Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

August 27, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

*Since having posted this dream blog some years back, I was always fascinated why I was simply summoned to be with the actor, River Phoenix when he passed. I did mention that sense of feeling strong resonance at the time of cadre mates’ passing. This dream was a poignant example of being called into action, to be of service to someone with whom I have a strong and connected soul bond that spans multiple past lives.

This was something that I felt at Natalie Cole’s passing and, of course, she proved to be an entity mate. In the case of River Phoenix, whose overleaves I will include here and which can now be found in the revamped and tidied up Michael Overleaves Appendix page, not only is he also an artisan soul but he happens to be a greater cadence mate of mine. This dream would not have occurred if we did not share this very strong bond; as a result of my cardinal casting, I am often called into action in dreams such as this one when entity and cadre mates pass on.

Read these dreams anew and do enjoy!.

_________________________________

Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, I would be transported to a cul de sac of the astral plane wherein I am not frequently focussed. It was Monday, November 1, 1993. At the time, as now, I did not own a television and hardly looked at it. Also, at the time, I hardly listened to radio or read newspapers et al. I was also much removed from most daily chatter as I had been off sick from work but did go in to participate in the annual Halloween costume competition which the year prior I had won when dressed in full drag and looking hotter than even Tina Turner herself in my high heels. The above photo of yours truly was taken at Halloween 1993, the day prior to this dream.

Thus it was that I would fall into sleep and immediately be summoned to be in service to the higher good. What is really interesting about the experience with the famous actor encountered in these dreams, I rather suspect that he may be a cadre mate from the tenor of the dream encounter. Too, there are a number of famous persons in my cadre and he seemed vibrationally not dissimilar to them.

That being the case, this likely explains why I was called on to be of service at the time. I am said to be rather cardinal in casting, which is clearly reflected in yours truly being inordinately gifted when it comes to fathoming the depth and breadth of the dream realms. Too, as these dreams were clearly focussed on the astral plane, naturally, there was dream flight. More than that, whilst focussed on the astral plane in the dreamtime, one did encounter at least two, possibly three, extra-human species.

As there is flight and levitation in these dreams, I pray that they will richly inspire you. Fly my darlings, fly, don’t even for a second doubt, just melt into a mischievous plié and start flying – cause you can… cause you are magic incarnate!

A woman and I were together, in this the second dream, above the Arctic Circle. This woman did remind me of the woman, who had earlier been in the previous dream encounter with Niles Ben-Daniel and seemingly his lover. I was not fully certain that this woman was one and the same as, the one posing as Niles Ben-Daniel’s lover, in the prior dream. She had a couple of siblings whom she had asked to find out what time it was.

Here, they kept time quite unusually because there was no tundra about. They, as a result, kept sundials. They grew their grass such that they were able to tell from Sol’s shadows what time of day it was. Their sundial was a natural phenomenon which used the rugged flat landscape for keeping time. Standing there, I faced due north. Sol was still in the sky, but low, and at the two o’clock position. Sol was red and potent; it was almost serene-looking.

Over time, they had planted a hedge of Chinese boxwood, which stood a foot tall. From it were a series of radial-like spokes radiating out from the centre. All told, there were twenty-four spokes; of course, the spokes lined up with each hour of the day. Even in the wintertime, the hedge though submerged maintained an imprint of itself above – in the snowed and iced over terrain. It was quite nude (barren) landscape here. Sol’s shadow was presently pointing directly at the ten o’clock position though it clearly wasn’t. Ten o’clock could also have been four hours past midnight.

I decided that it had to be around four, in the morning, which is why Sol appeared in the sky where it was. This was the time of year when Sol never sets which made it difficult for me, a novice in these parts, to readily get my bearings. Quite a strange phenomenon because my body felt nocturnally phased, yet, there in the sky was Sol as plain as the Moon. She wanted to know what time it was because she was getting ready to go down south to the ‘Southland’.

She also referred to it as, ‘the land of the setting summer Sun,’ which did make sense. She had said all that in her Inuit tongue, yet I had been able to follow perfectly well as though she had been speaking English. More than being with her, rather, I was there as an observer and took in the minutiae of this unique culture. Certainly, we were keenly aware of each other and that we were both gifted telepaths.

Next, in this the third dream, I was in a crowded interior. It was a waiting lounge in a large depot that was not unlike New York City’s Grand Central Station. A sandy marble, time-yellowed hue, the walls here were the same colour as at Grand Central Station. A high-ceilinged cavernous place it also was. The main hall had several wings that adjoined its considerable length. Here, there was natural light coming in from the bathysphere-like windows that sat way up the walls and close to the ceiling.

In that sense, this was not unlike the grand hall in which I walked with Merlin during which we encountered the exalted magus on September 4, 1988. I was seated on these large wooden benches that were old, comfortable and looked not unlike church pews. Semi-circular in shape, they gave a sense of inclusiveness to them. All around me exclusively were men. This place seemed, if you like, some sort of way station. One guy there was very slight-bodied, young and naïve-looking.

Looking at him, he wore a navy-blue track suit. He came over to sit next to me, eventually sitting on my right. Patting him on the back, I told him that it was really good to see him. I wished him a safe passage and asked that he go in peace, “Have a safe passage. Go in peace and do have a good journey…”

Of all people, it was the actor, River Phoenix – he recently overdosed on heroin, early on Sunday, October 31, yesterday. This was a very vivid dream. I was quite lucidly awakened. Feeling great compassion for his tragic departure, I thought to be of comfort to him and to uplift his spirit in whatever way possible. There and then, I realised that this was a place where persons who had recently died came whilst in transit to their final destination as returning astral plane habitués.

*This, of course, did not surprise me. Right away, I was reminded of the sense of mammoth dimensions that also exemplified the architecture of the train termini, where I had run into Merlin in that momentous dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. END.

Seated there, next to him, I exclusively turned my focus on him. I then began doing an enormous amount of energy transference, thereby healing his spirit, before he could move on. Who cares the attachments to this man, in the waking state? I have never followed his career but here, in his astral plane hour of need, we were souls and healing is the most generous gift of love. After having left his life in such a dissociate state, River Phoenix needed to be made more whole.

This is why he had seemed so naïve and as if in a daze. He saw me and purposefully began walking towards me. God only knows what he noticed in me that was different to the others. Until he was about two feet away from me, I for one had not realised that it was him. By that point, he had already been intent on coming to sit with me. He clearly needed my services.

Phoenix, River 23/8/197031/10/1993

This fragment was a second level mature artisan – third life thereat. River was in the observation mode with a goal of growth. A realist, he was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

Body type was Lunar/Mercury.

River’s primary chief feature was self-destruction and the secondary stubbornness.

Casting for River is fifth-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three – greater cadence mate of Arvin’s. River’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

River’s essence twin is an artisan and he has a sage task companion.

River’s primary needs were: exchange, expression and power.

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin.

_____________________________________

At the level of soul, I could not have cared less who he was; his energy body’s vibration needed a good deal of realignment before he could move on. He chose me and I gladly obliged his wishes. When patting him on the back, I was keenly focussed on sending him a great deal of near-aqueous blue-white light. River Phoenix was saddened. Rather, he seemed to be in a state of shock, though, not horrified or enraged. There was just a degree of resignation as he came to terms with where he was at. When it was all over, in the brief moments that it took to lay my hand on his back, he got up to get going.

He was obliged to take his leave and move on. He seemed here truly dazed. Perhaps, these were residual effects of his having passed in a heightened soporific state. Seated there, I felt completely drained of my very breath itself. I was left feeling so overwhelmingly sad and strangely alone. Another guy had sat down, on the other side of me, whilst I energetically focussed on River Phoenix.

I can’t, for the life of me, say whether or not the guy had ambled up to join us seated there or if he had simply materialised – on the astral plane – for having just projected himself into our midst. Looking Hispanic, more than anything, this man had yellow-coloured eyes. Absolutely bewitching they were. He wore cream-coloured jeans with matching cream-coloured jacket. There was a lot of black in the clothing. This was in the style of Hip-Hop fashions.

He was a very sensitive man with a Hispanic accent and was slightly older than River Phoenix; he was about 24 or 25 years – at least he looked about that age. His hair was thick, black and curly. By way of conducting focussed energy transference, my function here was to provide counsel. I would simply tap into their vibration and, by way of their chakras, realign their energy. All of them seemed to have passed suddenly, completely unexpectedly. Thus they had a great need to become assimilated to what was clearly an unexpected turn of events.

They needed immediate supervision and companionship, until having become further acclimatised. Meanwhile, the persons around me were all being counselled by others – who were more solid-looking – whose role was like that of mine. I was, like all the others, a guide, companion and energetic facilitator to the arrivée habitués.

Architecturally, this place was so immensely massive. It was also more ancient by at least 30 millennia than the rise of the Roman Empire. Clearly, there is no way to get around the fact that this was an astral plane experience. There was also no way to get around the fact that the first man, with whom I worked, was the actor, River Phoenix. What was really impactful for me was that River Phoenix, like all the others, had absolutely no emotions. He was in a place of total detachment.

Though a sudden departure from the life being lived, his soul consciousness was totally matter-of-fact about the situation at hand. The past, his recently accidentally concluded incarnation, was concluded and behind him. Period.

Whilst we were all there, we were caught in some commotion when a Black guy appeared. He wore a blue jean jacket and wore on his face a flesh-toned fabric mask. He looked as though he had been in a burn unit at a hospital, I assumed, after having suffered massive burns to more than 95% of his body. It was the mask used for allowing skin grafts in such instances to take without becoming infected. My sense impression of his situation was that he had been in a violent car crash which turned into an explosive fireball. He had survived and was in hospital, for a while, undergoing massive skin grafting surgeries.

He also wore dark shades. The moment that he appeared, everyone instantaneously freaked out. All that one could see, was his mouth and nose; the image was upsetting, menacing. Right away, we all began fleeing that section of the grand hall. His arrival was simply instantaneous. He had simply manifested in plain view. When he came through, he brought with him a great explosive energy and immense suffering. This is what had upset the Chi in the place; it was quite an impactful energy wave that accompanied his manifestation. On closer inspection, I realised that he had not been a burn victim as he was still brandishing a large semi-automatic weapon.

