majesty also did not attend HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge’s christening last year.  

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It is so immensely satisfying to see HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex matured into fatherhood and his numerological double-sixthness is validated by his open warmth, love and protective care of both his wife and his beautiful baby boy.  

 

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Archie, a seventh-level mature priest soul; he is infinitely more evolved than either his parents, or the Cambridge’s for that matter.  He is, though, the same soul age as his paternal grandfather, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, however, Charles is a seventh-level warrior to exalted role priest, Archie.  This man is going to perform a rather dynamic role within the history of the House of Windsor. 

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Much has been said about Prince William’s demeanour in this portrait.  Without doubt, both the Cambridges attended Archie’s christening with an agendum of their own.  I don’t know if William put his wife up to her power play but I do know this, it was decidedly vile and you can bet your bottom dollar that none of this went unnoticed, nor for that matter will it go unchallenged by Meghan – she who was Margaret Beaufort in a past life.  

So, William threw shade.  Quelle surprise ça.  William does as William does.  Born on the summer soltice of 1982, he has a geniture that is most unique; it comes with an intense stellium.  That is not necessarily a good thing; with so many planets closely concentrated, this gives him a tendency towards shortsightedness and in his position as future Prince of Wales, he takes very seriously his role as future king and acts autocratically at every turn.  He did not invite his aunts to the christenings of any of his three children.  William did not invite, Sarah, Duchess of York to his wedding.  After the birth of his firstborn, he decamped at the Middletons in Buckleberry and avoided his father, the future king.  As with most people with a numerological attitude of 9, which is the hardest number to master, he does things more often than not for spite.  

Of course, he could not be more different to his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who is born in the year of the rat, like his father and his paternal great-grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother.  Rats, I am one, are deeply loyal and will always be inclusive of family to the point of appearing sentimental.  This would be especially pronounced in a rat like Harry who is a warrior soul and such souls are deeply loyal.  So, too, is HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales a warrior soul and also, HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh a mature warrior born in the year of the rooster like Meghan.  Warriors forget nothing and do not readily forgive insults – a pity William in his myopic blissfulness remains unaware of this.  

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Saturday, for Archie’s christening, true to his warrior/rat spirit, Harry had his beloved mum’s sisters present at the christening just as Jane, Baroness Fellowes read scripture at his beautiful, historic wedding to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  Every rat would do exactly the same.  Well there were TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge smugly telegraphing their ennui for all the world to see.  As a warrior soul, I would not have expected such a gutter snipe move on Catherine’s part on Saturday. 

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As this was Harry’s firstborn’s christening and he was so deeply bonded to his mum, Catherine who had never worn those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’, to any of her three children’s christening, rather than loaning the earrings to Meghan by way of affording them to Harry so that his lovely wife could wear them as they would mean so much to Harry as his mother had worn them for his christening, instead, there sat Catherine feigning hauteur whilst smugly smiling to those in the know.  Indeed, this was Catherine’s star turn, which was just as vile as HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s infamous blackamoor brooch outing in December, 2017.  

 

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Positively nothing that these courtiers do is happenstance.  In essence, in wearing those earring of Diana, Princess of Wales’, which she had worn to Harry’s – and William’s for that matter – christening, Catherine was in effect saying to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, as much as Harry would like for you to have them, seeing as you are straight outta Compton, there is no guarantee that you’ll return them.  No matter, as long as I wear them, Diana’s spirit will be present.  This was a very cruel and low blow and not the sort of dirty pool that warrior souls engage in.  I am betting that William put his wife up to it; however, as Catherine’s right eye has become increasingly pained and umbraed in the past few years, she is clearly deeply stressed by the pressures of being married to William, who also happens to be her task companion.  Notice the way that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge wears her hair at Archie’s christening; the high headband, with the hair fully pulled back and the ruby-coloured to best set off the pearl earrings, worn by Diana, Princess of Wales at her sons’ christenings.  With the headband, there is no chance of Catherine luscious main covering the pear earrings the choice of which are to telegraph much to those courtiers in the know.  

 

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Catherine’s right eye since HRH Prince George of Cambridge’s christening in 2013, has become pained, saddened and distant.  I also suspect that she may have become anorexic from the stress of being wedded to William who as a scholar soul is void emotional depth and can be expected to be keenly spiteful.  

In this clip for William’s christening, at the five second mark, Diana, Princess of Wales turns to the left to look and speak to Charles who wanted to mop up William’s dribbling and it is then that you see that Diana is wearing the same earring.  It is not lost on me that clearly Diana is being rude to Charles when he offers to wipe away the dribble.  Of course, William was christened on August 4, 1982; it was Charles’ beloved grandmother’s 82 birthday, which is precisely the sort of gift that a rat would present his much loved family member.  Ironically enough, on that day, it was Prince Charles’ future daughter-in-law’s first birthday, the admired and adored Tungsten.  

 

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At all three christenings for her adorable children, Catherine did not wear those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’.  I am sure that if she wanted to, William would have decided against it as there is nothing sentimental about him and scholars by their nature are not given to being sentimental.  Three different earrings for all three children’s christenings.  I think that it would have been especially cruel if Meghan had thought to ask her husband, Prince Harry to request those pearl earrings that Diana wore to his christening, only to have William veto the request then turn around and have his wife parade them at the christening – this of course would play beautifully to those courtiers like the Michaels of Kent et famille; it is precisely the sort of petty spitefulness that would have made Meghan put her foot down and insist that they relocate to Frogmore Cottage and away from the vipers’ nest that Kensington Palace so clearly had become for the Sussexes.  

Of course, wearing the earrings would be seen as further rejection, coming so close on the heels of the disbanding of the Royal Foundation.  Not to worry, as an American and Black American, you can bet your bottom dollar the very shrewdly canny Tungsten will have a rebuttal.  Besides, who is Catherine to Meghan, she is a mousy little thing, who did not walk the aisle at her wedding alone; indeed, how Meghan must sniff and look sideways from beneath raised, bored brows every time Catherine has to go gag on a mic as William pushes her to be more relevant and not be eclipsed by the Compton interloper.  As for William, Meghan is likely little bothered by a petulant, spiteful man-child, who has to be told not to sit with his back to the horses on entering the open landau on his wedding day.  

Just as including his aunts, Harry would have thought to have his wife wear the earrings that his beloved mum wore to his christening.  This is the sort of warrior/rat thoughtfulness that saw Prince Charles salute his beloved grandmother – another rat, though, a second-level mature slave soul – by having his firstborn christened on her 82nd birthday. 

 

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HM King Henry VIII’s ruthlessness was the result of having been mentored and much loved by his grandmother, Margaret Beaufort – Matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty… kingmaker.  Well, that soul who was then Margaret Beaufort is back and did not return to be anyone’s pushover, as her entrance unaccompanied at her wedding in May, 2018 demonstrated.  A mean-spirited move, it most definitely was on the part of both William and Catherine by having Catherine wear earrings, which I am almost certain, Harry would have requested of them that his mother’s pearl earrings be loaned to his wife as a continuation of that rat/warrior reference and homage to both history and his beloved mum.  Naturally, such a request would have been a perfect opportunity for William to have been callously spiteful as he has proven time and again with others – Sarah, Duchess of York, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, his father.  

Naturally, the media did not portray Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as having been duplicitous by having worn the earrings that Diana, Princess of Wales wore to Harry’s christening.  Why on earth had it never occurred to Catherine to wear those earrings to any of her children’s christenings?  Just imagine if Meghan had done any such thing, it would have garnered an excessive response of outrage on the online tabloid portals with their legions of bigoted trolls.  

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Indeed, lynching Meghan is now big business, just imagine, even that Trenchtown jagabat came yammering that can’t-shake mid-Atlantic accent of hers as she opined on both Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales.  Running off at the mouth as though she knew Diana, Princess of Wales.  Would that she would just shut  up and crawl into her casket… I want a damn good return on that godawful, and justly pulped, ode to specious slander – a copy of which sits in my library, awaiting her exit.  She no more knew Diana, Princess of Wales than she does or ever will know Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  

At the end of the day, the real masterpiece, worth more than a gaggle of Vermeers, is the product of the love that Harry and Meghan share; it has resulted in the most beautiful baby boy, Archie, the Earl Dumbarton.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support.  Here’s wishing you the most gloriously lucid dreams.  I love you more.  

 

 

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©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

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Givenchy & Valentino

Givenchy (Clare Waight Keller) Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020.  

Monochromatic, feathers, and all that silver… to say nothing for the headpieces.  

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Valentino (Pierpaolo Piccioli) Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020.  

Everything about this show was simply masterful…  from the music, Ennio Morricone’s score to The Mission with the show being closed to Aretha Franklin singing Natural Woman.  So much colour, so much verve and attack; the structure and that ruffled purple gown at the end.  Bravissimo!  

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Go on cool kats, you know what to do, push down, plié, push off and start flying your merry little hearts out… cause life is a dream and you damn well can…. I love you more.  Thanks for the ongoing support… 

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©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century British Artists, 21st Century Italian Artists, Artists, Authors, Books, British Artists, Composers, Couture, Creative Genius, Design, Fashion, Film, French artists, Gay Artists, Italian Artists, Magical Realism, Mature souls, Memoirs, Music, Musicians, Performers, Photography, Singers, Songwriters, Stage performers, Theatre, Video, Visionaries, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Yoko, Meghan and Cécile.

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One thing that the marriage of the TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex has revealed. is how hideously racist Britons are. Naturally, as all bigots especially the most invidious racially predatory will have you know, ‘It has nothing to do with race!’ The DailyMail has made an industry of acting as a de facto wing of the EDL in its campaign of destroying the marriage of the Sussexes.

Every single day its gaggle of writers launch another volley of hate to feed their hate-filled multitude of devotees whom they simply abuse in their quest for more advertising revenue. Last week, their legions of bigots were gleeful when not only was the Duchess of Sussex not at Royal Ascot but neither was her husband. Naturally, the rumour was that Her Majesty The Queen had banned the Sussexes from attending Royal Ascot. Of course, last year when Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge was on maternity leave, she did not attend Royal Ascot. Furthermore, not once did her husband attend Royal Ascot. That is the tradition.

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Naturally, when these photographs of this year’s Royal Ascot emerged, the plethora of bigoted DailyMail trolls were celebratory of how happy and wholesome everyone looked. Of course, they were commenting on the homogeneity of the group; their was even talk that the RF looked so much happier without the American in their midst.

The following day, it was announced that the Royal Foundation was disbanding. This not only gave cause for wild celebration by the DailyMail trolls but in hindsight, it was speculated that the group looked as happy as they did at Royal Ascot because at that point, the dissolution of the Royal Foundation would have been known to all. This was seen as more proof that HM The Queen did not want Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex around Indeed, clearly, the Sussexes were headed for divorce and it was only a matter of time before there would be an announcement to that effect.

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By no means was tabloid culture then what it is today; however, there was no getting around the fact that there was unrelenting animus that was decidedly racist towards Yoko Ono because she was non-white. Of course, at the time as now and is always the case, there was strident denial that there was prejudice involved in the animus towards Yoko Ono. Heaven only knows that Linda Eastman was not a Briton, yet she was not reviled and hated for being an outsider as was Yoko Ono.

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So intense was the racial animus towards Yoko Ono that John Lennon had to relocate to New York City to seek peace away from being unrelentingly reviled by Britons, who were nothing more than unmasked Klansfolk; though there were three other wives, Yoko Ono was solely to blame for the demise of the Beatles. Indeed, Britons have John Lennon’s blood on their hands for having racially preyed on this man and his wife to the point where he had to flee and take refuge in a land where guns rule. Paul, Ringo nor George had to flee England because Britons did not approve of their choice of a wife.

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Neither Linda Eastman nor Montréalaise Autumn Kelly were subjected to the same animus as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex for being outsiders marrying much-loved Britons. True, every woman marrying into the BRF experiences blow-back. Sarah Ferguson, Camilla Parker-Bowles, Catherine Middleton and on and on. Truth be told, neither Linda nor Autumn were subjected to similar animus as Yoko or Meghan simply for being Caucasian and therefore, deemed acceptable.

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Britons may well succeed with running TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex out of town as they did John Lennon and Yoko Ono but know this, Tungsten has got powerful players in her corner. For starters, if the Sussexes were exiled, Oprah et al have the power to have her appointed as honorary chairperson of the Academy Awards – some such title of an American-British film society – not the American wing of BAFTA – which would see Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex each year present the award for Best Film at the Academy Awards.

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More to the point, when are Americans going to stop kowtowing to Britons because of the latter’s archly over-compensatory inferiority complex, of all things, masquerading as posh, sophisticated, superior and aristocratic. Why should an American actor, after having graduated with distinction from Julliard sit by and watch yet another English actor waltz in and claim the American award for best actor in a film which was not even an American production; this has repeatedly happened in the past. And so like Britons it is; they are the only island dwellers in the English-speaking world who never lose their god-awful accent regardless how long they sojourn abroad. Whether five years or fifty, you can also count on the expat English to maintain their posher-than-though English accent. Some may be readily charmed/fooled by all that posh posturing but it is so much obvious BS.

Glenn Close did not win the Best Actress BAFTA in 2019 that honour went to Briton, Olivia Colman in The Favourite. Ever possessed of this obsequious need to suck up, the Academy and its members voted Olivia Colman Best Actress at an American Awards show when the production was not an American production and Glenn Close was not going to win the Best Actress BAFTA and did not. One thing is clear from her acceptance speech, Olivia Colman is a one-hit wonder and will never win an Oscar again, just as Matthew McConaughey never will; after all, his Best Actor award was by default – so great was the need to deny Chiwetel Ejiofor an Oscar for his masterful performance in 12 Years A Slave.

When Britons prove themselves such ugly racist boors as with Yoko Ono and now Meghan Markle, why indulge, suffer or tolerate these people overlong? Throwing Oscars at them because they talk as though they’ve got a horse’s hoof stuck up their arse, there is nothing much to celebrate when one’s claim to fame is having subjugated 2/3s the world way back when and having enslaved and or brutalised those persons.

Of course, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex chose not to move next-door to the Cambridges at Kensington Palace. For one, there is every reason to believe that the Cambridges’ marriage currently is nine parts façade and with a numerology attitude of 9, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, apart from not being the sharpest tool in the box, is also conceited, stubborn, bigoted and intolerant and also is in tight with those pompous-arsed minor royals the Michaels of Kent et famille who with their racist perspective were none-too-shy about showing their true colours, blackamoor and all with Meghan suddenly in their midst and to whom they would have to curtsy.

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A den of racial predators is no environment in which to bring up black children and that would also include those generational members of Kensington Palace staff, who would think nothing of being openly racist towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and her children, For Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex the minor royal Micheals of Kent are no different to Samantha Grant and Thomas Markle Jr. She endured the racially predatory bullying in childhood, which is precisely why she has absolutely nothing to do with them and with damn good reason. Trust you me, there is not a single black person on this planet who would suffer any such environment. It is not human, not civilised and a goddamn waste of time.

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Carping on about how much better Cressida Bonas would have been as a wife to HRH Prince Henry of Wales, is a moot point. Who knows, perhaps, Harry was being forced into the relationship so that his older brother could have access to Cressida’s older sister, Isabella Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe. Is it any wonder why Sam Branson keeps his wife as far away from the isle of England as possible. Of course, had Harry married Cressida, this newfound media love for Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge would not have eventualised. She would be portrayed, even more so, by the DailyMail as workshy and they would even up the practise of only printing photographs of her when her face is at rest, which is a decidedly hard affair. For being blonde, blue-eyed and with an artisan’s fey beauty, Cressida, had Prince Harry married her in May 2018, would currently be eclipsing Catherine, who is now being seen as a fashion icon. No matter how DailyMail repackage and champion Catherine, she is a relative dud when publicly speaking as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has time and again proven. The Duchess of Sussex’s commanding performance at the 2018 British Fashion Awards at Royal Albert Hall truly was a study is grace, poise, elegance and commanding stage presence. You’ve either got it or, as in Catherine’s case, you don’t. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is quite confidently aware that a mic is Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s kryptonite.

The DailyMail and its gang of racist boors can vent and gloat all they want but if HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex were to have married a conservative Muslim and converted, for fear of ending up with their fetid skull on the small of their back, every one of their cowardly racist boors would know to keep their damn mouths shut. Of one thing they are certain, fucking with blacks will earn you no serious repercussions. The DailyMail‘s hacks have proven that England is the isle of the original hooded klansfolk; they are just a little bit more evolved to the point where their hoods have become invisible but no less ugly are they. In the end, who could give a fuck; the boors of the isle of England most certainly did not invent Jazz and speaking of which…

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After having pored through this year’s TD Toronto Jazz Festival lineup, I knew that there was only one show that I cared to attend. The Diana Ross show at the Sony Centre though tempting, however, the centre is just too cavernous a space. Jazz needs the warmth and intimacy of a smaller venue. Besides, I knew damn well that coming the day after the Pride parade, there would be queens aplenty in the audience. Most of them would be expecting the usual Diana Ross show; however, this was going to be a Jazz show.

As ever, I did not attend Pride parade, never have. Back in 1986, Merlin and I hauled arse to a dinner party in the Annex where an artistic director associate of his, held court. Frankly, neither men liked each other but for professional reasons one endured much. Among the group of 8 souls was a redhead interior decorator from New York City who was the most vile dirty-arsed bigot conceivable. Naturally, with yours truly present, he just had to wax overlong about what a scourge on human civilisation blacks the world over were.

Merlin stealthily reached across my plate and removed my steak knife from the plate and placed it to his left as I sat on his right. Finally, when we got home by cab as Merlin sought to shift my mood by playing some Miles Davis, I went and retrieved a pair of scissors and demonstrated to him on returning to the living room, “That’s it, I am cancelling my membership in Gay society. God only knows it is not as if these blasted, motherfucking lisping, bottom-feeding people invented Jazz.” For me what really settled it, was the redhead boor’s decree, “Sorry dear but there is no black in the rainbow.”

Of course, a couple of years back the Black Lives Matter delegation, which had been invited to march in the Gay Pride parade, were booed, heckled and pelted with unopened water bottles. That very day on my way home, I was also attached and it was much fuelled by the general anger at having had the Black Lives Matter contingent in the parade. To this day, the pride community are still mad at the Police and had banned them from participating in the parade, all because they allowed the Black Lives Matter group into the parade. Even though the group had been invited, they were treated by spectators as though they did something as irresponsible as simply showed up and high-jacked the parade.

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The above photograph was the look for the opening act, one of those regrettable experiences, which alas the Canada Council foists on one, god only knows why. Banal and as sexually intriguing as a live webcam set up on a couple of koala bears in repose, some things just have to be endured to get one through to the real deal. As my date, an ageing Jewish actor/writer with the most wicked sense of humour is always great company, we sat in the back row, all to ourselves, in fits of delicious giggles – we were poring through online photographs of Céline Dion parading in haute couture in Paris in the lead up to Paris Fashion Week; when asked what I thought of her whacky, over-the-top, beyond desperate behaviour, I flatly put in, “it ought damn well to be kept leashed and staked out back.”

Next, it was my turn to come undone when no sooner than having slipped in the breath mint that he whispered, “those are the new mint-flavoured super laxatives, I was telling you about.” How soul-gnawing is emulative institutional Jazz whose practitioners know nothing either of blacks or black culture? Hell, even after the bass solo, there was no applause from the house.

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Finally, like a lover with the most foul breath but whose girthsome jousting simply won’t be denied – then the malodorous rogue leaves and you shudder in disgust and return to breathing like a human rather than a goddamn humpback whale – the opening act vacated the stage and when the stagehands were done, only the grand piano was left. Out then walked Cécile McLorin Salvant with a puckish accompanist and it was readily obvious that there is an indelible soul connection between the two, which speaks to intimacy most rare and also more than a dozen past-life connections. Even Cécile’s body had changed, she looked more lived in, she was getting good loving and it showed.

Before proceeding, let me just state that this was the most phenomenal and best Jazz concert that I have ever attended. From Hoagy Carmichael, to Barbara Streisand, to Bessie Smith, every song was her own and every song was a master class in musicianship and phrasing. Then two things happened that blew me even further away; firstly, she sang, Midnight Sun. This is a song that for me as long as I live, will always evoke the most pleasurable memories of living at John Hirsch and Brian Trottier’s Moore Park Home at 187 Hudson Drive in the summer of 1990 after Merlin had passed and I reinvented self and took the time to travel. Until this concert, no one had ever done a better version of Midnight Sun than Sarah Vaughan, whose version daily played at that lovely Moore Park home.

Secondly, Cécile paused and asked if anyone in the audience was French, to which there was a boisterous response and then she asked to sing a song in French. By the time she was done, I was reduced to tears, even my usual jaded friend was blown away. At the conclusion the house went wild and I was reminded of those years living in Montréal and attending all those summer festivals across the province.

Let’s see Canadian, Diana Krall sing en Français in this supposed bilingual country and I am not talking any of that tawdry attempt at French musicianship as with the likes of Emilie-Claire Barlow et al. Unlike those frauds who suffocated the blackness out of Jazz in the 90s and beyond, Cécile is the real McCoy. The primary musical instrument in human civilisation is the voice and when it comes to Jazz, not only is it a language that is the extension of the griot tradition, nothing sounds like, feels like, moves you like the instrument that is the black voice; there simply aren’t any comparisons. This is the voice, the instrument, when on walking through your door can revivify and empower you like no other instrument can and most especially so after having experienced racial animus for the 14th millionth and fifty-seventh time in this lifetime.

During the course of the show, her accompanist did something that I had never before witnessed, Sullivan Fortner got from the piano stool to reach inside and pluck on the strings, making for all intents the most beautiful mbira imaginable. Sullivan proved himself the perfect accompanist to Cécile and it was clear by the end of the concert that these two lovely, magical and gifted souls have thankfully found each other and how we are better for them being in the world. The love and harmony they share, was as rich and smooth as the warmest honey satiating the palate. Even the encores were concerts onto themselves. If there is anything that can be said to be good, to have come from Roy Hargrove’s passing, is that it created the opportunity for both Sullivan and Cécile to form a most productive collaboration.

As we left Koerner Hall, both of us giddy with joy for having been richly inspired, there was a guy outside the theatre, hawking the program for Jazz FM. Brusquely, I declined taking one, I soon explained that I had no desire to be associated with the Jazz radio when they went and hired someone whom Merlin dismissed back in his early on-air days as VJ at MuchMusic as a smug bigoted asshole. Indeed, an ageing leopard does not his spots lose. Just for writing a few hit songs and having made a few million dollars changes nothing. As Merlin always said, “a man changes clothes and nothing else.”

Though last year, there were three good concerts during the Jazz Festival; this year, one only needed to have attended one concert and boy am I richly inspired for having done so. On parting, we both agreed that it really was an awesome concert; more than that, we admitted that it was high time that we saw Rocketman before it goes to video.

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For your ongoing support, I am ever grateful. Buy my glorious books, the incomparable series with Michael overleaves appendices; truly, they are human civilisation’s first dream memoirs.

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©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved,

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Iris van Herpen & Schiaparelli

At the intersections of Vision, Art & Commerce exists the most timeless Couture.  

Iris van Herpen Paris Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020. 

Schiaparelli Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020.  

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© 2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved,  

Posted in 21st Century American Artists, 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Dutch Artists, American Artists, Art, Artists, Couture, Creative Genius, Design, Dutch Artists, Fashion, Haute couture, Music, Performers, Photography, Video, Visionaries | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

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Diana, Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  

On the eve of what would have been her 58th birthday, I share a dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales.  At the time of the dream, July, 1996, Diana was then incarnate and would be dead less than 14 months later.  The dream suggested Diana, parenting a male child of mixed race heritage.  Naturally, at the time of the dream, she was not then yet involved with Dodi Al-Fayed.  Years later, whilst living in Montréal and transcribing the 250 audiocassette recordings of my dreams which spanned a decade, I happened on the dream.  By the time of the transcription, Diana was dead and so, on poring through the dream I thought that the male child in the dream to whom Diana seemed a mother, must have been a child of hers and Dodi’s.  

Fast forward twenty-three years from the dream in question and I am beginning to think that this exceptional male royal child was actually a dream of tuning into a future in which Diana was serving as protector of her beloved son’s own baby boy, Archie Harrison.  The skull of the baby boy in the dream who seemed like a son of Diana, Princess of Wales’, is exactly shaped like that of Archie, Diana’s grandson by way of her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his black wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  

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Alas, another dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales.  This one would involve moving into a probable reality scenario which may well have eventualised had she not tragically died thirteen months after having had the dream. 

*Then again, it may well have been tuning into a future which has now come to pass wherein, the interracial Sussexes have a male firstborn.  END.  

As with the dream of July 9, 1993, in which I would have a most rapturous astral plane encounter with task companion, Merlin, here too there would be lots of train travel.  This means of transportation, I have come to realise is employed by the soul when one is questing and traversing the astral either to past, future or probable timelines. 

In this case, I had clearly dreamquested to a probable and non-too-distant future for Diana, Princess of Wales.  Sadly, it was not to be.  Obviously, in this probable near-future astral plane dream, Diana, Princess of Wales was fulfilled and had gone on to start a second family and was mother to a rather precocious son; a son whom I might add was clearly at least fourth level old-souled. 