Clearly, he had been holding up a business and got himself shot to death in the process. Thus, as is, he instantaneously appeared on the astral plane. The energy around his death was+ so immensely violent, as he went berserk, that it proved rather jarring for the rest of us. His body was violently sputtering away, as though, still echoing the massive volley of bullets that were being pumped into him. No doubt, a battery of over-armed police officers were only too happy to waste yet another ‘Black’ male.

We all immediately started bolting because here was he, suddenly arrived and carrying a weapon, on the astral plane to which all these arrivés were not yet fully acclimatised. There was a group of urbane Gays over to one side who kept to themselves. The Gays went truly berserk, fearful of him, as this man was clearly a zealous homophobe. That too was the other thing about this place; one was able to accurately ‘read’ a person on their arrival.

As I sat there on the pews doing my energy work with River Phoenix, most of the light flooding the hall came from off to the right and rear. From the inner hall, I went bolting along with everyone else and took cover. The armed Black man had manifested across the hall from me. Making my way from what I thought previously was the main hall, I ended up in a grand hall that was easily seven times larger than the atrium in which I had been counselling River Phoenix and then the yellow-eyed Hispanic.

As everyone else had been bolting in that direction, I made a left turn. From the main hall, I was now in another atrium; this one, however, was considerably darker. This one was several storeys high with the same colour schemata as at Grand Central Station. Though there were no discernible floors as such, at each storey there were landings. I would then bolt down to where all the other Gays were ahead of me. In a bid not to be captured by this guy, who had no awareness that he was now dead and on the astral plane, I leapt over the railing and down onto the escalator where the Gays were.

As they were all still clambering down the steps, this was not the greatest idea on my part; it was a truly chaotic scene. Deciding against pursuing the herd mentality, I willed myself from amongst them. With that I began levitating, above them and shot upwards, flying up into the nave of the towering complex. Goodness, this place was immensely massive. Soon enough, the man came to where we had been and made for the stairs from which I had just taken off. Being sufficiently distracted, I knew that he wouldn’t be able to either hear or see me way above him.

Too, he wouldn’t think to look up and see me. I flew in such a way that I progressed around a corner which took me into another wing of the massive complex. Here, there was a balcony whose wall was such that it had an indentation in the shape of an inverted top hat. Thus, the balcony was as if wrapped inside the hat. Hiding out in the cover of the balcony, I peered out – from time to time – where I saw others on lower balconies who peered up at me.

Others were off to the right in the inverted balcony. They discouraged me from coming because they thought that, somehow, my movement would attract the newcomer with semi-automatic weapon. They were of the impression that he was, in the first place, out to get me. All around, this whole episode was terribly unpleasant. It had all the chaotic madness that must surely exist, at present, in the streets of a war zone like Bosnia or Croatia.

Deciding against hiding out, I sought to be rid of this place altogether. With that, I began flying upwards towards the very ceiling of the grand hall. The ceiling was as if a force field and not a physical construct. Thus, without incident, I was able to will my way through its parameters. I was truly relieved to have made it out of there. One had the sense of leaving one dimension and moving on to another, whilst seemingly clearing the grand hall’s ceiling, and into the next dream experience.

Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside where I immediately encountered some young teenage females. All were sarcastic, bitchy solipsistic twits. They were on an empty city street. Racy-edged, in the extreme, were they. Especially for feeling the enervation that I did for the massive energy transference work that I had undertaken with River Phoenix, I really did not care to be around these people’s energy.

At the time, I was still in flight but had slowed down, hoping possibly to interact with them. Finally, I had no time for them and their bullshit. No need to be around their imploding energy. Without haste, I flew on and went onto a side street. There, I saw a really large building from which there were some persons presently exiting.

It was as if one were looking outdoors, due west towards Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan. A young couple came from the building and entered a car which looked like a Bentley limousine. A massive stately old car it was and looked every bit as though it had been made from lead. A large structure stood to my left as I watched them drive away towards what seemed to be Fifth Avenue.

Looking to the structure, I realised that the structure was in fact St. Patrick’s Cathedral which, of course, meant that I was at 51^st Street at Fifth Avenue. Naturally, the car made a left turn and went south down Fifth Avenue. Here it was nighttime with lots of snow in the street, the sidewalk, and covering just about everything. The car wanted, once on Fifth Avenue, to go westwards along 50^th Street, but couldn’t because that street runs easterly one-way.

There was also too much snow jammed there in the street. So, in the end, the car went down to the south end of Saks Fifth Avenue to try and get onto 49^th Street. Here in the dreamtime, contrary to the waking state arrangement, 49^th Street flowed easterly. This made me realise that its attempt to go along 50^th Street was not bizarre. I guess that they then intended to go easterly along 49^th Street, over to Park Avenue then up 57^th Street, make a left at that street, to try and get across town that way.

I figured that that major thoroughfare would not be impassable. I was keen to find out who was inside the car, which was a very regal, stately affair; they were a sophisticated well-bred couple. I was more intrigued by the car because it was mostly glass, with the rear windshield arching up to above their heads, as they sat there exuding their exalted classism. The side panelling on the outside, and where the rear windshield met the roof, was all solid gold. Atop the roof there was a beacon like on a taxi cab, however, it was made of solid gold.

Really, it was more a coat of arms than anything so crass as a taxi’s beacon; this was a truly luxurious-looking vehicle. As I inspected it, I had been in flight hovering a couple of floors above it. Rising in the air, I began speeding down on the east side of Fifth Avenue over St. Patrick’s Cathedral. When I got over the cathedral, I noticed that – unlike its waking state counterpart – this one had flying buttresses. Though it was very dark out, as though the dead of a Dark Moon night, I noticed that there was activity atop the cathedral. There were things there which I found immediately intriguing.

Abandoning my pursuit of the Bentley landau, I slowed down, coming closer to observe what was going on atop the cathedral’s roof. There, I saw wonderful fowl; there was a whole array of them which were quite large. One species was white with lots of black specs throughout its body. They were all on different ledges on the flying buttresses. All of them had nests that they were tending.

One of the nests had 8 large speckled eggs inside. There was, however, no fowl tending to this nest. Flying slowly, within ten feet of the buttresses, I inspected everything with a keen eye. This was so very astral plane in focus. Considering that I had previously been counselling River Phoenix, who had recently passed, it made sense that I should be on the astral plane. In any event, the rooftop was pitch-black and covered in tar. The masonry here was also much blackened with time’s passage. Too, there was a lot of moss covering every available nook and cranny.

I suppose that this replica of St. Patrick’s Cathedral needed to exist, here on the astral plane, to provide some sense of continuity to the dearly departed recent arrivés of the Catholic persuasion. Here on the astral plane, this St. Patrick’s Cathedral was considerably larger than its waking state counterpart. As well, it was millennia older than the Roman Coliseum. The older dead moss had left the structure blackened – along with the centuries of pollution and soot caked on in layers. Naturally, in order to get up to the roof of the nave, I had had to rise higher and beyond the buttresses.

Once higher in the air, I saw down between these two buttresses a group of Whites. They were dressed in animal skins and were, in the true sense of the word, barbaric-looking. They had not yet fully developed the ability to speak; thus, their speech consisted of a series of barks and grunts. Quite hirsute, they were obsessively fearful. Huddled on the top of the structure, they proved a smelly lot.

Everything was quite ancient and scorpionic-hued. As well, there was a tribe of black-furred monkeys with some red in them. The Barbarians also wore a skin that had a reddish hue to it which was seemingly a doeskin. Theirs was, as well, a tawny reddish complexion. On noticing me, the monkeys went wild, climbing up to the tops of the buttresses; frantically, they pounced and screamed up at me. Goodness, they had such large vicious-looking teeth; thank goodness they could not fly.

Mildly horrified, I simply levitated higher into the air and stayed clear of their none-too-evolved noise. Exceptionally tiny, they were also very intelligent-looking. Truth be told, they looked much more evolved intellectually than their simian cousins, the Barbarians. Goodness, they were feisty and noisy. Wanting to investigate everything about the queerness of the sight of me, they were truly inquisitive.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Going higher, I reached to the top of the nave where I noticed a couple lying there. They were lying on their backs. Looking not unlike the sphinx’s, theirs were the most abnormal-looking skulls that were splayed and large. Their clothing was unusual-coloured; however, on closer inspection, it turned out to have been their skin. Basically, their skin was as if a floral-printed fabric. Very brightly coloured, their skin was an interesting sight… to say the least. They lay there, looking not the least bit surprised at the sight of me. They also seemed not inclined to do anything but enjoy themselves in repose.

They seemed so mysterious. Looking down, I alighted to investigate. I spent some time looking down at their feet where their skin was also uniformly distributed. I had wanted to leave but decided to head in the opposite direction; as they lay there, their feet were in my way. I didn’t want to have to upset or interact with them. They seemed alien, in the true sense of the word, but were not in fact to be disturbed. Silently, they lay there and directly looked at me. One had the sense that they could have turned deadly in a femtosecond and gone at me like a cobra on the attack. They had very cool eyes that were powerful, truly scorpionic. Theirs were the kind of eyes that were beguiling but utterly untrustworthy.

*Their eyes much reminded me of that dream encounter with Lars Gamst, set in the British Isles some centuries back, wherein we encountered a litter of oversized cats, which turned out to be not only psychic but also feral. This was back in the summer of 1988 – before recording the dreams on audio-cassettes. END.

Soon enough, I flew away from there because this was much too astrally focussed an experience. I might add, as dreams go, it was one that was very much so real and quite layered. It was simply much too intense; so, with that, I withdrew being energetically focussed therein.

_____________________________________________________________________

Hope you enjoyed having taken this groovy little trip with me… Go on, hop to it, start flying. I love you more.

_____________________________________________________________________

Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

August 21, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Game show host: Famous Quotes. “Bullocks! That is not a fucking clit!”

Game show host: Contestant, respond either A or B to which you think is the correct answer. Who was this said about when seen naked for the first time by her future husband, was it A. Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown or B. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex?

Contestant: A!

Game show host: Right, you are!

From Alanna Plattapuss, to Pierre-Karol Gorgon, all week long they and the OTT vicereen – she of none-too-dubious gender and the likely need for a surrogate’s services, carped on with their usual vitriol against, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Just imagine the temerity of the Trenchtown sketel, likkle jagabat rass, carping on about Meghan not being royal and a hustler who needs a new act and all that, commandingly boomed with the rolling vowels and vulgar cocksucker mouth to boot. Then by the end of that week, along rolls the weekend full of karmic retribution et voilà Lord Porchester’s sprog was back in the news for those proclivities of his that has him favouring veal and other minor fare.