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1996 and the Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house.  The house of death wherein is posited my retrograde Saturn, gave interesting insights to things as they might have unfolded as others’ agendum precluded Diana, Princess of Wales’s life becoming more of an inconvenience.  

*Then, too, as time has unfolded, this rather prophetic dream was actually tuning into a probable reality which has become the collective future of human civilisation and one which we enjoy today.  Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their incredible baby boy, Archie Harrison.  END.  

Of course, at the time of these dreams, I was then resident in Vancouver’s West End.  The dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and seventeen and to be found in volume XXII of the dream opus. 

There was much sturm und drang in parts of the dreams as it mirrored the vicious tectonics, long after Merlin’s passing, being played out legally and otherwise with persons whom I am so glad to be finally rid of.  Chief among them that STD-riddled, dominatrix poseuse and fag-hag to boot, who quixotically saw herself cast into the world to play Merlin’s protector and saviour – the dreams of lost village idiots… indeed. 

At the end of the day, Merlin never liked her and rightly so considered her a damn idiot.  At his passing, he had nothing to do with her; hence the fool spent the next two-plus decades being bedpan-changer of Merlin’s betrayers – a poor play at atonement that. 

Enough about knock-kneed caribou roadkill; the journey endures.  Besides, the bond with Merlin could never have been successfully broadsided. 

Come now my magical darlings, mischievously sport that wry smile known only to kindred spirits, slip into a luxurious plié, take my hand and let’s have ourselves a delicious group flying dream.   We are better for sharing this journey together; for your support, I love you more. 

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Whilst heading down a street in what was undoubtedly Toronto, in this the first dream, it was then daytime.  The street seemed like the one just around the corner from the Underground Railroad Restaurant, on King Street West, to the west of Sherbourne Street – Frederick Street.  Going down Frederick Street’s incline, I noticed along a back lane that there was a large building.  Too, I noticed a great many persons from past workplaces.  The building seemed to be an annex to the main workplace as I had known it.

One of the first persons whom I recognised was Milton Bloomfield.  He was wearing a pair of dark blue slacks and powder-blue short-sleeved shirt.  Excited to see him, I bounded over and went around to the back entrance.  Immediately, I began seeing persons whom I had completely forgotten about.  Indeed, some of these persons looked as though they were definitely astral plane habitués.  In particular, one old White male had that outré habitué look to him.  I was simply astounded to have seen some of these persons.  Truth be told, I had not thought of so many of them long in ages.

‘How quickly we do forget,’ I thought.

Such a very pleasant discovery of things past, it turned out to have been.  That aside, I resumed my search of Milton Bloomfield in earnest.  Again, I saw him in the distance.  This time he was walking away from me without having noticed that I was there.  In the end, though it would have been nice to have interacted with him, I just didn’t see the point in going after him.  On going around another corner, since I was amongst persons from the past, I had thought to go in search of Yaramé Snead.  I went over by some machines which no longer exist, in the waking state, seeing that she would shortly have shown up at the start of her shift.  I then saw her at a desk working away and hurried over to be with her.

Stooping down to her left and rear, I playfully called out hello to her.  On turning and seeing me, her reaction had been low-key.  I was surprised really as I thought that she would at least have been her usual boisterous self.  Her hair was beautifully braided.  Frankly, I felt putout as she seemed not the least bit pleased to have seen me.  With that, not wanting to be more of a seeming bother, I wrapped up the visit.  Since she had declined to have become engaged, I just couldn’t be bothered to have invested much energy in the encounter.

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Part of the focus of this the second dream, a man and I were together and seemingly were lovers.  Tall, he was a redhead; as such, he represented one of my more choice sexual partners.  Somehow, this man was in showbiz.  We were definitely lovers.  Whilst looking at TV Rosie O’Donnell had made remarks about him that were rather cutting.  Initially, I had thought that her remarks had been about Xerxes Hamelin.  The joke had been a crude remark wondering as, to which sex Xerxes Hamelin was.

This was in reference to her having breast reduction surgery.  As I did not appreciate the crass put-down of Xerxes Hamelin, I would abruptly take my leave.  I then went indoors of a house which, here, was like moving from the veranda indoors of the Crab Hill house.  A few persons were inside the house as I ranted vowing to get that fat ugly dyke, Rosie O’Donnell.  There also was much laughter as I added,

“And we all know that I’m wicked enough, to do just as I say.  But first we’re going to sue her frigging Mickey ass.”  But my lover didn’t want to go through with it, he was a showbiz lawyer.  Snapping at him, I said,

“I won’t hear of it.  I will not be cutting him or her any slack.  Get her fucking ass!  There is no way that that no-classed fool is going to insult Xerxes Hamelin and get off lightly.  End of fucking discussion.  We sue!  During the show’s rehearsal when that joke came up around the production meeting table, she could have had the decency to say, ‘no way, I’m not doing that kind of humour’.  Obviously, she fucking well didn’t.

“It’s not about the fucking money; she will learn a thing or two, when I’m done with her fat-retaining, tired-looking ass.”  What really amazed me was how lucid and lived-in, in the body, I was.  I was really killer mad and out to do battle,  “There is positively no way that she’d have gone out there and made disparaging remarks about Jews.  And if you can’t knock the fucking Jews, you sure the fuck can’t haul your tired grey arse out on a stage to knock Blacks.  Just stop and think about it.  If a Jew would have her head in a nanosecond, then so the fuck will I.”  

After that, we went off together.  My lover was ever quiet and reserved whilst I did much of the talking.  In that sense, he energetically was much like Merlin.  However, it definitely was not Merlin.  

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As we walked about, we ran into Diana, Princess of Wales, who had a little child on her hip.  One had the sense that, after having divorced HRH Charles, Prince of Wales, she had gone on to start another family.  Definitely, this third child of hers was a son.  Apparently, she had always wanted a little girl but here she was with a dark-haired bouncing boy.  Obviously, from the looks of things here, Diana, Princess of Wales was going to have more than one family.

One interesting feature was that the boy was born with almost a full mouth of teeth.  I mentioned in passing that I guess if you end up grinning as much as she does, it would not be surprising to have newborns appear grin-ready.  Too, the child was already able to say some words at birth.  The child was exceptionally intelligent.  The young son’s most interesting feature was that even at less than six weeks, he was able to follow conversations.

The eyes on this child were exceptionally old-souled and wise.  Not the feigned coyness of Prince William was his demeanour.  We were in a huge stately Bentley whilst the child sat on his regal mother’s lap.  Diana, Princess of Wales sat on my left with my lover, a showbiz lawyer-celebrity, seated next to me.  My lover was of British birth; he was a well-placed Londoner and terribly well-off at that.

He was part of the few in whom Diana, Princess of Wales confided and had done so during her divorce proceedings with the Firm.  From the Bentley, we got into another car.  Although he really didn’t need it, the precocious son was travelling in a basket here.  This child perceptively was quite advanced for his mere few months of life.  He represented hands down a case for reincarnation.

Though he could talk, especially for someone less than a year old, he was still rather stubby and full of baby fat.  I took the rather self-aware child from Diana, Princess of Wales and headed for the car.  I then didn’t know whether she would be sitting in back of the car with us.  Considerately, I had opened the front door for her but she told me that it wasn’t necessary.

She then went into the back of the car at which point I returned her son to her.  In all of this, the precocious son hadn’t uttered a word of whiny protest for having been separated.  He had simply looked me in the eye whilst studying me and not, god forbid, because of something as absurd as my being Black.  This woman, his mother, was rather a genuinely sweet-personalitied soul.  Not your typical animus-charged, parvenu, New World wealthy snob, like heaven only knows so many North Americans, was she.  After we had taken off, I had mentioned that I had heard Prince William – who now was much taller than her – was very well-hung.

Furthermore, he loved roughing it with all the little willing boys at Eton.  This supposedly was hot gossip in those circles and which both my lover and Diana, Princess of Wales thought hysterical.  She expressed great pride in having produced such a fine stud for the Firm.  She mentioned that he had to start his studding practice sometime and far better that it be at Eton than with too many willing little girls the world over.  Clearly, Diana, Princess of Wales had no desire to turn grandmother just yet.  She was a very funny person with a distinctive snort-like giggle.

We then went into a store that was called something like Mayfair & Browne or something along those lines.  A small, high-end department store it was.

*The warm blues here would suggest that it was, in fact, Fortnum & Mason.  END.  

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Afterwards, we had attended the opening of Parliament where Queen Elizabeth II had naturally been present.  The Queen had asked the House of Lords to stand and, at that point, they had drawn some heavy red drapes.  At this point, there were rituals of an occult nature which were being performed.  This had been the custom for centuries and had been nobody’s business.  The few priests, who performed the rituals, spoke in an ancient tongue; olde English and Gaelic it would seem.

As part of the ceremony, the queen adopted a raspy, adversarial and tyrannical tone.  She snapped at them as they spoke to her.  Of course, this was to validate her absolute power as monarch.  She had spoken by using the same ancient tongue as they had.  Quite illuminating was all this for me.  From where we all sat, the monarch sat opposite us at the far end of the stately hall.  On the right was the House of Lords.

On the left, was the House of Peers where things were even more arcane and secretive.  Clearly, there was much more wealth possessed by the members of the House of Peers than those in the House of Lords; for one, they wore more expensive fur-lined robes.  Queen Elizabeth II then stood and put an end to the rituals.  When the priests retreated, the curtains rose again and at that point members of both houses of Parliament rose to bow to her majesty, the queen.

The Queen now looked her usual stoical self.  Next, a loud debate rang out in the House of Lords; this was the point at which bills were being introduced.  All in all, this was a very noisy affair.  This was the point at which my London-born lover was expected to have introduced my suit against Rosie O’Donnell.  However, he was blowing cold on the issue and tried to back out of it.

What caused him to have hung back was the raucous fight that had broken out between two Lords on some point or other.  In point of fact, they had been quite vituperative.  Soon after, we took our leave of Westminster Palace.  Diana, Princess of Wales was not seated with the rest of the royals.  Nor, for that matter, was the more royally scorned Sarah, Duchess of York seated with the royals.  

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The ride to the department store was no more than ten minutes.  Once inside, we had gone some escalators which took us to a cosmetics counter.  The look was pretty much like a Clinique counter, though, I really don’t think that it was such.  On seeing an extended member of the House of Windsor coming down the aisle towards us, my lover had dropped behind.  The focus of my lover’s attention was a rather princely gentleman.  He was young with full red lips but not was horsey-looking.

*This princely gentleman was, in fact, James Ogilvy – grandson of the dashing Prince George, Duke of Kent.  END.  

They exchanged pleasantries and it was clear that my lover was rather smitten with him.  I didn’t though get the sense of him, Mr. Ogilvy, that he was Gay.  From there, we kept going further down in the complex below street level.  Each time that we had come off an escalator, we had headed to the left to get the next.  This in turn had taken us down another flight.  Eventually, we arrived at a level which was clearly part of the city’s sprawling Underground.

As we walked, there were two little birdlike, old English women whose slow amble gait had gotten me fast impatient.  Finally, we managed to have pushed past them and gotten the train just in time.  Here we had travelled at fantastic speeds.  The trip was for quite some time and, somehow, it seemed as though they used magnetic conductors here in this civilisation.  There was a sense too that we had been travelling several miles, at least 100, below the surface.  

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When finally we had arrived at our destination, we had gotten out into a labyrinth of tunnels which had eventually led above-ground in a Japanese city.  We spent not very much time in Japan as it proved a stopover where we changed trains.  Moving on, we had travelled on a futuristic-looking train.  On board were two stylish, East Indian young women.  Both were clearly tired for having travelled a lot and having crossed several time zones.  A loud American was on board; she was an overweight woman.  As can be expected, she talked aloud for everyone to notice her.  She moronically complained about the trains not being aboveground and whined,

“I want it to be aboveground.  There’s nothing to see down here.  It’s all black and dark.”  She said the word ‘black’ with the same customary loathing as she had applied to African-Americans her whole life.  “Don’t they realise that there’re lots of tourists and we want to see.  It’s so boring being down here in all this blackness.”

‘Such a fucking acculturated bigoted asshole,’ I thought.  The train was painted white on the outside with lots of chrome and walnut finishing on the inside.  Very comfortable, red leather seats throughout the interior; this was a truly posh experience.  We had boarded at the front of the train.  We pulled into a station, though, only briefly; the train took off again never having opened its doors.  This time it took off in the opposite direction.  By now, my lover and I were no longer travelling together; however, I did have a travelling companion with me.

On this leg of the trip, we had moved above-ground at one point where we had passed the most glorious stand of ancient old trees.  They were ginkgoes that looked millennia-old.  Each was easily in excess of 200 feet.  I quite liked it here.  Though the vista was beautiful, it didn’t last very long as once again we were below-ground whilst ploughing through the lurching labyrinth of tunnels deep in the earth.

At the end of the trip, we had arrived at a swank hotel which seemed to be in either Switzerland or Austria.  From the hotel, my lover and I were reunited and began trying to get in touch with Diana, Princess of Wales.  He wanted to write to her instead of speaking so had sent her a fax.  Here we were a bit in the future, where everyone was automatically assigned their personal phone number with cellphone/fax.

*Truth be told, rather than a fax, it was a text.  Of course, at the point of the dream texting was well ahead of its time.  END.

No matter where one was in the world, regardless of the borders, the same phone number managed to get you.  Interestingly, they were not excessive amount of numbers.  He had sent her a fax (text) with his private number and had asked Diana, Princess of Wales to call him; he had wanted to lend his support in her divorce proceedings.  

At one point, when we had been driving, Diana, Princess of Wales opened up and spoke about her divorce from HRH Charles, Prince of Wales.  She said that it had left her feeling truly awful.  At the end of it, the one thing that she had taken away was the sense that she felt greater empathy for what Blacks suffer globally.  Said she, she had gone to a couple of stores to shop, after having been divorced, where the mere salesclerks treated her with scorn.

Nobody wanted to serve her as if she had even been hostile to them.  Diana, Princess of Wales said that it had been so overwhelming that in one case she had gone rushing back to her car in tears.  For no longer being a part of the ‘Firm’, the public simply treated her as an unfortunate laughing stock.  Some clerks had been outright rude to her.  She said that she couldn’t believe that anything could have made her so mad.

To have been denied was the most painful experience.  They were so mean-spirited and spiteful she claimed.  Her voice here was high-pitched and almost feverish when she expressed her rage at the injustices she had experienced.  She said that the idea of racial animus that she has heard Blacks speak of, she could finally understand.  Diana, Princess of Wales said that she had experienced something pretty close to it in the lack of civility that she had gotten from everyone.  Intently looking at her large clear eyes as she spoke, I was much impressed by her remarks.  She was rather ravishing-looking and was so in her element for being mother to this exceptional child.

*Long after the dream and as things played out, the male child whom Diana, Princess of Wales had parented in this dream was clearly fathered by Dodi Fayed.  Of course, at the time of the dream, I hadn’t a clue of Mr. Fayed’s existence.  The precocious boy had his father’s nose and brows.

Clearly, this dream was tuning into a probable reality which finally was not to be.  The child was clearly at least fourth level old-souled and may well have been a king or if not warrior soul. 

**More thoughts on this dream.  The fact that the lawyer who proved a lover of mine in this dream was a redhead, is at this time, I believe, a reference to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  As it is extremely rare that I would dream of the latter, it is not a surprise that he was translated here by my waking consciousness as anyone but Prince Harry.  Also, in light of the fact that in marrying Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Prince Harry can be said to be an advocate of sorts for racial reconciliation with regards to the ties that the BRF historically have to the enslavement of Africans.  Interestingly, that Diana, Princess of Wales should talk about having empathy for the racism that Blacks experience on a daily basis, is a dead giveaway.  The theme of race and racism is a prevalent one where her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is concerned.  

For having chosen to wed an entity mate of his (HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex) with whom he has a long reincarnational history and someone who has twice previously been a senior royal in the British Royal Family, is reason enough why the theme of race would be discussed and why Diana, Princess of Wales would be both empathetic and speak passionately about this issue.  Naturally, throughout the dream she would be closely bonded with a firstborn male from another marriage; however, rather than being a firstborn of hers in a subsequent marriage, this older soul child would prove to be the firstborn mix-raced child of her son, Prince Harry, who was represented by the redhead lawyer/advocate who happened to be my lover.  Indeed, Prince Harry can be seen to be an advocate for addressing and advancing racial dialogue and race relations.  Similarly, that his firstborn son, Archie is a seventh-level mature priest soul would indicate someone whose focus in life will be about inspiring, uplift, healing and harmony… god only knows that is sorely needed at this time.  

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Straighten up and fly right!  I love you more than you know…

 

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©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

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Cicada Principle.

Bonsai

So much of what happens in the waking state is smothered by fear-based strictures like tribalism, classism, sexism, racism et al which results in one being preyed on – one’s very life threatened.  Sadly too many proceed through their lives impervious of the Maya that effectively leaves them blind to the ties that bind us all together as souls incarnate in the human experience.

Being as awakened when awake as when asleep and dreaming, gives one a greater appreciation of the beauty of life and the beauty of all humanity.  This awareness also allows one to see across the illusion of time.

This sensitivity and awareness affords one the ability to perceive and appreciate the gift of persons known and loved along the way – from lifetime to lifetime.

This visionary dream not only spans the rifts of time but it also gets to the heart of the love that binds all souls together.  That love that endures regardless the strictures of the waking state and the perceptions of those involved.

The dream was rather magically and lucidly experienced, on Tuesday, January 9, 1996, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and near-conjunct the cusp of my fourth house.

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*Prior to sleep, I meditated with crystals in the pyramid.  I then focussed on being able to astral project, during sleep, to specific points on the astral plane where desired experiences could be had.

I opened myself up to, requested of my soul itself, pleasurable experiences with persons whom I have shared multiple past life experiences.  Most of all, I was clear that the bonds had to have been predominantly of a positive nature.

Thus, I fell into sleep open to whatever laid ahead.

In the first dream, I was having a phone conversation with both Isis and Isabella.  In some way, this involved much discussion about Pandora.

I had been concerned afterwards that I had not upset Pandora for having overly spoken of her.  This is an area, her private affairs, which Pandora never treads into with anyone.

There was real pressure here, on both her siblings’ part, to see to it that Pandora went out and got herself a job.  Both were furious with Pandora and claimed that she was not putting any effort into finding a job.

Concerned for Pandora, naturally, I thought of how possibly I could help her get grounded.  I thought perhaps to phone Maddox Pool and see if he could not get her work in I.A.T.S.E.

However, I really did not think that Pandora would be able to adapt to such a work environment.  Besides which, realistically, my connections to the place precluded her being able to get her foot through the door.

Since Owen Hawksmoor knew Pandora and her connection to me, I knew that Vikram Srinivasan would definitely not approve of her getting work there.

20141207. The main entrance colossal and classic brutalist Ross

The next dream then found me in an incredibly far-off land.  This is the only way that one can best describe this place.  Here, it was nighttime out.  A black capsule, in which one was able to sit, was being prepared.

An additional person could sit on one’s lap though it was basically a single-occupant capsule.  It was shaped not unlike the lunar modules, which returned to Earth and landed in the ocean, during the Apollo missions to the Moon at NASA’s heyday in the late 1960s to early 1970s.

However, this capsule was conical.  There were exceptionally tall men who wore black clothing that covered them from head to toe.  Their faces were kept hidden by black visors.  The capsule door was opened and closed by these same men who seemed like sentries.

At this point, when sitting in the closed capsule one would seemingly travel to distant places without moving.  Of course, this was the astral projection that I had coveted during pre-sleep meditation whilst in the pyramid.  Nonetheless, I became highly suspect of this capsule’s true purpose.

A couple was there with a young child.  They wanted the child to sit in the mother’s open legs whilst she was already seated in the male parent’s opened legs.  The three members of the family wore thick saffron robes.

For whatever reasons, the little girl tugged free of her mother’s embrace and began running away.  Immediately, the sentries were hot on the heels of the child in a bid to apprehend her.

Of course, as it only validated my reservations about the true nature of this machine, this I did not find very reassuring.  Opting out of taking a flight aboard the capsule, I shoved off instead and began flying.

I left the large hangar-like structure behind me and flew out into the outdoors.  Next, I was beneath the awning of the building; the awning extended from the building for about fifty yards.  It was a most massive structure!

The architectural proportions here were inordinately massive.  The scale here was on the order that things appeared in that dream of Merlin, on July 9, 1993, which was truly astral… truly colossal.

I thought that I shouldn’t stay too close to the building – any of the sentries could come around the corner and apprehend me for having left the queue to the capsule.

I then held on to the awning’s beams whilst inverted much as though I were a fly on the awning’s underside.  I then went to the right, of the far left corner, where persons were way below me who busily walked about on the sidewalk and in the infrequently trafficked street.

No one had noticed me.  I did grow concerned, nonetheless, at being spotted from below thereby drawing unwelcome attention to myself.  As I crawled along the awning, it gave way inside to the ceiling of a very noisy watering hole.

This bar was jam-packed with high-spirited persons.  Not liking the energies here I crawled, still inverted, back into the large complex from which I had fled.

From inside I peered outside, beyond the awning, where I saw a large craft.  White and massive, it made the Boeing 747-400 series look like a compact glider.  The craft’s nose, however, more resembled that of the Concorde aircraft.

Thinking that the sentries were perhaps on the inside of the craft, I let go of the awning beams.  Of course, these beams were the typical dark woods of the astral plane.

With that, I had resumed flying.  Whilst still inverted, I flew from just inches below the beams.  From time to time, I held on to a beam to get my bearings.  At such times, I looked over my shoulder below and behind me.

I then went in through a proper entrance to the building which I used for crossing over to another section of the noisy bar.  With that I then did a half-tumble, rolling over, to now face down to the patrons in the bar below.

Slowly and effortlessly, I floated down and alighted.  I had not made too much of a spectacle of myself as there was a major disturbance happening in the bar to which everyone was noisily focussed.

A Hispanic man and another, who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas, were being especially rowdy.  The bartender decided to maintain order and left his post to show them to the door.  He was a large burly man.

The door, through which they had been ushered outside, had a view to the outdoors.  The natural pathway from the bar led to a large tropical-looking growth beyond the complex.

Soon after they went outdoors, there was a sudden outbreak of light flashes.  Basically, they had had a run-in of sorts or had been apprehended by the sentries who were clearly extra-humans.  Soon after they had left the bar, I also headed outside.

In search of the Hispanic with the uncanny resemblance to Diego Lunamas, I had gone flying through the air.  I had remained, when airborne, between ten and fifteen feet off the ground.  My flight was slow; my flight was languorous.  This was clearly astral projection.

SONY DSC

The growth here was very thick.  Enjoying the purity of their energetic signature, I flew through the trees whilst simultaneously revitalising myself in the process.

This soon gave way to an opening, in the thick growth, beyond which was the most breathtaking vista.  These were by far the most beautiful trees imaginable.  They were simply colossal.

Each arboreal’s trunk was about fifty feet across whilst they towered up at least a mile.  I momentarily hovered whilst my entire body quivered throughout at the powerful vibration that they exuded.

This was a truly humbling experience for me.  Right away, I was reminded of the ecstatic epiphany that I experienced on Boxing Day, 1972.

One tree snaked from the ground and rose up into the air.  It leaned against the right side of a tree that was incredibly immense.  It seemed a mile-high astral plane baobab.

Flying over, I landed on the trunk of one tree.  This tree had two leaves that were frond-like but incredibly oversized.  Whilst I stood on the trunk, a slight man – he looked Amerindian though likely Balinese or even Fijian – approached me.

*He seemed from an earlier age in human history.  Of course, this was likely owing to the fact that he was yet another humanoid, extra-human species.  END.

He suggested that I look at where the growth began.  The vine-like trunk was some fifty to seventy-five feet in the air; it extended at an incline to a great distance far away.  It was a truly fantastical tree.

There were the beginnings of the two frond-like leaves close-by.  He told me that he used them to get milk.  He said that the milk derived from this rare arboreal genus was used in all manner of applications.

He was a shaman.  He was a true, innate dream magus.

I then noticed an indigenous ladder that they used to climb up the tree.  Here it was nighttime.  The frond-like leaves grew side-by-side and curled over.  The leaves looked, as a matter of fact, not unlike umbrellas.  It was these trees to which the locals came to harvest the vine-like tree’s milk.

I then began moving down the tree trunk growing concerned as the much-feared extra-humans were expected to return soon.  They seemingly appeared at set intervals and their intentions were generally adversarial.

cicadas

With that, I flew away and returned into the clearing.  As I flew back, where there was now a large open area below, I saw a Black man who was an agricultural engineer.  He carried a wheelbarrow of earth.  He had placed the earth over a trap of some sort which employed a cord system.

They apparently also captured cicadas.  When I came off the inclined vine-like tree, I had briefly landed on the ground before taking flight again.  To my amazement, I had landed in a patch of a few hundred cicadas.

They were exclusively on a tree which seemed the very centre of the growth.  This central tree gave off a definite hum.  All the cicadas were on the trunk of the same unique tree that seemed, by its vibrational signature, to be a life-sustaining energetic magnet.