Diana, Princess of Wales gave good face; she went in, shook hands, did the doe-eyed routine and sold millions of copies to say nothing of raising funds. I was in London’s Chelsea the night in June 2017, having just returned from Covent Garden where I discovered, Natalia Osipova, when what sounded like several fire trucks, raced through the streets of West London.

The next morning as Grenfell dominated news everywhere on the tube, I watched as first HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge followed after by HM The Queen, visited the site of the horrific towering inferno. Soon enough, having done their duty, they were gone.

Will someone please ask that blasted cross-dresser, masquerading as a woman, toff or god forbid royal, what is not admirable, to say nothing of royal about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex? First order of business, after having so handsomely given good theatre as she commandingly ascended the west steps of St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle to join her warrior-souled entity mate, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with whom she has enjoyed relations in 20 past lives, Meghan goes and meets with the victims of the Grenfell Tower tragedy.

Now, here is where she goes one better and is the true evolution of all that Diana, Princess of Wales represented, she not only meets with them, however, she devises a scheme whereby those victims can experience a continued sense of community and in the process, she created a cookbook which as part of her charitable endeavours, has greatly assisted these victims in need. Say what you want, but Diana, Princess of Wales never did any such thing. A copy of said cookbook has repeatedly sat on my kitchen counter as I have prepared meals from those recipes.

Yet, there is that blasted jagabat, Vicereen Bianca as pompous and full of shit as they come, hopping on the bandwagon in hopes of earning a few more pence so she can go shopping at Poundland to fill Castle Chav, for which she plays chatelaine whom no one on Avenue Foch to say nothing of Kensington Palace Gardens could care less about. With that cookbook, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did something that Diana, Princess of Wales and no other royal before her had pulled off or could, she effectively greatly humanised and endeared the royals to not just the Muslims of the Commonwealth but to the 2.5 billion Muslims the world over. Too, it matters with her biracial ambiguity that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is able to fluidly straddle ethnic, racial and religious lines where others in the royal family cannot.

Someone please remind Vicereen Bianca, Monsieur Gorgon et al who are so quick to racially foam at the mouth that after having been booed at Royal Albert Hall and Princess Michael of Kent, having sported the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s Buckingham Palace Christmas lunch in 2017, all the more reason why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex would require being sat alone with her two friends at Winbledon without having persons close to them so that she can enjoy a social situation without having the average garden variety bigot make cutting, racially predatory remarks about her for being within earshot. If you think that this is something which every black does not endure on a daily basis then you are free to go outside and see the Virgin Mother in the next cloud formations – funny how these delusional people never see comeback pussy when cloud-gazing,

Never once have Gorgon, Vicereen Bianca, Plattapuss et al made mention of that outright racist attack on the part of Princess Michael of Kent. First of all, for her deliberate racist action, she should not have been suffered at what also happened to have been a black wedding on May 19, 2018. Not only did she not represent, by her racist attack, HM The Queen, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal but she did not represent her husband, HRH Prince Michael of Kent and his mother, Princess Marina and her family the Greek and Yugoslav royals. For god sake, stop claiming to know what Diana, Princess of Wales would have thought or how she would have gotten on with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex when she, Vicereen Bianca cannot produce a single photograph of herself and the late Diana, whose son, Meghan’s loving husband, ought damn well to know more than the fabulist royal, to say nothing of arch-fantasist, or any other racially predatory, vile, obsessed arsehat.

With Jeffrey Epstein once again white hot in the media, far be it from Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Alanna Plattapuss and snivelling pompous racial predator par excellence, Pierre-Karol Gorgon who has conspicuously fallen catatonic with revelations of rather unseemly behaviour becoming of royals from the Earl Porchester’s minor proclivities and the minor royals’ being pimped out by crass parvenu fare from the Far East. Just imagine the field day these clowns would have if it were Harry & Meghan? Funny how they have all fallen silent. What a shame that Madame Safra did not expediently have Vicereen Bianca dispense with as so resoundingly Mr. Epstein has been. Alas, why should Madame Safra have when the Vicereen Bianca herself is fucking nobody…. let her live and suffer… indeed, a fate far worse than Epstein’s…. Poor, pompous miserable-arsed Vicereen Bianca über poseur (definitely not poseuse) having to drag arse through life in search of that can’t-come-soon-enough casket of hers.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

All their racially predatory braying, regardless how much they protest it having anything to do with race – the cowards never concede the obvious, this has all been seen before. The same mass hysteria Doria Ragland was familiar with in the 70s as the racial predators foamed and raged at bussing in Massachusetts. Earlier, too, in the 60s, just as now with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Doria would remember the water canons and dogs in George Wallace’s gallant South.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Just know this, no matter how much you vilify, demonise and slander Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is going nowhere. Social media and the amount of open racist animus that is directed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s way is not in the least surprising. Social media is merely an evolution of behaviour on the part of non-blacks when privately looking at television. One of the things I realised and it was something that Merlin actually pointed out to me when we were in the early days of our relationship in Manhattan: when whites are looking at television and someone black appears on the screen, their response will 9 of 10 times be negative. This can run from simply turning the channel, leaving the room or simply engaging in conversation and ignoring the television such that the black person on screen simply is not heard. There is nothing more infuriating than trying to look at a live television concert or event, like an awards show and the moment someone black walks out on stage, the negative noise pollution starts up. At one dinner party, on the Upper West Side, Merlin had invited Frederick Jones to come along as Merlin met with a set designer friend of his. Every time that someone black appeared on screen, the character assassination would kick off. Of course, it did not take too long before gifted milliner, Frederick Jones simply got up and walked out as more yapping ensued when Gladys Knight and the Pips began singing. At this point in life, I never look at television, when rarely I do, in the company of non-blacks; it is simply not worth the ghettoised racialised response, which manifests each time.

She, Meghan, and more importantly her soul when incarnate as Margaret Beaufort, not you Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Pierre-Karol Gorgon et al made possible Christ’s College Cambridge and St. John’s College Cambridge as a result of her soul’s effort in a past life. For being a fierce feminist in that illustrious past life as Tudor matriarch, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I, has a women’s college, Lady Margaret College, Oxford in her honour been established. Nothing you do here and now can invalidate that soul’s past accomplishments, no more than it can prevent her soul’s agendum in this lifetime.

Of course, it is understandable that with the discovery of King Richard III’s remains in 2012 with their reburial at Leicester Cathedral in 2015, we would discover that William Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard III as the hunchback monster was misguided. Indeed, it is not coincidental that Richard III would resurface within a couple of years of Meghan Markle’s ascendancy. Meghan’s soul, then Margaret Beaufort in her bid to secure the supremacy of the Tudor claim, had Richard III demonised. Now returned, and also mid-cycle mature-souled, Meghan finds herself beset with open animus. As much as this is in part due to rabid open racial animus, let’s not avoid facts, it is also because mid-cycle mature lives tend to come with a bit of self-karmic drama and some degree of infamy.

For having slandered Richard III, returned here Margaret Beaufort’s reincarnated soul, who is now now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, finds herself despite her considerable accomplishments when Margaret Beaufort, opposed and rejected. Nonetheless, she is possessed of a Venus/Solar body type, which means that she will, in time, transcend the current open animus and prove immensely popular and well-loved. Moreover, another mid-cycle mature-souled member of the House of Windsor happens to be Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. She too, owing to whatever went down in past lives, relative to this one, has seen her tried by fire, vilified and demonised; yet, she has handsomely weathered the storm of rabid gutter snipes being bitter bitches to emerge as one of the most loved, warm, august-souled royals. What’s not to love, she champions literacy, literature and hands out the Man Booker Prize each year!

All that aside, no matter how these race-baiting agitators vent, rant and instigate, they will change nothing. Their campaign has been so doggedly juvenile and at every turn, they fail. It all began with the Straight outta Compton missive and it has been one racially charged attack, assumption, innuendo-filled report after another. All have been transparently specious: There will never be an engagement; The Queen would never allow it. Then, indeed, when it happened, HM The Queen was dismissed as clearly demented. Meghan is not fit to be a royal. She has been married three times before. She is actually 41. Samantha is secretly raising her bastard child. She is just a z-list actress. She is a yacht girl, She was not properly vetted. She is a narcissist. She is vile; how could she not speak to her father? Doria is a felon and was imprisoned. She abandoned her dogs. She was living with Corey and seeing Prince Harry. I hate Prince Harry. Oh Harry what have you done? All that The Queen has worked for! That was not a royal wedding. All that gospel crap and all the celebrities; it made a mock of royal weddings. There was clearly tension in the marriage when Meghan brushed off Harry whilst sat in the quire at HRH Princess Eugenie’s marriage. Eugenie’s was a real royal wedding. Meghan’s dress was a disgrace and it did not fit.

Days after having decided that there was trouble in the Sussexes’ marriage, there was the announcement of the pregnancy; this was readily followed by Meghan being attacked: she is selfish and narcissistic, for having announced the pregnancy at Eugenie’s wedding; this of course when they had no idea when the rest of the Royal family was informed of the pregnancy. She bleaches her skin. None of those celebrities at her wedding know her. It was the worse wedding ever; definitely, it was not a royal wedding. All that money on clothes and she never looks good; they are all ill-fitting clothes. Thank god, she is such a terror that the queen has banished her to Frogmore Cottage, right next to Wallis Simpson’s grave. Prince William can see through her. She has caused nothing but trouble in the royal family. They need to be banished. She is Wallis Simpson reincarnated (never mind that you first have to die before reincarnating; Wallis died in 1986, five years after Meghan’s birth. Moreover, there is usually anywhere from 15 to 30 years, roughly twenty before most souls reincarnate). Harry doesn’t smile anymore. Harry is lost. Harry is pussy-whipped. She is not pregnant. Pillow gate. Stop clutching that bump. There is a pillow, see how it moves. She is not pregnant. She is definitely using a surrogate. Oh my god, she is writing notes on the bananas, who does that? Who does she think she is? Thank god William was born first. Kate is a real princess. Catherine is pure class; never puts a foot wrong.