This tree was not a member of the pine family.  Rather, it was a tropical tree which made the sitkas in Vancouver’s Stanley Park or the redwoods in northern California look like seedlings.

I remained motionless for the longest while.  I was magnetised by the tree’s vibrational hum.  It was hypnotic.  There was nothing but love radiating from this tree.  It was a truly humbling encounter.

The cicadas had swarmed onto its trunk to become harmonised with its vibration.  As I flew off and looked back, I realised that the cicadas were being caught by the locals as they had proven themselves a nuisance.

The cicadas were not in the habit of eating the crops but there were so many of them that their noisy song made the locals devise a plan.  The locals simply captured and relocated as many of the cicadas as they could.

I realised that this bit of drama, being acted out in the clearing, was also a metaphor for the larger drama back at the cosmopolitan complex.

There the extra-humans were laying traps, by way of the oval-shaped black capsule, for capturing unsuspecting humans.  However, there was also another aspect to all this symbology that was not lost on me.

I knew, though many of the cicadas were still alive, that the ones who had left their empty shells behind represented two things.  The symbol of the empty cicada shell was that of being astral-projected out of the shell of the sleeping body.

Secondly, the other symbolic reference was that, each discarded cicada shell represented a lifetime already concluded.  They were as if totems of past lives.  This was validated by the fact that here was I visiting, as it were, a remnant of a former life.

It was a life that was lived in Southeast Asia.  A life it was in which my spirituality was closely connected to the strong bondedness that I achieved with the all-encompassing beauty of nature.

thatched-hut

This was validated by the ectomorphic loin-clothed Balinese – Southeast Asian – who had come from his little thatched hut to greet me and serve as a guide to me.

He was, if not me, then definitely someone whom I have known in this lifetime but with whom I have shared multiple past lives.  I can’t say, however, that this was Merlin in a past life.

He was quite familiar and was more than likely an entity mate of mine.  I was similarly reminded of Diego Lunamas in his fey sweet-eyed beauteousness.

I then flew back through the growth where I saw the Hispanic man who had been kicked out of the bar.  He was standing outside a thatched hut.

This man was so exceptionally good-looking.  He no longer looked like his Hispanic self when at the bar.  Then he had had a striking resemblance to Diego Lunamas.  Here he seemed now Balinese, possibly Sumatran, though on the outside chance he could have been Filipino.

He held something in his hand that looked like a knife.  However, it was not a weapon as such.  As he stood there, his back to the hut, he was unaware of the intense light flashes taking place inside his hut.

This to me suggested that the extra-humans were inside the hut.  It was possible that this man had alternately just died and had emerged from the hut, his final astral projection, though not yet aware that he had died.

I then moved inside the hut where I was able to get a handle on what was taking place.  The door to the hut was a drape of green banana leaves that were regularly replaced.

Lots of bamboo shoots were used to anchor and set the frame of the hut.  The slight man had been desperately trying to cut through the door of leaves in a bid to get outside.

Each time that he would cut his way through one drape of leaves, to get through the door, another would manifest beyond the other that already existed there.  He could never seem to cut his way free fast enough.  It proved a futile attempt to get out.

Each door was made of a different type of leaf and reed but all of them were green.  The hut was eight feet square with a conical roof.  As a matter of fact, it was more so pyramidal.

I floated close to the ceiling of the hut as he desperately tried to break out.  I am not at all sure that most people were able to observe me in any of these giddy dream experiences.

The loin-clothed local did not quite comprehend the nature of the shiny object that he used to try and cut his way free.  Soon enough, the hut was burnt-out with a few burnt-out frame beams standing.

The remaining beams were charred with black ashes everywhere.  It was obvious that in his bid to escape he had not made it out.

Here, it seemed as though I was experiencing a series of vignettes – vignettes into past lives – all of which were interconnected.  A very intense experience of soul journeying these dreams would prove.

Again, I saw the man who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas.  I flew out to the tree, with the two frond-like leaves, on which I had been earlier.

I, soon enough, came down off the tree on seeing these green gourds that were cut open down on the ground.  From the inside, a thicker version of what looked like coconut milk spilt out.

The milk was being bled into appropriately placed containers.  On closer inspection, I realised that the gourds were grown below the surface of the ground.  The liquid looked much like cassava root milk.

japanese temple compound2

From there, I flew ahead to another section of the great arboreal growth.  Now I came to a clearing which was set in Japan.  I intuitively knew that this dream occurred in Japan.

For me, this was readily discernible owing to the strong past-life resonance that I experienced for being in this locale.  There I saw a series of cultured rivulets that were part of a water fountain.  The fountain was part of an extensive irrigation system.

The cultured rivulets were stone affairs in which flowed green fluid rather than the clear transparency of water.  As I had flown over this site, I saw from on high that everything was completely white.

The trees and every aspect of the landscape were completely white.  I knew that it was not a snow-covered landscape.  Rather, this was the result of some sort of attack from the black-clad and visored extra-humans with the conical, black space capsules.

This I knew meant that they would soon be returning to the area where I was.  Closer to hand, I hovered above the Japanese village.

fan dance

I saw here lots of Japanese women who were performing a ritualised dance.  They ritually sang and danced using fans.  As they danced, they were a study in grace and reserve.

From there, I decided to fly on in search of the source of the oddly green river.  I rose in the air as I flew by following the incline to where the fountain began.  This led me in flight into a hilltop complex where the fountain began.

It was a large compound which included a temple, shrine and living quarters.  Here there were more women who, though not ritually dancing, carried fans and were just as reserved.

At once, I alighted hurriedly moving through the compound.  I was as if possessed.  I knew at every turn which corridor to follow.  On my arrival, I let out a cry upset at what I had found.

I couldn’t believe what these people had done.  They had desecrated this important bit of their culture and heritage.

Of course, this was an astral projection to a past life milieu.  Everything was at once familiar.  My sense of smell was acute.  All the writings I fully understood though they were in Kanji and Sanskrit.

In that past life, my former self had had a hand in establishing the temple and its shrine.  Now some time later, however, they were performing these rituals in appeasement of the new overlords.

Of course, the new overlords would have been the extra-humans.  I was really upset… I was really hurt.  They shook the fans as they danced and this was supposed to have mimicked something about the extra-humans’ culture with which I was not familiar.

To atone, the Japanese humans had set up several altars to the extra-humans.  Truth be told, they worshipped the extra-humans as their deities.  The reserved women had the same milk-like substance which I had earlier seen being harvested.

Said harvesting area looked to be in Bali more than anywhere else.  The harvested milk-like drink was stored in very ornate vessels that were decidedly Japanese and examples of ancient Japanese pottery.

In particular, there was a large dark-wood altar – Butsudan – that captivated me.  Inside the Butsudan were several wooden carvings which were in the likeness of the visored extra-humans.

I grabbed one of the carvings, enraged, and began banging it against the other carvings.  In short order, I had desecrated the imposition that the extra-humans’ presence represented.

I began furiously yelling at the Japanese locals for having sold out.  What really surprised me was just how enraged and powerful a persona I possessed.  I was intensely warrior-spirited.

I seemingly was a member of a Samurai sect which meant that there was fierce pride and honour at stake here.  This was such a gross betrayal.

“Where was their loyalty to traditions and history?” I rhetorically asked.

As I bashed away at the carvings, I heavily panted.  I felt rather passionate, on my return, about the fruits of my past-life labour having been defiled once left behind on my passing in that former lifetime.

I addressed them in Japanese, no less.  It was quite something.

*It much reminded me of that dream encounter with ‘Francesca,’ on January 1, 1989.  I had then encountered the fiery redheaded Briton who had been a former life of mine.

I was quite the strong-personalitied dramatic woman who was quite sparkling-personalitied and with great presence.  END.

In that former Japanese life my body of work was clearly dear to me.  I couldn’t conceive of how these people would turn their backs on the efforts made on their behalf.

With that I took leave of them and went rushing into the shrine’s private apartments.  I ran up the stairs then stopped and walked along the unusually narrow hallways.  The proportions here were decidedly Japanese.

On the walls were engravings that bore inspiring words and poems.  All of the art was spiritually focussed.  Too, there were lots of long narrow rugs on the wooden floor of the hallways.

butsudan

An extremely ancient Butsudan sat in the private apartments where once I had lived in that former life.  The Butsudan’s two silver latches were complicated to open.

In fact, they were not readily opened based on the way that they appeared.  Nonetheless, from memory, I effortlessly opened them on the first try.

The shrine was so immediately familiar.  I couldn’t believe that it still stood there.  My fingers actually trembled as I made to open the latches.  The Butsudan was also covered in wooden engravings.

One set of the latches ran across the midsection of the Butsudan.  Still, the other latch system came down vertically at the bottom.  So excited was I that I began levitating whilst opening the Butsudan.

I first opened the one at the midsection, then the other, after which I flung open the door excited to once more see the Butsudan’s coveted scroll.

Just inside the door, there was a dark-brown leather flap with engravings on it.  Raising the flap finally led the light to be cast in on the most time-yellowed Gohonzon imaginable.

It was truly antique and I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.  The structure was so very powerful.  On realising what it was, I shuddered and began quivering throughout.

Immediately, my connection to Buddhism in this lifetime was being validated.  Of course, having seen Diego Lunamas in the environs of prior dreams made perfect sense.

He had also been on the palatial grounds of the temple as I had hovered in the air.  On opening the shrine, I alighted and collapsed on the floor in lotus position before the Gohonzon.

I keenly focussed on the Gohonzon though mindful of the fact that the black-clad and visored extra-humans would be returning soon.  Here in this most awakened of dreams, I began chanting Daimoku.  I cannot stress enough how intensely lucid a dream experience this was.

As I chanted, I became aware of my vibration rapidly intensifying.  I remained reverential before the ancient Gohonzon, with hands clasped, yet I found it hard to believe that I was having the experience.

More than that, the flow of energies from the time-yellowed Gohonzon to me was as real and intense as the intense light flooding the tiny private apartments – an apartment where once I had lived in a former life when Japanese.

There was the sillage of sweet sandalwood incense ghosting the air.  For some time, I chanted aloud then concluded with a long, slow, piercing utterance of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo.

With that, I shot to my feet and fled from the room going down the hallway and turned to the left.  In my haste, I had left the Butsudan opened with the Gohonzon exposed.

However, there was a strong sense that it was to have been left opened.  The light and energies from the Gohonzon needed to be obstructed no more.

I then arrived into the large palatial living quarters that were quite open.  There was a low mat, a futon actually, to the left of the door on entering the room.

To the right of the door, half of the wall area opened up to a view of the beautifully terraced gardens outdoors.  I knew that whoever presently lived there was coming.

japanese garden4

I could sense the person’s approach down on the grounds to the right.  With that, I floated down to the ground level and effortlessly moved through the pane of glass.

I simply upped my frequency and willed myself to become light-bodied.  Thus, I was able to effortlessly move through the thick floor-to-ceiling pane of glass.

I went to the left of the building, slowly moving through the night air, on the terraced grounds of the temple compound.  At that point, I noticed that there was a man approaching.

About my neck, I still wore a brown scarf that had covered the Gohonzon.  On opening up the large Butsudan, I had removed and placed the scarf about my shoulders.

As I flew with the scarf, I realised that I could be apprehended once spotted with the unique telltale scarf.  The man waited for me around some large wooden pylons that served as the opening in the fence.

It was, in fact, a gate system.  It led from the private inner courtyard to the outer courtyard where others could gather.

There were several wooden stools on which one could sit and reflect on the beautiful gardens.  Architecturally, this place was simply inspiring.  It was truly Zen here and was both uplifting and conducive to serenity.

On coming around the pylons, the man turned out to be none other than Kaarlsohn Frieden.  From above in the air, I was stunned to have both seen and found him here and excitedly beamed down at him.

Gay couple cuddling in bed

He wore only a large top that fell to just below his arse.  Floating down, I alighted whilst the brilliance of a full Moon night seemed to magically shift to intense daylight.

The lighting here was truly ethereal.  The energies here were wonderful.  Here on the grounds of this compound, the energy was very densely negative-ioned.

Way down the hill, whilst in flight, I had noticed several children playing.  They were all Japanese.  I had landed by a series of stone shrines that had been strategically placed about the gardens.  A stone table sat close by that looked several centuries old.

I simply couldn’t believe that I was having a dream encounter with Kaarlsohn.  Here was I so lucid and he was so real.  Truly, this was an astral plane encounter of the highest order.

On ambling over, I warmly greeted him.  I chose not to try and get rid of the scarf.  I was, though, concerned whether or not he would be mad with me for being there.

He called me over.  Kaarlsohn’s stubby thighs were strong and athletic-looking as though he were in his twenties.  Understandably, he did look older than when I knew him.

On the inside of his right thigh, I noticed a large thick vein.  As he looked at me warmly smiling, I stood to his left.  Kaarlsohn  was so warm but, more importantly, I couldn’t get over how real an encounter this was.

As he was only wearing the large unisexed top, and nothing beneath it, I got a good drift of his sex’s strong musk.  It was a bit overwhelming but I kept focussed on his clear smiling eyes.

Looking into his eyes, I spoke to him making sure to be simultaneously telepathic – there is greater power of persuasion when thus focussed,

“Oh my god, Kaarlsohn, I’d give anything to be alone with you.  To be intimate but not necessarily sexual, mind you.

“I’d do anything to relax and recline with you, sensually.  I’d really love to laze about with you… caressing.”

At that point, I placed my arm about his lower back whilst we unflinchingly looked into the other’s eyes.  He smiled sweetly blushing.  I then caressed his arse and felt its firm roundness beneath the sheer light fabric.

Then Kaarlsohn surprised me by saying, “Well, I like to do that, from time to time…”

He slowly, suggestively arched his brows high up his forehead.  It was a gesture that was reminiscent of Merlin when he wanted to be intimate.  What was really telling though was Kaarlsohn’s enunciation when he had uttered those words.

By ‘time’ he meant reincarnational time and not time relating to his present incarnation.  So that he meant at the level of soul, he did not mind having a same-sexed or bisexual focus ever so often when incarnate.

I looked at him and was blown away by his mischievousness.  With that, we both playfully laughed at his teasing winsome handsomeness.  Here his voice was not as strong a bass as his voice is in this lifetime.

Beyond all that, the level of love, warmth and intimacy between us was astonishing.  It was a rare pleasure to be so genuinely intimate with another soul.  This depth of openness and acceptance simply blew me away.

Then as if all that weren’t revolutionary Kaarlsohn initiated sexual play.  He fondled me whilst undoing me with the most sensual kisses all over.

By this point, we were now sitting down on the table in lotus position ravenously groping each other.  From time to time, he would stop kissing me to directly look into my eyes.

On those occasions, it was as though time itself stood still.  My senses were so heightened that I thought I would simply die of joy during the dreamtime.

Kaarlsohn’s eyes were so real and focussed.  His eyes’ intensity was only distantly frightening as they were so potent.

Lips passion-reddened, moist and apart revealed his quivering tongue.  He quickly breathed in shallow breaths in between groaning.  His groans were filled with yearning and called out to me.

Truly aroused, he seductively invited me to come out of myself to join him in ecstasy.  His hard, firm hands were tightly wrapped about my throbbing cock slowly kneading and massaging it.

What he was doing was not sexual.  Rather, he was performing energy work.  With each groan that called out to me, he was inviting me to do the same for him.

So I did in kind.  Kneading, gently and just as painstakingly slowly, I massaged his thick, large, foreskinned cock.

There was nothing more potent and shamanic than the energies that passed between us.  It was electrifying.  It was magus.

I did sense that there were a couple of bruises on his cock which I had passingly noticed.  I thought that, perhaps, they were from an outbreak of herpes.

He then said, as my cock grew more tumescent,

“This is a really nice cock, you’ve got…”

As he gently massaged me and pulled back on my foreskin, my cock kept stabbing into the centre of his cupped right palm.  As I danced and flew without moving, in spirit, a more sensual solo variation could not have been danced by Evelyn Hart.  Indeed, he was as if David Peregrine to my Evelyn Hart – in the sensually exquisite pas de deux, Belong.

At this point, I lucidly became aware of my intentions prior to sleep.  I had specifically meditated asking to have memorable experiences, on the astral plane, with those whom I have shared positive past life experiences.

Whilst I looked hypnotised into his large clear eyes – which here were a brownish-green, I recalled having shaped my dreams.

The light here was so intensely brilliant.  Much of the light here was being initiated by the love that this man’s very august soul was imparting to me.  A truly energising magus dream experience this was.

*What is most phenomenal about this soulfully intimate experience, of all the people I know, Kaarlsohn is the least homoeroticised.  He is also the most macho of men.

Too, I had neither spoken to him in ages nor had I recently thought of him.  Yet here was this major totemic encounter.  It truly proved healing and insightful a dream encounter.

Whilst in the midst of our intimacy, I let out a sigh and suddenly found myself being slapped back into my body.  At having had my astral projection aborted, there was weightiness at my solar plexus as I suddenly awoke.

I had been slapped awake by the shrill cries of raccoons outside my opened bedroom window.  They were having yet another nasty fight.  They had come out of Stanley Park to forage for food.

I had been terrified on hearing the grunting and screeching, whilst in the midst of my potent astral plane encounter with Kaarlsohn.  I had assumed that it was the sound of the extra-humans advancing on us.

Now, I realised that these so-called extra-humans were, in fact, astral guides.  Rather than being a negative force, the sentries were there to assist with proper astral protection.

I had been projecting the disturbance outside the window onto the visored and unseen astral guides.  Raccoons are visored, as it were, with their distinctive black band across their faces at the eyes.

As was the case, the raccoons had been fighting for some time and continued fighting for much of the night.  In fact, they fought till daybreak.  They prowled the West End in search of food before scurrying back to Stanley Park at twilight.

**What’s really interesting about these astral plane rendez-vous was that both Diego Lunamas and Kaarlsohn Frieden I met during my stay in Winnipeg.  With both men, I had enjoyed an ease of communication and instinctively knew that we had had past life contacts.

Diego I had introduced to Nichiren Buddhism.  Kaarlsohn had already been practicing when I started.  Kaarlsohn proved a good companion with whom to chant Daimoku.

Rarely have I felt this satiated on awakening from the dreamtime.  Though understandably aroused as all hell, I cried for joy at the beauty that I had just experienced and chose to remain lying in repose within the pyramid.

The reason for some of the cicadas having been alive was that they represented the ever present “now” of the soul which does not experience time.  Initially, the cicadas had all been alive but then some flickered out of existence.

Those cicadas that remained were quite a few.  They surely represented the potential of future lifetimes.  However, the remaining cicadas that were still alive were not in the majority.

The cicadas initially were all alive because to the soul they were being experienced simultaneously – past lifetimes, future lifetimes and this lifetime.

The sum totality of my lifetimes, as symbolised by the cicadas, was a swarm of creative energy which was magnetised to this great arboreal giant.  Of course, the arboreal giant represented the soul to which ultimately all cicadas – in order that they may experience transformation, reincarnational metamorphosis – are anchored.

The tree to which the cicadas were anchored also represented the physical plane.  A physical plane into which the lifetimes of the reincarnating soul, as symbolised by the cicadas, had to manifest in order to become self-actualised and fulfilled both spiritually and creatively.

As much as the arboreal giant represented the soul quality on the astral plane, simultaneously, it represented the physical plane into which the soul was reincarnationally focussed.

Since I was on the astral plane whilst dreaming – where time as such does not exist – the cicadas were all-extant.  The totemic cicadas represented every lifetime’s dreamer self which is never extinguished.

Thus the dreamer self forms a conduit, like the black teleportation-like capsule, to having connective glimpses into past or even future lifetimes.

I suppose too that, at the start of this lyrical dream adventure, the black conical capsule in which one sat and travelled was a symbolic icon of my pyramid.  Of course, when lucidly dreaming these truly marvellous dreams of uplifting adventure, I was sleeping in my pyramid.

This was a truly illuminating dream experience.  To have experientially undertaken this astral awakening was very rhapsodic, in each lucid moment, as it swept me along.

A sensory feast this was.  A feast on which my very soul was made pleasurably besotted.  A truly magus dream odyssey this was and one which validated anew that dreams truly are the poetry of the soul.

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As ever live as lucidly awakened when awake as when self-aware in the most fuck-all glorious lucid dreams.  I love you more.  

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© 2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

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Colour, Trooping & Unrelenting Smoke.

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On Monday, June 3, 2019, President Trump and family were hosted by HM The Queen at Buckingham Palace as part of the state visit. In its ongoing campaign of vilifying and manipulating public opinion against, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, a notorious London tabloid made a point of writing an article where it alleged that HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex avoided having anything to do with President Trump. Naturally, this was good for the usual hatefest towards the Sussexes because a private American citizen, the then Ms. Markle, voiced her opinions of candidate Trump, which happens to be a right afforded her by the American Constitution.

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24 hours later, the racially obsessed and frankly racially predatory hack from said London tabloid sat down to speak with President Trump. Mr. Trump made a point of stating that during their visit to Buckingham Palace, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex not only was ‘a great guy’ but he couldn’t have been nicer, when speaking to him and the prince also chatted with his daughter, Ivanka. Needless to say, in its campaign of demonising and vilifying a blood royal for having married a black woman, said London tabloid only printed photographs of HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex in which he was not in conversation with either President Trump nor his daughter Ivanka Trump-Kushner. Also, at no time was he smiling in any of the photographs, which they chose to print in their need to drive their skewed racially predatory narrative and one which also earns them considerable ad revenue.

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Though a black woman, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was faulted and criticised for making a mockery of a royal wedding by including a gospel choir during the wedding to her ennobled lover, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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Though three years prior to theirs, here is a gospel choir at the 2015 royal wedding of Sweden’s Prince Carl Philip and Sofia Hellqvist, the Duke and Duchess of Värmland. No one boohooed about a royal wedding being made a mockery and ‘ghettoised’ as the inclusion of black music was described online.

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Just as at the Swedish royal wedding of Prince Carl Philip and Sofia Hellqvist, Duke and Duchess Värmland, there was gospel music to send off the newlywed Duke & Duchess of Sussex. The choice of music is because is it deeply joyous and uplifting. I might also add that as there are never any coincidences, Sofia Hellqvist, Duchess of Värmland is a sexily gap-toothed Caucasian, which means that she, like Prince Harry, was in her immediate past life black, as for that matter would have been HRH Prince Edward, Earl of Wessex.

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One of the most beautiful moments during the nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Värmland was watching the interaction between Prince Carl Philip and his younger sister, Princess Madeleine. All you ever need in life is that one sibling with whom you develop a bond that is so close that you’ve got your own idiosyncratic language. Just look at Princess Madeleine catch the attention of her older and only brother to congratulate him after the wedding. She shakes her head and he excitedly bounds over on seeing her just as they clearly had throughout childhood. There is no more beautiful friendship than that of being unbreakably bonded with a sibling.

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Though there were moments of levity and ridicule at the royal wedding of TRH Duke and Duchess of Sussex, no one openly ridiculed either HRH Prince Henry of Wales or his lovely bride, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. That was exclusively reserved for the showboating Rev. Curry, who seriously went off piste.

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Processed up the aisle by her father, Mary Donaldson entered the church to nothing less than George Frideric Handel’s Coronation Anthem No. 1: Zakok The Priest. Naturally, as she was merely marrying Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark and not being crowned queen, to say nothing of either the straggly bouquet she carried or a wedding dress that looked like drapery as can be expected, there was levity. There two rows back of the crown prince’s mother, Queen Margrethe II of Denmark, sat Crown Prince Pavlos of Greece ridiculing the pomposity of it all with Crown Princess Victoria of Sweden. No one, however, openly ridiculed either the Duke or Duchess of Sussex at their wedding.

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I always cry at weddings; this is why the matter of race is so absurd. Two souls find each other anew and there is nothing that makes me come undone than seeing a groom tear up on seeing the woman who is going to make a father of him. Look at Crown Princess Victoria tear up with joy for her baby brother. If one is truly spiritually evolved and believe in reincarnation then you don’t see whites getting married, you see humans getting married and for me, I think how beautiful it is that these persons died and lost each other, are reborn, two souls who find themselves and have a great celebratory marriage that is seen around the globe.

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The beauty of youthful voices as the choir carries garlands; more than that, nothing is more beautiful than watching Christopher O’Neill’s lips tremble and him tear up as he sees his elegant bride enter the church. One of my favourite weddings. I do believe a groom cries at his wedding because instinctively the soul remembers the pain of having to mourn the loss of that soul in lives past, now both reborn, coming to rejoin him on having found each other… and there is a true miracle in finding that special someone with whom every fibre in your being vibrationally harmonises and attests to your having been bonded in prior lives.

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Coming through as never before had a royal bride, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, third lifetime as a senior royal, most notable as the very shrewd, complex and indomitable Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond & Derby, matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty. As a warrior soul, her husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex will be more fiercely loyal to this very powerfully cardinal woman/soul, the more she is reviled, opposed and hated simply for being black. To hate this woman is tantamount to hating the soul of Diana, Princess of Wales if that soul were to choose to reincarnate as a senior royal again and of a disparate race as Meghan has chosen to in this lifetime. The accomplishments of Margaret Beaufort can in no way ever be denied, anymore than anyone could deny the phenomenal work that the soul which was Diana, Princess of Wales accomplished were she to choose to return again in a future lifetime as a senior royal and either queer or non-white. Race is irrelevant, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex like all women are, is the dominant partner in their relationship.