This campaign of race-baiting and hatred is but a macrocosm of the microcosmic dynamic which is acted out in families all too often. A perfectly balanced child is projected onto and bullied into fitting into some ascribed persona within the family’s iconographic dictates. Bob the little devil or Miranda the little Lolita when in fact, these archetypes have nothing to do with the subject of the projection. Daily attack articles and specious speculative articles in the print medium to further incite the public to hatred changes nothing. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is phenomenally popular across the Commonwealth, in particular amongst blacks. This need to vilify Meghan is rooted in the collective psyche of white tribalism, which feels itself tasked with having to remain top baboon as it were as the white population in Western Europe contracts and is further stressed by the burgeoning Islamic population in its midst. This need to play soap opera with the royals is part and parcel of that dynamic need to be on top… and always winning, One must ever be in control and be first, better than and all that maya. This is why Simon Cowell has become phenomenally wealthy; he is simply tapping into the tribal zeitgeist. Cowell knows damn well that regardless how good a singer is, he can depend on the predominantly white audience be it in America or the UK to choose a white contestant over a non-white any and every time. This phenomenon precisely is why Jennifer Hudson did not win during the year that she appeared on American Idol. There is a grudging need to bar, hamper and eclipse the non-white other, in favour of one’s own. If this truly racialised paradigm existed in the 1960s, there would have been no Aretha Franklin, no Patti Labelle, Chaka Khan et al – simply too black. Indeed, in this racialised caste system, the global paradigm does exist just as much as the current environmental collapse such that were Henry to have chosen a Chinese, East Indian or Jewish bride, though, there would have been pockets of disapproval, it would have been comparably muted at best and nowhere near the lynch mob intensity that animus towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become, thanks in large part to the orchestrated propaganda produced by racially predatory boors like Pierre-Karl Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss and Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown.

Of course, in all of this, they keep focussing on Meghan as they are so perplexed by the rumbling tectonics in the Cambridges’ marriage. Recently at the revived King’s Cup Regatta 2019 at the Isle of Wight, there was Catherine being her steely warrior-spirited self. After receiving her wooden spoon for placing last, the female who placed second along with William her husband, took to the stage and on receiving her champagne tried to get next to William and in a move that was pure warrior canny, Catherine shimmied with lightning ease into place and thereby blocked the woman from getting close to ‘her’ man. Throughout their stay on the stage William made no mistake about telegraphing how utterly disinterested and fed up he is, having to be stuck with Catherine. Naturally, none of this will ever be reported by the likes of Pierre-Karol Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss, nor will there be another shrill blast from the pompous ass, Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown herself (himself). Every warrior is the dominant partner in any relationship and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is no exception that is why I am fully confident that she will fare better than Diana, Princess of Wales did; moreover, Diana an artisan was doing battle with her warrior partner, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

William is immensely innately arrogant for being a scholar and his astrological stellium and his attitude number of 9 are precisely why in the above clip, he does not bow to HM The Queen. He sees himself as a Sovereign – as in all time is present; since he will be sovereign in the future, simultaneously he is sovereign in the past since birth and now. William with an attitude of 9 is incapable of not holding grudges and he very likely regards both his father and paternal grandmother as having been complicit in his mother’s demise.

William like every scholar incarnate will wander but he will always be miserable being with Catherine because she will suffer no Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall – herself a scholar soul. This is why though things got a little too chummy at Houghton Hall, it will only ever be whispered about; the chatelaine of Houghton Hall will never displace Catherine as future Princess of Wales. Try coming between task companions and good luck with trying to displace that task companion, who happens to be a warrior – not happening.

In the meantime, William will just have to merrily go roving along as is his scholarly and princely wont to find other prey. Just as Melissa Percy had no intention of sharing either her man or her bed, so, too, strong-willed, warrior Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge will never be dislodged by another. Thus Thomas van Straubenzee is on to marriage number two, which will no doubt leave William with continued full access to both his loyal public school special chum and Thomas’ blissfully unaware blonde walker.

Fascinatingly enough, as the days drift by after Jeffrey Epstein convenient expiration, there is a gnawing, burgeoning silence as that vile, toxic bigot remains conspicuously silent, News of the World vile snob and bigot, Gorgon. Please dear god, let his name appear just once somewhere in association with Jeffrey Epstein, The Trump-loving, nasty racist parasite… just one photograph; that is all it takes to have the tables turn on that fucking nez brun, snivelling twat, Pierre-Karol Gorgon. These racial predators who use the print medium to race-bait as they know law number one being, familiarity breeds contempt. Yes, indeed, every day multiple scathing articles against Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

What more proof does one need that these gutter snipes are purely racially focussed in their agendum of attacking Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex? Somehow, the very real spectre of paedophilia raises its can’t- shake head and not a peep out of these persons, who so claim to love their venerable institution, the Monarchy. How or when pray tell has Meghan been a paedophile or when did she take funds from crass, foreign parvenu fare? No indeed, not a single winded turn, grandstanding with faux indignation of Meghan being unsuitably common and a dark blemish on royalty that must not be suffered overlong.

Indeed, this is a civilisation where one does not have to think; you are simply groomed to form opinions on anything. Naturally, it is a culture that prides itself on being negative; one sees being negative as a good thing. After 60 years of television, the same negative, readily racially predatory animus towards blacks had a new outlet in being able to comment, anonymously no less, on the internet – just as one has done for 7 decades in the privacy of one’s home when looking at television. With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, we have reached a new plateau in mob rule… Indeed, it is a new form of lynching wherein Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become surrounded by a forest of burning crosses as these non-blacks in their lust for blood and addiction to hate have never been more ecstatic. And everyone of these people will let you know that it has nothing to do with race and they all, for one being black, have to mention out of the blue how, they can’t stand or they just hate that Meghan.

Who has time for anything but apathy when seeing Notre Dame Cathedral ablaze indeed. Enough of giving a damn; no more of this Pray for Paris fare on social media… just not worth it. The week following the Jeffrey Epstein suicide, homicide – you decide – old Gorgon goes into hiding and is conveniently on a break – goodness knows, unless he is in hibernation en route to Mars, there is no reason why News of the World potty-mouth should not be foaming at the mouth about unroyal-like conduct. Alas, there is more acrimony against the Sussexes, while the Cambridge’s privately jet to Mustique and they to Spain, though, the Sussex’s trip is less taxing on the environment, the Sussexes are labelled eco-hypocrites.

Then to top off the week, new polling numbers show that Catherine is now more popular than Meghan and even Harry, thanks to Meghan’s negative impact has slipped in popularity. Well guess what Einsteins, Diana Krall was more popular than Natalie Cole, Shirley Horn, Nancy Wilson and Betty Carter combined. Simply put, tribalism is more pronounced with Caucasians than any other group. They will ever hate, hiss and boo Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in the United Kingdom; indeed, no predominantly non-black Commonwealth nation has yet extended the Sussexes an invitation, though, HM The Queen, appointed them Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors – a title which was largely due in part because HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge has yet to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation and with an attitude number of 9, numerologically, nothing would get him to budge on touring such countries. Naturally, with the marriage of Henry & Meghan, though, he has previously toured those countries, predominently non-white, non-black Commonwealth Singapore and Malaysia have invited the Cambridges to tour autumn 2019, in an obvious move to show their disfavour at Henry having married the black woman.

What would move Elton John to make this impassioned post to his Instagram account about the racially predatory abuse that TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are being subjected to? Elton John like model, Lauren Hutton, James Middleton, Madonna and every gap-toothed adult Caucasian was in his immediate past life black. Not surprisingly, Elton was the only non-black on the AIDS charity anthem of 1985, That’s What Friends Are For. The abuse has gone way beyond the line and one can no longer idly stand by and say nothing.

There she is Madonna and if ever one needed validation that this is someone who is completely at ease and accepting of blacks’ humanity, you need no further proof. There are people the world over, not least Hollywood, who would find it extremely uncomfortable being in the same room as someone black. Madonna’s extended family and the love between her and David Banda as well as all her other children is all the validation one needs that in her immediate past life she was Bessie Smith and prior to that, a few lifetimes before, 17th century Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

“Race is everything and yet it is nothing…” a phrase Merlin often repeated during our seven years together at the incidences of racism which he witnessed for being my lover. Naturally, Canada has yet to invite the Sussexes on a tour – though, one can hardly be surprised at that. 70 million Britons may hate Meghan’s guts but there are close to a billion blacks in the Commonwealth for whom the Sussexes will always matter. Meanwhile, there were no body language experts waxing overlong about William’s aloofness at the King’s Cup Regatta. The fact that Gorgon, Bianca et al are not writing about the obvious problems in the Cambridges’ marriage does not mean that it does not exist. Goodness, they have just spent a whole week in the 24/7 news cycle of 21st century online news media, making positively no mention of Jeff Epstein and the troubling connections that the Earl Porchester clearly had with the conveniently deceased paedophile whose autopsy showed from the broken neck vertebrae that he was a likely murder rather than suicide.

150 years hence, historians will look back at the Cambridge’s marriage and point to whatever drama unfolds between now and then and point to their rowing en route to Buckingham Palace from Westminster Abbey and Catherine’s rude dismissal of William whilst they stood on the balcony being celebrated and William’s fate was being sealed. Who cares how adored you are by outsiders, being trapped in a miserable marriage must be sheer hell. No need to gloat about how more popular Catherine is than Meghan, which would not be the case had Henry married blonde Chelsy Davy or Cressida Bonas. Indeed, if Henry had married a Chinese, East Indian or Jew, though, there would doubtless be resentment, it would by no means be so rabid and unrelentingly feral.

The fact remains, when and where it matters most, it is a public role and all the scathing, derogatory, race-baiting articles notwithstanding, Meghan’s commanding performance at the 2018 British Fashion Awards was a salvo which illustrated why she has more star power than Catherine and no amount of hatred is going to change that. It has been cruel to watch how Catherine is being jousted to get out there and suddenly make speeches.

God lord, the poor woman is not then and never will be in her element; she is glorious at being Catherine, future Queen Consort, sporty and ever steely but being speech-giver is no forte of hers – never has been, never will be. The sad thing about Meghan’s speech at the 2018 British Fashion Awards is that it has been heavily edited and only now carried by the Royal Family’s YouTube channel. It is almost as if, Meghan cannot to be seen to be outshining Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge; moreover, I think that palace mandarins may have deemed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s speech too political.