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Pay especial attention to the body language between the newlywed Duke & Duchess of Cambridge on the balcony at Buckingham Palace. Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, after having rowed with her husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge on the carriage ride back to Buckingham Palace from Westminster Abbey, brushes past his remarks at every turn. Eight years on that there is more than hushed chatter about the state of the Cambridges’ marriage, let’s just say that where there is smoke, there is trouble. HRH Prince William is a sixth mature scholar and his wife, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is a fifth mature warrior and they also happen to be task companions. One thing I know to be fact, after having had more than 500 overleaves channelled and for having had a seven-year relationship with my scholar task companion, Merlin, one thing is guaranteed, a scholar whether male or female will stray in a relationship. Though at the time of their wedding, I did not know their overleaves, I thought that it spelt trouble, seeing the way that Catherine was repeatedly dismissive of her new husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge whilst on the balcony at Buckingham Palace on their wedding day.

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Indeed, it is rather troubling to see the almost manic way in which Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge manically gurns at every turn on recent outings.

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Come on people, that is some serious Michael ‘Whackadoodle’ Jackson strangeness. There have been more separate engagements undertaken by the Cambridges since the birth of HRH Prince Louis Cambridge.

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At the same event in February 2019 and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge looks worlds removed from being at, of all things, a mental health conference. Is anyone actually paying keen attention to the duchess’ mental health. I do believe that her severe weight, like obesity, is indicative of mental distress and the trouble which those smoky rumours allude to.

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This woman, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, clearly is in a lot of pain but luckily for the Cambridges’ image, there is the matter of the racist feeding frenzy with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex to distract the masses; this, however, I should think only makes Catherine’s pain that much more exquisite.

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The Cambridges’ body language on the balcony after 2019 Trooping the Colour was so tangible, they may as well have been on opposite ends of the balcony. Alas, the show must go on.

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And what a show it was, as my new favourite Cambridge offspring made his balcony debut and was the most charismatic tyke to have graced the balcony since his uncle, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, who had a penchant for sticking his tongue at the paps during public outings during childhood.

I also suspect that the tensions between both brothers is likely due to the fact that warrior soul, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex feels betrayed by his brother, scholar soul William, for his wandering after all that they had suffered from their parents having wandered during their well-publicised dalliances.

Who gives a toss about race and all that; one looks at these weddings because they are insights to human civilisation and the human condition. Here is the wedding of the HRH Guillaume Hereditary Grand Duke of Luxembourg. Pomp, circumstance and positively no reaction to his bride coming to meet him at the altar. After all that pompous music, one would next expect Ming the Merciless to put in an appearance, instead, from the very crypt comes old pa himself. This couple are so self-restrained, tight and unaware that seven years on, one can hardly be surprised that they are not yet parents. That aside the fascinators of both Sophie, HRH Countess of Wessex and then Crown Princess Maxima of the Netherlands were truly spectacular.

Boda Real of Crown Prince Felipe and the über soignée Letizia. A stately affair which was void emotion and a little on the long and dry side…

Maxima, the most handsome royal… lovely ceremony. Regardless the obvious racist agendum of that London tabloid, a wedding is a beautiful occasion when two souls renew the bonds forged over multiple lifetimes. Ultimately, that is all that one could ever hope for that when a loved one passes they have a pleasant experience in the afterlife. Well, this is the afterlife for all our past lifetimes and so very richly deserved was the wedding ceremony for the former Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond & Derby, mother of HM King Henvy VII, beloved grandmother of HM King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of HM Queen Elizabeth I.

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So go on park your arse there in the middle of nowhere immolating with racial hatred but Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is precisely where she is supposed to be because she has so richly earned it… just look at her bronze tomb at HM King Henry VII’s Lady Chapel at Westminster Abbey. Nothing would make me happier than if the Sussexes were to have between four and six children to make these miserable racist boors seethe even more.

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All the gutter sniping that she is a yacht girl, grifter, z-list actress, suitcase girl, been married thrice previously, used a fake moon bump and was never pregnant, the child on display on May 8, 2019 at St. George’s Hall, Windsor Castle was a silicone doll, that she used a surrogate, HM Queen Elizabeth II is clearly senile for having allowed the marriage, that HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is retarded, pussywhipped et al change fuck-all.

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Meghan, Duchess of Sussex’s first public appearance after the birth of Archie and her legions of lizard-lipped racist fiends, who were convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was never pregnant, now gleefully rejoice as she is now fat and just look at Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. Her baby weight is described as too much filler and recent cosmetic surgery. And stop with the nonsense about her being biracial. No one ever says on the six o’clock news that the murderer or thief was a six-foot-four-inch biracial male; they are always keen to point out that the suspect was a black male. Besides, so far as I can tell, Doria Ragland looks pretty damn black to me and ain’t a damn thing wrong with that.

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Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge in a rare display which alluded to the rumours of marital discord, arrived at an event, in February 2019 with HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Rather uncharacteristically, she walked ahead of the blood royal, she then before entering the building shakes hands with the hostess before her blood royal husband does and does so again before departing the venue.

Later when in the pub, all her entreaties to engage her blood royal husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge were to no avail; he spent the entire time that they were together in the pub ignoring her.

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The video of this couple at the Empire Music Hall is painful to watch; there is trouble and Catherine cannot be having an easy go of it because no one is more difficult than a person who acts from the negative pole of their attitude number of 9, which is HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge’s. June 21, 1982 = 3.9.2 = 5.

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Cries of desperation by Catherine, stating to the public that she is feeling broody, changes very little. There is a rift and as has never worked throughout human history, having another child is not the answer. Indeed, that William would rather have had Cressida Bonas than Pippa Matthews for a sister-in-law, is painfully obvious.

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For your ongoing support, I am eternally grateful. As ever, straighten up and fly high in every lucidly awakened dream. I love you more!

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©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Actors, African-Americans, American Artists, Americans, Artists, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Books, Fashion, Longreads, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Performers, Photography, Private Art Collection, Reincarnation, Royalty, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, Theatre, Video, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Shamanic Dreams Aplenty.

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Two weeks before Merlin’s passing, at a time where my focus in the dreamtime was rather intense, I dreamt the most uplifting of dreams.  As it was leading up to Merlin’s transition or ascension, there was a massive opening up of my consciousness.  For having served Merlin in such an intimate and compassionate role and thereby healing his spirit, there was much spiritual growth and resultant advancement for me.  Merlin used his illness to serve as a mentor to me and thus teaching me so very much in the process.  The dreams were dreamt, on Saturday, November 4, 1989.  The dreams that day spanned two sleep cycles and proved both intense and illuminating.

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I was quite consciously aware that I was dreaming and had slipped into sleep from a very deep, expansive meditative state.  On coming to, I was walking along in a street; it was quite sunny out.  There was a brown dog that appeared.  The dog came over to me, from off to the right, from behind a rock.  I felt that it looked ready to attack me.  The dog was a very short, smooth-haired creature.  Truth be told, it was a beautiful dog.  When the dog came over, I declined the gesture of friendliness and did not put out my hand. 

I knew then that I could not be sensed to be fearful because then the dog would sense my fears and thus defensively attack.  Reassuringly, I spoke aloud and guided myself through the scene by saying, “Be calm and be understanding; just reach out to it.”  So I did and extended my hand.  However, the dog was a very contained creature.  Though its mouth was clenched shut, the dog bore its teeth at me.  The dog then opened its mouth to bite at my hand; I countered by forcefully stabbing and ramming my hand into its mouth — much as though I had just stabbed it to the hilt with a massive sword.  I then started forcefully twisting my fist against the canines.  As I twisted against the canines, I rotated my right hand counterclockwise. 

Such that his left cheek was rotating skyward, thus the dog’s head was being uncomfortably twisted about.  Clearly, my actions were hurting him.  His neck was wringing.  I was in control and he could not really do me a great deal of harm.  Further, I guided myself with assurances that I was in control of the situation and not the dog.  I was sending it focussed energy and telling it to calm down and not to be in attack mode.  However, the dog still would not desist and persisted with resisting my directives.  All of this, interspecies communication, I telepathically undertook. 

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I realised then and there that this was getting tedious.  Besides, I was not here in the dreamtime to do battle with some mutt.  So, still with considerable force, I hurled the dog to the left.  As I hurled it, it became transformed and was now a square which seemed to be made of glass or hard plastic.  The transformed dog also seemed to be shimmering.  Next, it started moving around in the air.  After I had thrown the dog away, from off my right fist, it was transformed but remained a separate entity.  I then followed it with my mind and sight.  The transformed dog-cum-geometric airborne object then moved about at my command. 

Initially, it went off to the left where it was going to crash into a wall.  Even though this was the former difficult creature, it was now too beautiful.  In its transformed state, I could not let it be destroyed.  I was also pleased and amazed at what I had affected with my mind.  So I drew it away from the wall, from which it had abruptly veered off, and instead moved to the right.  I then brought it a little closer and then moved it about some more.  Next, I decided that, maybe, I should just let it go down; however, at that point, I thought aloud, “Wait a minute here.  I’ve got control here with my mind. 

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“Now it’s time for me to fly!”  Immediately, I abandoned the construct.  I gladly left it hovering there in the air.  Next, I simply shoved off from where I was and started flying.  I said aloud, “Yeah!  See, I can do it!”  I roared with sweet pleasurable laughter.  Next, I began moving, not directly upwards but, out before me in a low gradual rise like an aeroplane at takeoff. 

My arms were outstretched, perpendicular to my torso — palms faced down and were winged up and back, a bit, creating the right aerodynamic drag.  With that, I started moving at such great fantastic speeds that I immediately came to the end of the road.  Before me, the land began falling away.  Here before me, I came to a most beautiful, beautiful, beautiful sea.  I was above an inlet in flight and the hills were very green and the sand on the shore was beautifully white.  The sea was a beautiful blue and it was so tranquil and wonderful. “ Whoa, I’m going to be travelling over the ocean.  What happens if I start losing control?” 

I then, though, reminded myself not to be fearful.  At the same time, I was quite aware of my body, lying here on the bed and the thrilling feeling I was having whilst in flight, resonated throughout my body.  “My goodness, I’m projecting my consciousness; this is what you’re doing… you’re flying.  You’re advancing with your psyche… here in the dreamtime.  Do not focus on the water; it’s a wonderful scenic aid.  Go on Arvin, just focus ahead.”  Immediately ahead of me, at the great speeds that I was progressing, I saw a light.  A beautiful, beautiful, white enveloping light it was. 

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I then began shoving my way through the light at great, great speeds.  Now, I was going at fantastic speeds whilst in flight above the expansive sea.  This was so very thrilling and incredible; however, I really did not want to go all the way.  As it were, I did not want to come out on the other end of the light — to explore beyond that.  In point of fact, I was quite aware of my body lying in bed and I was lying on my left side.  I was saying to myself that I was not even in the meditative state that I had actually hoped for.  To fortify myself, I had grabbed the large quartz crystal.  However, before I had gone to bed, I had really wanted to masturbate.

Thus I realised that I really had to come out of this experience and masturbate, after which go to bed, after meditation as I had intended.  So I did get up. 

*Not that it was shallow of me to have abandoned a great cosmic experience, to go wank off, but I do think that it was actually good of me to have ceased being astrally projected when I did.  However, the need to survive was sustained by being grounded to my sexuality.  As I progressed through the light, I knew that the further I got, the more likely it was that I would not want to return.  Once I got onto the other side, I felt quite strongly that I would experience something much on the order of Tuesday, December 26 “Boxing Day” 1972III.  I just knew that I could not go all the way.  For one thing, Merlin needed me here, to see him through to the end.  For another, I had to come back and not go all the way because there was no one at the apartment with me.  Should I slip in too deep and imperil my life, in some way, there needed to be someone here with me to safely bring me out.

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I was growing more and more relaxed — feeling like I just did not care to any longer be focussed in my body.  This was why the thought of sex was so important.  My sexual focus had actually allowed me to stay ensouled in the body and not altogether spirit away from my life.  However, it was definitely that close.  I did experience rapture — on an order of the cosmic.  I was probably guided to my sexual centre by the soul and Merlin.  Of course, Merlin wanted me not to expire prior to him — as we had agreed.  Truly, it would really have been a great cop out, were I to have passed on prior to him.

So for once, as it were, my masturbatory obsession saved the day.  I do too believe that the attack dog, whose animus towards me I was able to have skilfully diffused, represented the amount of treachery afoot in the waking state at exactly two weeks prior to Merlin’s passing.  END.