One should never forget the song which the Kingdom Choir sung as the newly wedded TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel Windsor Castle, This Little Light of Mine. No amount of racial animus or hatred will ever be able to eclipse the light of the soul which, when previously incarnate, was the Tudor Matriarch, Queen Mother to Henry VII, grandmother and favourite adviser to Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I.

Good god! Talk about true hypocrisy! Where in the hell are Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown and that louche bigot whose unsavoury deeds precipitated News of the World’s demise, Pierre-Karol Gorgon? That’s right, not a peep out of them. This is the same royalty that they have been defending against the likes of the descendant of enslaved Africa and a hustler to boot, being deemed not fit to be royal. Imagine that, the black woman excoriated with coded language like hustler well at least she is not a blasted paedophile! There is damn value in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being welcome as she was by HM The Queen and her gracious father-in-law, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, she is articulate, intelligent, strong-willed and has commanding stage presence; she is indeed the beau idéal when one wants to address and engage the Commonwealth, which is predominantly brown and black.

Well at long last Pierre-Karol Gorgon has come out of hiding! What does the no-balled fucker do, he blithely goes back to excoriating TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and pretending as though the biggest story in the House of Windsor has not reared its ugly head yet again. Yes, clueless, dickless one, keep caterwauling like the true castrato that you are but ignoring the elephant in the room, does not make it go away. There you go, karma has served up Epstein’s corpse go on carrion, no need to be bashful, go ahead and start feasting on the real story to be writing about and growing incandescent with rage. Fucking no-balled racial predator, you try convincing the rest of us that Meghan is not royal enough and your animus is not in the least rooted in racial hatred.

Your racial animus towards HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having married the black woman notwithstanding, do be very careful what you wish for. All this talk about: I cannot support this royal family anymore, they are nothing but hypocrites, nothing but scroungers. as soon as HM The Queen dies we need a referendum on the monarchy; we need to become a republic. In case you have not noticed, your marvellous empire Britannia is no longer a realm of white tribal homogeneity. Within your midst are persons who will never assimilate and within a generation of having declared a republic, you will end up with a succession of presidents, who will not look like you and who will want their religious laws, and get their religious laws become the law of the land. These presidents will have been groomed from birth to perceive you as the enemy who must be vanquished… go on keep being blinded by hatred of the black woman and see where it gets you.

But enough about bothering with blasted racial predators, who as karma would have it, has backhanded them good and hard with Jeffrey Epstein’s convenient, though by no means ended, demise. Now the drama royal, truly gets underway in coming months. Go on, likkle jagabat, let’s see your cocksucker mouth gag with indignation, feigned or otherwise, about the bold audacity to have mere paedophiles in one’s regal realm. Go on, we know you can’t afford to go grouse-hunting, time to eat crow… blasted fraud.

In the meantime, I have pre-ordered my very own copy of Master Andrew Lownie’s deliciously indulgent exposé about one of my favourite rats, Earl Louis Mountbatten… Oh Louella darling, clutch your pearls, lick your lips, it’s going to prove a true bibliophilic gourmand’s wet dream… and infinitely better fare than that trifling garbage that ought rightly to have been pulped! I cannot wait to read this book! When Merlin was first hospitalised with full-blown AIDS, at Toronto’s St. Michael’s Hospital in January 1988, he began ferociously re-reading every book that had brought him the greatest pleasure; this is someone who concluded reading a book each day. One of the books he shared with me as he knew what books I most loved, was this wonderful book about Mahatma Gandhi’s life; of course, one of the first films we saw together was Gandhi at the Ziegfeld in Midtown Manhattan way after midnight, after we had been to dinner, fucked like rottweilers then headed off into the night, holding hands – a thing which back in 1982, you most definitely could not then have done in Toronto, and saw a film that moved us to tears. There within the covers of that biography, I discovered the most ravishingly fascinating couple, Louis & Edwina Mountbatten. Now, there was a true vicereen!

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Lesson In Older Soul Lovemaking.

August 14, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

So, on Friday, November 3, 1995, as the gibbous Moon waxed in Pisces – measurably drifting across my tenth house – I would dream this dream which concerned the dynamic between both Merlin and Oleg.

*For the record, Oleg in a previous incarnation was the English writer, Charlotte Bronte. END.

______________________________________________________________

A house that much reminded me of the one in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts proved the setting for this most potent dream. There were five of us here; although, one person’s identity now eludes me. There in the living room, seated on the blue sofa of our Crab Hill home, was Merlin with his back to the north. Directly behind him was the five-foot oblong mirror; it was hung against the living room’s wall. On the other side of that wall, in the waking sate, was Harella’s bedroom.

Here in the dreamtime, which was definitely astral plane in focus, the living room was elongated; it was more oblong-shaped, along a north-south axis. Merlin’s right side was closer to the veranda and the main road with the McHughs across the road. Across the room from me, with her back to the street and facing due east, was Gita Gurucharan – Oberon Samuelson’s lovely wife and mother to miracle worker extraordinaire, Vijayalakshmi Gurucharan. Oleg de Brontë was seated directly opposite Merlin. There was a man, to my immediate left, who sat directly opposite Gita. Whilst I was closer to Merlin than anyone in the room, I was not however sharing the sofa with him.

Abruptly, Merlin got up and took his leave of us. He went into Harella’s bedroom. The others had dropped by to visit. It was clear, early on, that Merlin simply wasn’t into it. There was strain to the social dynamic which Merlin put an end to – he rudely took his leave of us. This was so unlike his former self during his recently-concluded incarnation. Yet, I fully understood where he was coming from. Whilst being in the soul state, he was now more so his true self. This gathering of persons represented the past to him, which at this point, clearly served no interest for him.

I then got up and stood next to Gita who was on my right. After Merlin rudely took his leave of us, we had all silently gotten up. To say the least, it was awkward. As we faced towards the dining room, our backs were now to the veranda. Filling the void that Merlin’s departure had created, Gita and I began making conversation. To say the least, it was a strained, canned affair. Here, I was keenly aware of how much I am dismissed as a social misfit. I was aware that these were persons who had long ago decided that I was not the swiftest of souls – I don’t indulge in clever repartee and such plastic aggressiveness when socialising.

The Black man then came over; he was tall and handsome with a gorgeously mesomorphic body. He stood to my left, directly facing Gita, and began talking. There were a lot of pauses here; they were trying to get me to shove off by firmly excluding me. Finally, I dryly said, “Well, I’m going to go and see how my man is doing.”

I then walked between the chairs, on which Oleg and the Black man sat, as though heading for the boys’ bedroom rather than Harella’s to which Merlin had retreated. I then, however, made an abrupt turn left going instead through the door from the living room to Harella’s bedroom. On entering the bedroom, I saw that Merlin was lying in the girls’ bedroom next-door. Merlin seemed as though asleep. He did look as though ill with full-blown AIDS. It was not, however, distressing to have seen him thus; I was lucidly awakened here.

Initially, when out in the living room, Merlin looked robust and even leaned towards a robust, mesomorphic body type. It was clear though that having to visit with these persons, from the past, had very much so enervated his spirits. Rather than sit there interminably, enduring what was an unpleasant situation for him, he thankfully had taken refuge when he had. On drawing closer to him, I gently caressed his face – all the while thinking of how difficult this was for him. I wanted to share some of my energies with him; I wanted to restore his. The vibrations from the living room, however, were distracting.

After excusing myself from Merlin, I returned to the living room. Immediately, I dramatically shifted personae and became rude. I told them to sit down, at which point, we all did. Oleg then got up after awhile; he was holding a long-necked, brown beer bottle. There were three empty identical ones on the floor and next to his chair. There was no mistaking the fact that he was drunk.

‘Who the hell gets drunk on the astral plane anyway?’

Oleg wore a woollen jacket that was dark and nondescript. Incidentally, on my return, the Black man was no longer present. In his place was a White man with the same physical description; he came over trying to save face. The unfamiliar man charmingly suggested that it was time that they pushed off. Oleg had gotten very drunk indeed; he was not at all being belligerent. It turned out that Oleg had gotten emotionally distraught – about Merlin’s condition; he was upset at the way that things had turned out between them. The fact that things were unresolved between them, at the end of Merlin’s last life, caused Oleg a great deal of distress.

He did not know how else to deal with it; thus, Oleg got miserably drunk. I wanted to be of solace to Oleg, however, since my energies were already committed to being with Merlin that option proved a nonstarter. Clearly, Gita and the other man had been there to try and broker some sort of peace between Oleg and Merlin. Obviously, Merlin was not up to it. At one point, I had actually headed to the dining room and called back to Oleg. My voice rang out as I asked Oleg if he wanted another beer.

This was the point at which the unfamiliar White man had interrupted and declined the offer; instead, he suggested that they take their leave of Merlin and me. Oleg, of course, was inclined to take another drink. I did not like my role here – that of keeping Oleg grounded by drink. Certainly, it did give the impression that I was trying to block any resolution or any communion between both him and Merlin. Although, to be honest, Oleg had begun drinking after Merlin had left the room. It was quite embarrassing really. Oleg could hardly get up – let alone stand on his own.

The man had had to rush to Oleg’s aid. Like Merlin in the bedroom, Oleg was completely enervated though he had used alcohol to drown his pain. Oleg was devastated that Merlin was not going to return. More importantly, Oleg knew that Merlin had positively no intentions of suffering him for a minute. The man threw his arms about Oleg and braced him up. More than that, he was fortifying his very spirit.

Again, I took my leave of them in the living room and headed back for Merlin. However, I did not spend time visiting with Merlin. On returning to the bedroom, I got a long, black, woollen evening coat. It was rather expensive and cut close to the body. Bearing the coat, I returned to the living room where I insisted that Oleg take it to stay warm. For not realising that he had been drinking to excess, I had felt badly. He was truly distraught; nothing pained me more than seeing this truly beautiful man’s spirit in disrepair.

Whilst his White friend got him into the coat, I stood in back of a disjointed Oleg and held the evening coat open. Interestingly enough, Oleg’s handsome, Black friend earlier was the same handsome Black man, with the striking resemblance to Maxwell Bowleson – he had appeared with him in that august-energied dream, on Friday, July 21, 1995. Eventually, they all took their leave of the house; they were rather low-key when doing so. When I had returned to the living room, after having visited with Merlin in the girls’ bedroom, Gita had not said anything further.

No sooner than had they all left the house that Merlin came out to the living room to join me. I was surprised to see that he was again looking so healthy. Directly opposite Merlin, I now sat alone. Merlin silently sat there. Whilst consciously sending him loving energies, I held my back erect. Much to my surprise and amusement, Merlin carried a large, clear plastic bag with about 1.5 pounds, likely more, of marijuana. Merlin meticulously rolled a large thick joint with all the Zen focus as he had when incarnate.

I sat there being truly blown away at the sight. I had completely forgotten the sublime, almost Zen, sight of Merlin rolling a joint. Moments like this were when Merlin really turned up the hues of his magus nature. It was a groove into which he slipped, in order to conceptualise – to non-linearly think. These ganja joints were so thick that they looked like short white cigars; they certainly smoked profusely like a cigar does. I was mildly humoured by Merlin’s realness. It was grounding.

On looking up, Merlin paused before lighting up and turned up the sensual hues in his large brown – which they were not when incarnate – eyes. Coolly, Merlin intoned, “I have no intentions of seeing these people…”

He then pursed the fat joint in his rosy lips and lit up. Casually, Merlin blew on a long even breath that readily perfumed the air with its pungent aroma. Up to that point, the room was sillaged by that most glorious of scents patchouli – it was Merlin’s favourite fragrance. As an afterthought, Merlin added that Oleg had intended to come back tomorrow and join him for lunch. There was supposed to be some woman or other present then.

Apparently, it was not going to be either Morag O’Hoare or Gita Gurucharan. I don’t know who she was supposed to be but it was also definitely not Elektra Skanczchowicz – and definitely not Hélène Plotte-Visage. Merlin took his time and drew on another breath. He then announced that the luncheon had been arranged by none other than Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny. Merlin, however, was not into it. “Are you sure that you’re going to be up to it?” I asked obviously concerned.

As I looked across the room at Merlin, I spent a great deal of time being spiritually focussed and sent him energy. What was really interesting in this process was that with his long even breaths, when dragging on the ganja joint, I used his breathing rhythm to become harmonised with his vibration. The focussed process of sharing my energy with him was very potent – real. The energy flowed with great ease. For being intensely lucid, I thought of elevating my vibration’s frequency. I had hoped to thus cycle off a ton of my energy into Merlin. I accomplished this by envisioning us both encircled by spheres of intense blue-white light. Soon, I saw my energy body cycling off a coil of white light.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

This light originated both from the top and bottom of the sphere of light which completely enveloped my seated body. The light travelled the distance between us, across the room, some seven feet away at most. It made contact with both poles of his energy body’s identical sphere’s integrity. Together, we were truly in communion soul-to-soul. The interesting thing here was that we both continued casually visiting though I knew that Merlin was keenly aware of the energy work that was being accomplished between us. As he continued his detached Zen-like smoking, I knew that it served as a backdrop to his being receptive of the energy work that I was doing on his behalf. Our breathing was completely synchronised.

I used each inhalation to draw off the negative vibrations. It was this energy that had caused him to become completely enervated when seated opposite Oleg whom he clearly had no desire to have encountered. Merlin then chose to abruptly retire, whilst the others visited, to the girls’ bedroom to crash. With each exhalation, I sent him intense, white-light energy that was being liquidly drunk by his energy body. The marvellous thing about this entire experience was how utterly feminine Merlin’s modalities were. This was in marked contrast to my very masculine, martial, warrior-energied focus.

It was truly a validation of the creative principle, Merlin being yin to my yang. Together we were becoming whole. Together our energies were perfectly harmonised. As a result, Merlin’s energies were thusly realigned. Too, for being in this very expansive state, I caught brief glimpses of the outlines of the light energies that were being manifested between us. During the moments when he would exhale potent puffs of smoke, I observed the manifested spheres of light each time. The smells of the patchouli and ganja, combined with the ganja’s smoke, created the effect. I was so grounded for being here in this astral plane reanimation of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house. It was a truly sublime shamanic experience.

It was clear that Merlin had no desire to experience unpleasant aspects of the past. As he sat there, Merlin waited for the air to clear; he waited for the ganja to wane and the strobe of the light spheres to fade out before replying, “No, no. It’s okay. I’ll be okay…” As Merlin spoke for the first time, he looked healthier than he had looked at any point before during our astral plane dream encounter. Earlier, he was lying on his stomach with his left cheek on the pillow; his face looked out the door that led to the room from Harella’s bedroom. There was a cool sheen of sweat then that covered his brow and body; he laid there looking truly wasted.

Even his breathing was loud then. As I patted his cool brow, I could hear the crackling in his lungs that suggested that he was again suffering from a bout of pneumocystis. On soothing his spirit, I had brushed the wet strands of his shoulder-length hair from his brow. It was so very good to have seen Merlin. The most exquisite pleasure of being in his presence was the great sense of peace that I felt for seeing him whole again. The simple act of his rolling a joint was, for me, on the order of bliss; he was transcendent. Of course, as was the case during our relationship in the waking state, he did not offer me a toke of the cigar-like joint.

I do know that I found the second-hand smoke pleasurable. It was sweet; it did much to relax me, along with the focussed deep breathing that I independently did – that we did in unison and which had been triggered by his breaths when smoking the joint. Feeling the need to come down from the intense energy work that I had accomplished with Merlin, I got up and walked slowly over to Merlin. I asked him if he was going to be okay on his own. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about; he would be fine. I knew it too. So with that, I took my leave of him. In a bid to move back into my regular-dream body, I went out to get some air on the veranda.

He assured me that I did not need to come back, later on, and join him. He would be quite okay to handle things on his own, he assured me. I believed him. Merlin simply glowed throughout; his cheeks were flushed and fleshy even. Merlin looked centred and genuinely contented. I then found some ice cream, beneath one of the living room chairs, which earlier I had been eating. Naturally, it was not all that great as it had melted down and lost its flavour.

______________________________________________________________________

Yeah groovy people, you know the score, just plié, push off and fly like when you have just had the greatest sex and dance as if this gorgeous planet ain’t nobody’s property but yours. I love you more.

______________________________________________________________________

Buster En Repose Pyramid Green Room.

August 10, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

(L to R,) Yonge Street Mask (George Hawken Lithograph 1971), Pink Chair (George Hawken Lithograph 1990 of yours truly; there are only three copies in existence) Woman (George Hawken Lithograph 1980) Sockeye Salmon (Bill Reid Lithograph 1991), Four Standing Figures (Henry Moore Lithograph 1978)

Buster is a really keen familiar. Recently, someone of dubious intentions visited my home; needless to say, I had dreamt of the encounter days prior. As he spends long hours therein, Buster came from the pyramid and promptly hissed at the individual then returned to the pyramid where no doubt, he communed with his Egyptian ancestors. He only ever enters the pyramid at the eastern corner and when meditating will face one of the four corners in the sphinx position and remain thus for long hours.

Buster loves that duvet; therefore, year round I have to sleep with one. Now that it is summer, I avoid roasting beneath the down duvet by having the AC on high 24/7. Bad carbon footprint; then again, I don’t drive.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Poetry Most Rare: A Rose Like No Other.

August 5, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

As the dreams of Merlin after his passing betray, our relationship endured beyond dimensions. This enduring love allowed my growth to continue. This love allowed me to become immensely enriched for having known Merlin. This dream betrays the continued spiritual growth that I experienced. This growth was much enhanced for having known and loved Merlin, before meeting him, during our seven-year relationship and after his passing.

The dream occurred, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and my third house. At the time of this dream, I was visiting Pandora in Paris. On this trip to Paris, I would meet the delightful Louka Duplessis. Clearly, the dream touched on past life experiences in France but, more importantly, it reflected my spiritual maturation during the course of this lifetime. The dream chronicles my ascension to new plateaux spiritually as mirrored in the dreamtime.

The dream in question also occurred in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day. Too, it was the second of four dreams that day.

I was staying in this old building. It was a normal six-storeyed, Parisian pied-à-terre. The windows across the way were naked of any drapes. The window, from which I looked, allowed me a view into the third storey windows across the street. There was no fencing between the properties and both buildings were fairly close. It was an old building and it was situated in the rear of the property. I was two storeys higher up whilst looking down at this guy. He was mesomorphic, developed and swarthy. He was definitely of North African descent.

This man was head of the household guard of the limestone mansion. This mansion was not unlike the one I passed by, last night – that is, in that dream experience, wherein Tina Turner performed her heart out, on the mansion’s veranda. It was, however, not that palatial home – in that dream, the residence was a bungalow which this certainly wasn’t. This building though was many storeys tall. I instinctively knew that I was the owner but, somehow, my life was now in danger. He, for being part of the household guard, was fiercely loyal. He saw to it that I was kept securely insulated. I was kept secured in the abandoned building, in the rear, since no one would be expected to go looking for me there.

The building that I was in was old and missing all of its window panes. He sat there, on the third storey, on a red velvet chaise longue. On his immediate right sat a woman. Seemingly, she was a daughter of one of the maids. The household staff here was quite large. He was lounging back, on the backrest, stroking her long brunette mane. I could tell from his rhythmic stroking of her head that he was aroused and that she was more than likely giving him a blowjob. I couldn’t, however, make out his cock from my perspective. He was, at the very least, exposing himself to her and wanted her to give him head. She, however, was being very cautious.

Obviously, he was easily made impatient by her inaction. From his energies, I could tell that he would likely soon overpower her and force her to go down on him. Frankly, I did not approve of him abusing a woman thus. However, it was a situation that she had little control over although it was clear that she did not want to do it. Since it was my house, I wanted to go there and intercede on her behalf. In any event, I really did not like being held up in this confining space.

To have been caught up in this sort of situation, it proved truly stifling of my energies. More than that, I wanted to kick some arse because he was abusing his powers by manipulating his subordinate. I did not approve of this at all and, more importantly, I also didn’t want anyone in my employ to be abused thus. So I managed to make my way back down into the palatial digs.

Entering at the ground level, as I progressed, the main foyer was fairly empty. Here there were lots of large columns that were wooden and in the Gothic style. The ceiling here was wooden with flying buttresses. This was a very high-ceilinged affair that was easily two storeys. The floor was tiled with black-and-white marble with each tile being some two-and-one-half feet square. It was very beautiful here with a very shiny polish to the floor. As I walked, I wore riding boots and had a very strong, demonstrative stride. At times, as I did not want to be heard making my approach, I was being very slight.