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I was in an area that looked like a cemetery.  There were these little girls who carried these objects that looked like fans.  They each had a little stick at the end of which was a handle; really, it did look like a table tennis racquet.  At the end of it, the rod was bent down and then went off.  The queer rod was shaped like a little crown or a maple leaf.  What’s more, it was golden-coloured.  They were white girls under the age of twelve.  Too, they were both redheaded. 

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They were holding up the object before them.  Incidentally, I had one as well.  Somehow, I did not know what it was supposed to do.  The trees were large, like silver maples, and there seemed to be some large, centuries-old moss-covered tombstones about.  They both held out their arms in one direction.  They were behind me and we were facing in opposite directions.  They directly pointed the forking golden sticks ahead of themselves.  Still directly pointing their golden sticks ahead, they then came over to where I was. 

Immediately, when we were in close quarters and they were directing their sticks, one of them struck gold — the stick in her hand started shaking.  She let go of it and it fell to the ground but then straightaway up-righted itself.  The golden, wooden forking object then started moving towards this energy source.  The other girl laughed and went and put hers down.  I was amazed on recognising that there really was a definite energetic force present.  Likewise, I went and also put down mine.  As I did so, it was pointing up under the tree.  Straight away, you could see the manifestation of a sphere that was glass-like but it was shimmering. 

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I could visually make out that there was the outline of a rainbow that encircled the sphere’s rim.  Through the eye of this opening, the space simply shimmered.  Fantastically, it was absolutely wonderful to watch this manifestation.  The shimmering sphere was about four-to-six feet in diameter.  There was a gardening hose close-by.  As the watering hose rotated in the direction of where the circle was, the aperture became even more outlined when the water from the hose struck the space wormhole.  When the water hit and penetrated the shimmering portal, this was when the rainbow was created.  Thus, it became even more outlined and visible. 

Remarkably, it was a predominantly golden-coloured rainbow.  Quite magnificent and quite wonderful a sight it was.  Moreover, it was truly powerful.  I went running off to the source of the hose — it was being moved because of the water pressure.  I picked up the hose but then I put it back down.  There was then a guy and a girl and as they put the hose down, I was trying to see if there was going to appear anymore signs of the sphere.  However, they had messed up the hose; the hose had gotten knotted which precluded any water from being discharged.  Incidentally, it was a black hose. 

The girl, who had moved the hose when I had seen the wormhole-like dimensional portal, quite reminded me of Artemis de Bolanos.  In the sense that she looked somewhat like Artemis, I was led to believe this.  She was also flaky like Artemis.  However, it was not Artemis.  I promptly took my leave of them and moved on.  These girls were rather small and looked like the classic faeries.  They were unusually pale.  On closer inspection, they had unusually large, dark eyes that were almond-shaped and went upwards at the outer corners. 

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Their hair was so intensely red that it seemed, in fact, to glow and to be as if iridescent.  They also had no eyebrows which only highlighted the wide-open expanse of their foreheads.  Where the third eye resides, it was quite unusually expansive in that part of their foreheads.  In fact, that part of their face seemed slightly concave, however, only slightly so; in that sense it did resemble the indentation of a radio telescope.  Though they seemed like prepubescent girls, they were fully grown.  They may well have been several decades old; however, they did not look old.  Moreover, they exclusively communicated telepathically.  However, there was no getting around the fact that they were EH (extra-human or extraterrestrial). 

One thing about them was most telling — my pronounced ease for being around them. 

*Much like natural redheads, in the waking state, these persons’ vibrations were considerably more attuned and intense than others’.  One always has the sense that most redheads are ‘broadcasting’ when in their presence, in the waking state, so strong is their psychic abilities.  The golden rainbow spheres were portals which were used — as their desired EHVs (extra-human vehicle or UFO) — to move through and forth from their world, in which I incidentally was a visitor, and others.  They seemed as though intent on showing me how to call forth an EHV to relocate from their world.  I happen to think that though I awoke to masturbate and not go all the way, on returning to sleep, I did return to being focussed in the far-off locale, to which I had ventured in the A sleep cycle.  This incidentally is not uncommon.  Hence the locals’ desired to show me how to safely get back, through the golden shimmering portals, to my dimension.  The trees here were phenomenally huge and had the same intense negative ions as were those experienced in the valley, of the far-off world, had during the dreams of Thursday, February 16, 1989(168).  END.

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The third dream in this cycle — I have chosen not to include the second dream here — found me with a group.  The group was a Rock ‘n Roll band.  They had finished a show and were taking off their makeup.  They had backup singers with them.  One of the female performers went and was washing her hands.  Just like the seeming little girls had worn, she was wearing similar garb.  Their clothing seemed to be from earlier times as in the Middle Ages to the Nineteen Century.  She washed her hands in a common open trough — some of her clothing she had taken off to remove her makeup. 

I felt as though I could have started seducing her, if I wanted to, but I chose not to.  She had matted, reddish hair that was up in a bun.  Her hair was strawberry reddish-blondish like the two girls in the earlier dream.  These redheads were of obvious Druidic heritage.  Meanwhile, the guys in the band were coming back.  They wore makeup that was painted in streaks — more like the way tribal and Amerindian warriors adorned their faces with paints.  They were white.  None of them seemed interested in fucking the women. 

They were then going off, to a club, to hang out.  I went off with them.  On arriving at the club, I found it quite interesting.  There was an advertisement about enlarging your balls.  The thing to do was to put your testicles in cow dung.  That is clearly ridiculous — you cannot put your balls in cow dung.  The ads showed the vat of dung, which was steaming.  The dung had to be steaming, affecting the notion of it being steaming warm, as when coming out of a cow. 

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The balls distended outside the body so that they could be kept sufficiently cooled and not become warmed by one’s internal body heat.  Straight away, I knew that that was a bogus remedy for having your balls enlarged.  The club had this wonderful entrance.  From the ground, the entrance took you down below the surface and into this darkened cavernous area.  Once inside, it was quite interesting.  People were going in and out.  The bouncer/maître d’ had huge balls, his actual testicles, which he held — one in each hand. 

*I dream it, I report it.  Who knows how this testicular adventure arose for having been auto-erotic on briefly awaking — well, not too briefly.  END.

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He was juggling them around like a lewd stripper would her ample tits.  They were individually wrapped with a green straw-like fibre.  Thus the balls could be pulled and stretched.  I found it all remarkably funny.  His cock comparatively seemed nonexistent next to the humongous balls.  He was the usher/maître d’ who let people into the club.  The club was called The Hell’s Gate.  He would be looking over the women who would come in and decide if any of them were exciting enough. 

Naturally, it was a bawdy house of ill refute – a bordello.  There was a lot of wholesome fucking going on inside.  The joint was jumping.  Truly, it was very funny. 

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In this the fourth dream, I next found myself in the streets at nighttime.  This was after the rock band had disbanded.  There were people in the street whilst other persons were watching them.  Also, there were other cars around.  They were large unusual-looking cars.  I went in and I joined a guy and started voguing on him.  He was very jet-black and had large full lips.  We were voguing a kiss and then another. 

I would then go down, as if to go down on him, whilst sensually dancing on him.  Our movements were very stylish and very beautiful.  There were two other couples, on my left, as I faced the guy dancing.  We were the best dancers, of course, and the most original.  Our dance was strictly erotic.  As a matter of fact, our movements came pretty close to fucking.  Our dance was more suggestive and engaged than a tango.  The magic we weaved, was absolutely wonderful. 

Quite a crowd was soon gathered around us.  Anyway, I went down into the club, The Hell’s Gate.  There was Louise Donlon [Denise Donlon] — the woman who does the NewMusic for MuchMusic — she is gap-toothed.  This club was obviously over in Britain, perhaps, Ireland.  She was interviewing musicians over there. 

*Ms. Donlon is, of course, married to legendary Canadian singer/songwriter, Murray McLauchlan.  END.

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I was fixing the cuffs of my jeans, rolling them down, to put them inside my penny loafers.  These were a tanned, almost teak-coloured, beautiful pair of shoes.  As I adjusted them, Denise was interviewing some musicians.  People would go off and become lost to sight.  This was in a large tent area.  They would slip outside after being interviewed.  Also present was, Nina Hagen, the German eccentric Punk/Rock/Opera singer with the vulgar-looking mouth.  She had extra-long red hair. 

She asked Denise if she was still writing and what had she written lately.  Nina Hagen said that she had done this song; the song was about the planet and her concern for its fragile ecosystem at present.  Denise then started playing a guitar.  Nina got really excited and told her that it was good and excellent.  She also told Denise that she was happy for her.  She seemed almost a bit too hyper-excited.  Then she abruptly stepped backwards and disappeared through the folds of the tent’s white-cream, silk-looking, heavy canvas flaps.  As Nina disappeared, on the other side, she was heard singing her song and carrying on — like the right eccentric loon that she is. 

On leaving the tent, I moved on and went inside the club.  A girlish woman — these women were so diminutive that they seemed like girls though not — was being chased; it was part of a contest.  Everybody chased her with pretty-coloured balloons.  She was trying not to get hit by one.  Eventually, she did get hit by one but she went and hid behind something.  There were a lot of girlish women there with big bums who were very short.  Some of the patrons were in the earthen floor itself with only their torsos sticking out.  For having such huge bums, these big-arsed girlish women seemed like they would topple over backwards. 

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However, their supra-mammaries created a good counterbalance.  They reminded me of Galina Yordonova — the former Bulgarian ballerina who ended up coaching Evelyn Hart at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet — with their petite-framed bodies.  These women were almost as if pygmies.  They were not dwarfs but just tiny people.  These persons were clearly of extra-human stock.  They had on black lace and they were shaking their boumpsies (bums) and dancing by themselves.  They were like go-go dancers who danced in a group, on the spot, on the floor.  I was moving around and thinking that it seemed like a very exclusive club. 

I had hoped that they did not exclude certain people, based on race or did not play certain music, based on race.  At heart centre, I knew that this was not the case at all.  I then left the lobby but was still inside, en route out, when I realised that there were a series of funerals going on.  At the time, I was with an irascible English aristocrat whom I had to tell, be quiet.  The funerals were all happening underground — at least, it seemed very much so to be underground.  Rather, if they were above ground, it is possible that they took place in a catacomb or caved sepulchre.  Everybody seemed to exist in a caved city.  There were little trees, like miniature cypress trees, that divided off the lots. 

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As I was moving along, I was asking the man to please be quiet.  There was obviously a very solemn affair afoot.  There were people standing around and they were saying en masse, “For thee, thy name sake…”  They were speaking very olde English at the funeral.  A little girl knelt down and put down a flower and she was holding a kerchief to her face.  She was crying and bawling.  I wondered if that is how I was going to behave at Merlin’s funeral.  A bit overwhelmed, I then moved on only to encounter another funeral. 

This funeral had less people in attendance.  This one was also wrapping up.  Both were obviously funerals for someone white.  There were mostly whites there.  People had on cardigans and sweaters because it seemed a bit chilly in the air — like an underground habitat would naturally be.138

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After having audiocassette-recorded these dreams, I placed a call through to Merlin over at Wellesley Hospital and chatted.  As had become habit, he would call to awaken me, I would then call back after having recorded the dreams.  As I would be taking him the morning newspapers and other items that he requested, I went about feeding the cats and doing some other chores about the house.  Whilst getting ready to be with Merlin, I went poring through our music library for something to play as I showered.  Finally, I had found it, it was Itzhak Perlman with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra playing Brahms Violin Concerto in D Major Op. 77; on the Angel label it was a coveted recording of both mine and Merlin’s.  Whilst I sat in Merlin’s favourite rocking chair, I sipped on tea made with the leaves of soursop.  Months prior when visiting St. Kitts and Nevis, I had managed to stealthily bring back some of the leaves in my luggage.  This fruit tree’s leaves induce the greatest serenity and dream lucidity when ingested as a tea.

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Of course, it has since been discovered that the soursop is said to be a thousand times more potent than the drugs used in chemotherapy.  That aside, I sat perfectly poised, slowly rocking back and forth whilst listening to and being enraptured by Mr. Perlman’s unique brand of shamanic magic.  Eventually, as the album played on repeat, I showered and got ready to go in and be with my lover.

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As ever my groovy shamanic kindred spirits dream like it is the most magical thing in the universe… well why not… it is after all.  Dance and fly in the dreams like the magical shaman that you are and hiss and piss on any fool’s grave who would have the temerity to have messed with you… cause life is not a dress rehearsal and loving self means protecting self from all ill-evolved dreck.  Thanks for your ongoing support and remember, my magical dream memoirs are available where all discriminating bibliophiles get their fix.  I love you more.  

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©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

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