Instinctively, I knew where to be forceful in stride but I also knew where to be otherwise slight. All of this was about announcing my presence to certain persons therein. I then began mounting the very dark-wooded, high-glossed, polished staircase to the landings. I was impressed with just how clean the household staff kept the place. There was much loving care put into their jobs. I was warmed by this and knew that it reflected their respect for me. Clearly, I was a good steward in their lives – one who cared about their well-being. Each storey of the large staircase had a square landing which looked out to the landings below. Though I had not taken the time to look up, as it was very brightly illumined, there just may have been a skylight overhead the staircase. When I did look up, on one of the landings, I saw a woman a couple of storeys up. She was older and wore a greyish smock.

Her head she kept tied in a turban with white, heavy-looking fabric. On seeing me, she rushed back away from the landing. Straight away, I went stealthily speeding up the stairs without as much as a sound. When I got to her landing, I slipped into this back room that was one to which I knew she would have retreated. This was the chambermaids’ quarters. Very wide-eyed and full of fear she let me know, right off the bat, that she did not know anything. Clearly, she was trying to cover for the fact that the house guard had been overpowering the woman. She did not want to get involved. More to the point, she did not want him avenging himself of her.

The young woman may even have been her daughter yet she was not prepared to risk her security. Hissing, I interrogated her but she was so overcome with fear that she avoided becoming caught up in the politics of it all. She understandably felt obliged to do as I said yet she was sexually acculturated, to be subservient to men, such that she simply couldn’t bring herself to defy any man. Even a corrupt one whom she knew was not my superior, she simply could not cross. The attacker was a feared and forceful man – sadistic. Seeing that he was part of the palace’s security, he could easily have her killed and made it look like an accident. She knew this only too well.

This very shrewd woman had no misgivings as to just what lengths male ambition would go to assure its self-preservation, most especially, at the expense of the opposite sex. Indeed, she too had once been a young woman. She had clearly had to learn some hard lessons about the hearts, rather the lack thereof, of men a long time ago. She was, if nothing else, shrewdly pragmatic. He was to be feared. She was not in the world to provoke or affect change. I assured her that she would be protected then sent her to her quarters. I then took my leave of her. We spoke exclusively in French.

She was clearly multiple-generational peasant stock and from northwestern France which I deduced from her accent. A very self-deprecating individual and one possessed of pronounced humility. From there, I went rushing back out onto the stairs. As I approached she had been tipping off others, in a hushed voice, to the fact that I was returned to the house. Just as I was beginning to come down the stairs, the North African captain of house’s guard came out. He stood on the landing, one flight above me, very impatiently asking who the devil I was.

He demanded to know who this intruder – meaning me – was. I was frankly humoured by his bravura, so smiled at him, and thought to play along. Whilst standing there very regally, I thought to call him by his name thereby calling him on his temerity. Instantaneously, he flashed this unusually large, black weapon which seemed part rifle, part spear. The top of the spear was all gold-leafed as a bayonet would be speared. It was not unlike the top of the wrought iron fencing that girdled the property which I would notice afterwards when leaving the property. Still very casually, I mockingly tossed my hands in the air and begged for his mercy.

“Fine, if you want to treat me as an intruder, go right ahead. I’m not an intruder…” I said, not liking the flow of this exchange.

When he suddenly began shooting at me, I was certainly surprised. The shots explosively came, a volley of five rounds, at me. When they were discharged they came at me with quite an incredible force. It was as though, at will, I was able to slow down the bullets. I saw the bullets’ progression in slow-motion. Each shot appeared as if streaks of red light coasting through the air. Starting out on target, directly towards me they came. I managed, my mind totally focussed, to will them to avert making contact with me. Every one of them ended up veering off to the right.

He barked a grunt of displeasure on seeing that the bullets had not made his intended mark. He drew the gun again to try once more. I knew that this man was quite a good marksman yet he never did catch me. Making like I really was an intruder, after he had finished his second attack, I began bolting down the steps. I manically scurried, down to the ground floor, all the whilst he kept on firing after me as I fled. Even with my back turned, I was able to maintain my mental focus and escaped being shot by him. Still focussed, I continued directing the bullets away from me. The thing about the bullets was how incredibly powerful they were. As they sped by, like the high-speed trains here in Europe do, each bullet created the same gravitational drag.

*This led me to the conclusion that when one is struck by sniper fire, it is a very impactful occurrence. As a matter of fact, the soul itself simply gets suddenly knocked out of being focussed in the body. It is clearly a jarring experience. The soul, at such times, is instantaneously slapped back to the astral plane in mere femtoseconds. END.

On rushing down to the ground floor, I took cover under the canopy of the second storey’s landing. When the bullets would strike the ground floor’s marble tiles, they zinged and sounded much like swords noisily clashing against stone during battle. It did cause me to wonder if the weapon’s ammunition were not, as it were, tiny spears. Rapidly travelling, the tiny spear-like bullets created a fiery streak of light whilst tearing through space. The friction of the bullets’ speed was what would have ignited space’s explosive oxygen. The bullets were experienced in exquisite close-up, gnawing away at the fabric of space, as if some fiery eagle lancing through the air to make the kill.

From under the cover of the landing, I ran across the foyer over to this large secretaire. The secretaire did not have any gold leaf detailing on it but it was very large and beautifully designed. Jumping onto it, I went there to be out of range of his gunfire. He did, however, keep on shooting at me. Naturally, I continued defending myself by deflecting every shot he directed my way. Pretty soon the shots were ricocheting. Some shots did serious damage to the secretaire. Not wanting to completely destroy it, I leapt off the secretaire. In a streak of unbridled energy, I went bolting outside through the large heavy doors. As I made it through the doors, I could hear him coming down the stairs after me.

By this point, he was being joined by other house guards whom he had called to his aid. Obviously, he had inspired the other guards to turn against me. This was truly an upsetting surprise for me. I ran into the most beautiful garden imaginable. Not unlike the other garden, before the sprawling bungalow that I had dreamt of the night earlier where Tina Turner sang, was this one. However, this garden was considerably more extensive. Like a house afire, I went running down the garden path. Following the path that led from the front doors, I ran screaming my lungs out. As I worked off all that angst, it was part fear… it was part celebratory war cry.

In one leap, I bolted through the front gates. Yet again, it proved another very large, high, wrought iron, gold-leafed, spear-tipped fence. All that I could think of was that I had to get the devil lost and as soon as possible. Still running, fast as all hell, I had managed through the narrow streets to get myself onto a near-deserted off-street. This road seemed to border the abandoned building. It was another building which was in back of the mansion. Here it was definitely as if Paris but a few centuries earlier. It was as if the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s reign because the second empire architecture was not yet a ubiquitous fixture.

These were buildings that had a stone ground floor with the upper ones made of wood. Few of them, if any, had very little to no second empire signatures. It was the most minimalist empire detailing and as such it was not very widespread. The style here predominantly was Roman, rather than not, with some neo-classical signatures. Some of the roofs, in their prelude to the second empire sensibility, were more so like barn roofs than not – mansard-roofed they were. Whilst running down the off-street, I happened on a crowd of persons who were walking. All of them were dressed as if of another age. This was garb from an earlier time in Europe. Drab-coloured, heavy fabrics predominated here.

On forging ahead, I managed my way into the thick of them. They were a group of guys who were walking in the night-time streets. It was an indeterminate time of night. It could easily have been a full Moon or even coming on to dawn. As it was simultaneously dark, it was hard to discern. As a result, it was also not too bright. A strange light it was, which I think was also silvery-sooty, for being so choked with wood-burning fires partout. There was the sense also that there was heavy cloud cover that dappled the full force of the full Moon.

As I hid in amongst the throng, I noticed that there were also Black men present. They seemed to be headed off to go drinking at a bar. These men were, however, not a rowdy crowd. Neither were they singing nor, for that matter, were they being obstreperous. Some of them were telling tall tales and getting us in good spirits. It was an immediate warm group of energies. No sooner than had I joined them that the house guard, along with his henchmen, appeared at our rear. He began yelling at us, in a hostile tone, telling us to stop and give up.

We were stunned. At least, I was surprised that they had managed to find me. Next, they were indiscriminately shooting at us. Of course, I was the object of their hunt. Right away, I began ducking behind some of the larger-bodied guys in the group. One of the Black men turned on me on realising, that for being an outsider, that they were clearly trying to get me. He and some of the others in the group, who had their own guns, immediately began to shoot at me. Again, I began dodging the bullets and was able to run away.

I acrobatically tumbled, leapt and soared through the air, sometimes rolling on the ground, in hopes of escaping their fury and gunfire. This time – for fleeing so rapidly – I was able to easily dodge the bullets without having to focus my will on diverting their trajectory. However, there was one point, when he had shot at me that I had been of the opinion that he had shot me. He had shot at my legs catching me in both knees. Self-preservation demanded that I not look down at my knees. Had I done so, on seeing that I was wounded, I would have been paralysed to take further action.

All I wanted to do was to secure my escape from this tumultuous place with its volatile emotionality. For that reason, I kept on going and ran from the narrow-streeted place. Here in the street confrontation, as they streaked by at great speeds, I did notice that some of the bullets created a blue light. This occurred as the bullets gnawed into the fabric of space. Here, too, they were very powerful and created a sense of drag as they noisily zinged past me. Their sound was like that of some giant beast of prey, noisily rocketing in, before the kill.

Along the block, I caught wind of a crack between buildings. Straight away, I darted through the crevice. By shifting sideways, I had managed my way into the crevice thus. From this vantage point, I discovered that there was much fighting going down between both sides. The fighting unrelentingly kept up without me being directly affected. Meanwhile, I managed to inch my way further inwards and away from the street. Here the little crevice-like lane led back into a courtyard area. Pleased that I had made it to the courtyard, out of harm’s way, I took the time to enjoy the cool damp air of the enclosed space.

Clearly, no one ever made it into this courtyard. Winded, I needed to recharge my energies. Whilst there alone, I noticed that it was suddenly getting considerably brighter out. Intrigued, I began venturing from the courtyard to investigate the cause of the light change. Unmistakably, there towered from on-high a shaft of intense blue-white light. It went from the ground, in the distance, and extended up into the darkened night sky. This light was off to the left, as I looked on, and across the street from where the street battle was going down.

This manifestation was quite intense. It proved a constant bleed of energy. Simultaneously, one readily discerned that the flow of energy was moving in both directions. It was all very intense with a great deal of power to it – a power which you could feel. The quivering, almost liquid, undulating light gave off a tingling sound. This sound matched its non-static, shifting appearance. It was a cool sound like a whistling wintry wind. This light manifestation was rather intense.

Soon, I noticed that there was a column of white light which looked decidedly umbilical. It much reminded me of the umbilical light being which I saw descending from the sky, in that dream of Thursday July 7, 1988. Back then, in the dreams of July 7, 1988, it appeared as if a cetacean-like creature. However, it turned out to be a manifestation of some aspect of self, some aspect of the soul, which proved to be Merlin’s soul totem. Right away, I knew the significance of this dream. This dream was clearly all about one’s totemic symbology. Off in the distance, I could hear the tinny sound of persons speaking.

One particular woman was remarking that this was happening as a result of persons having recently been shot and died. In other words, this was a manifestation of their ascension to the next plane. She speculated that this was likely their spirits taking flight away from this age and time. Frankly, I got the sense that she did not know what she was talking about. Since I was in hiding, I knew that I couldn’t seek her out to correct her perception of what was truly taking place. I was really excited and strongly resonated with the nature of the experience.

Instinctively, I fully understood the whole process – both the imagery and meaning of the whole experience. Here however, I knew that I couldn’t call out to the light, as I had to the light on July 7, 1988. For obvious reasons, I stood there resonating with the light. I was being overwhelmingly energised by the light. With the greatest yearning, the greatest compassion, I began reaching out to the knowing light force. The umbilical cord of light next began snaking its way up, the column of blue light, like so many of the columns of smoke that rose up from the chimneys all about.

However, this was definitely not smoke at all. It was a nimbus-like, smoke-like, umbilical-like being of light. It was so very knowing, gentle, familiar and intimate in is sublime, graceful beauty. It was an umbilical cord of light that snaked up into the bosom of the shaft of blue-white light. When the cord of light got up into the massive clouded sky it began circling around, like some giant spiral galaxy viewed head on, up above in the night sky. On reaching the sky, the look of it as it circled was as if it were an illumined sea in the sky. Here, of course, the major source of light would have been submerged and just beyond the aqueous surface of the sea on high.

This, too, exactly mirrored what had happened on July 7, 1988. In both cases, it was as though the sea was now where the sky should have been. It was revolutionary. Just as in the earlier experience, four years before, there was no sea visible at the conventional terrestrial site of the sea. I was just inside the tiny lane, which was off a street, which was higher than anywhere else around. This gave me a really good view of what was going on in the distance. To again experience this magical occurrence, I again felt greatly inspired. This was definitely set a few centuries back in France.

If not set during late pre-revolutionary Paris, then the tumultuous times of the revolution and early Napoleonic times. If not Paris, it was definitely one of the larger cities but it was definitely in France. The light was so pure, so immensely intense indeed, it was breathtakingly beautiful. What’s more, the light on making contact with the sky simply billowed outwards and became a greater explosion of light. As it rippled outwards, the giant spiral galaxy of light would then spawn smaller spiralling encircling galaxies of light. No music ever created or experienced, could ever evoke the beauty of experience that this light did. It was quite simply looking into the bosom of the soul.

They soon became circles within circles that were fast-moving independent of each other. Whilst there were others which moved counter clockwise, some spiralled in a clockwise fashion. All this movement occurred in the greatest display of slow-motioned grace. This was power on an order that was mind-altering. It was as though my mind were being expanded into new uncharted realms of spirit and intellect. As four years earlier, the parallel experience had left me, I felt just as greatly inspired. Within each spiralling galaxy of light, there were sparks of light that reflected every colour of the rainbow.

In that sense, they were as if circling rainbows of light. Lights they were that created a form of music with their tingling sound. Inspired great music of the soul it was too. Whilst looking into them, I saw colours that have never been experienced on this side of the dreamtime before. It was so revolutionary to think that there could be colours beyond the known spectrum, yet, there they were. Even more interesting was the fact that these lights flickered in and out of existence. Each manifestation caused a resonant quiver at the solar plexus which itself had rippled outwards, in waves of ecstasy, to and from my very soul itself.

Thus these spirals were pulsating light at what, though seemingly random, was a rather orderly progression. With every flicker, my entire body was being inundated with the most intense stimulation of light, sound, emotion and awareness. Most of all, I was being inundated with love. Standing there, it was as though I were having the most thrilling flying dream experience whilst remaining perfectly motionless. My skin, as it were, had become peeled away. This heightened sensitivity allowed my every nerve ending to hungrily drink of the purity and intensity of the experience. This was so elevated an experience that it can never be adequately articulated by mere words.

It was so profound and so sublime that it was sheer simplicity. It would be like trying to describe a rose ad nauseam. A rose is manifested inspiration for it is creativity at its most sublime. For that reason, a rose is experiential and is totally beyond the realm of description. The rose is creative manifestation, as such, only one’s correspondent state of beingness allows one to experience its inspiring beauty. Beyond that, the rose simply is yet another symbol in the pantheon of acculturated signs. For every one of those symbols one has an automatic response. The symbol of the rose or anything, nine of ten times, causes one to never genuinely experience anything. The experience of the spiralling light, which only mushroomed outwards, grew more and more intense.

Its vibrational frequency kept on rising and pushing into octaves that previously I could not have fathomed. With this expansion, the blackened, aqueous night sky only grew more and more intensely and predominantly white-lighted. It was as though, as it slowly churned into greater actuality, it was hurricane season with some massively powerful storm cloud gathering strength. Where the umbilical cord of light broke through the surface, of the aqueous light surface on high, it became increasingly intense. So intense, in fact, that soon there was a break in the continuum of the medium there.

Now the light became even more intense than already it had been. The poor container of my relatively tiny body seemed unable to sustain so potent an experience for much longer. Soon, the light’s intensity waned as it had instantaneously mushroomed outwards forming a perfect circle. Within this supra-circle were the infinitely mushrooming circles of light wherein each was teeming with an array of pulsating spectra of lights. This was music on the order of the cosmic. This was truly music of the soul. Now the expanded supra-circle began flickering like some giant lightning storm.

There within its aqueous-looking light confines, the counter rotating circles began exploding in the most symmetrical and geometric shapes imaginable. Here, there were some geometric entities that are unknown to waking state thought which have as yet been discovered. In that sense, it was as if one were experiencing pure mathematics. Even though the whole thing looked like water, however, it was definitely light. Moreover, with the explosion of geometric shapes, it now looked like crystals that were made of pure light. They were light crystals which were spherical and simultaneously musical. They moved in amongst themselves without ever crashing into each other. This was pure creativity at its highest order. The whole thing was a very molecular organic process.

In the centre, the aqueous-looking lights on high then bled open. It became as if a giant crystalline rose of light, in an aqueous sky, which kept on breaking open its infinite petals. By this point, my body was quivering throughout. Too, as I stood there lucidly dreaming, I silently laughed whilst losing tears. The whole magical unfoldment was so immensely humbling. Finally, instead of revealing its seed pistons the petals parted revealing this incredible planetary entity. It was more brilliant than Luna. Try – if you will – to fathom the accumulative intensity of Luna since four plus billion years ago, it first shone full, and every full Moon since.

However, it was no mere planet. It was so brilliant that it was not even a star. It was far more powerful and brighter than any star could ever be. Even though it was so intense it was not so harsh a light, as a star’s, such that one couldn’t look at it. This body was easily seven times as large as Luna. Too, this immense orb was more potently luminous than Luna. The surface of it was as if aqueous as it constantly shifted and changed form. More than that, in its collective kaleidoscopic beauty, all this stellar planetary body proved to be was a face. It was quite simply a glimpse into the face of one’s soul.

Swept away, I yogically stretched my arms into its very bosom and let out a thrilled cry of joy. This was an air pocket of inspiration like no other I had ever coasted. I did just then begin hearing similar cries from persons who were in the buildings in the neighbourhood. There were no persons in the abandoned buildings, which bled into the tiny courtyard, to my rear where I had been earlier. There were several voices, all female, all of them naturally speaking French. They were marvelling at the sight but, frankly, they did not get the picture.

For them it was an apocalyptic event that no doubt presaged the end of the world or the second coming… paradigms which like the symbology of the rose they had been acculturated to believe – their loss, I realised. As for me, I was really connecting with the experience. I totally knew what it was all about. Again, their lack of awareness only reflected their not having achieved this reflective state of creative beingness which would have truly allowed them to experience the rose of the experience.

Rather, for them, it was an experience outside of themselves. Just as in that dream of experiencing a planetary totem, back in July 1983, I instinctively knew what it was. Here it was to the east and not yet reached its zenith. This was such an incredible experience. At this point, my body started resonantly vibrating. Before I had been trembling, as though grounded by the force of some booming bass which impacted everything in its wake, now though I rattled throughout. This was such a fuck-all glorious experience.

As it had also been so long since I had experienced that kind of uplifting connection, with the soul element within, I was very much so moved. I was humbled. The whole revelation only lasted briefly… mere seconds. To have been longer in duration would, finally, have been too overwhelming. Nonetheless, I had gotten it. I had made the connection and was greatly inspired for having had the uplifting experience. The other townsfolk hadn’t gotten the essence of what it was; this finally was a moot point. Quite simply, this stellar, illumined, aqueous anthropomorphic face did not exist either inside or outside of space, time or dimensional experientiality.

It was, quite simply, a glimpse of the soul. Whose soul, mine or Merlin’s, smiled back at me? It was not here relevant. I had matured into the experience for having met and known Merlin. So to that end, it was the face of both his and my Soul. This was the most rapturous state of being that I had experienced in a long, long time. There and then, I knew that my life had matured onto a higher octave for not just having had the experience but for having assimilated it – gotten it. Just when it seemed that my mind was going to irreparably nova, the crystalline light of spiralling spheres began shifting.

They ended their contraction and began expanding, collapsing over the magnetic orb, to which the umbilical cord of light had ascended. Their movement was orderly, graceful and utterly organic. It was like looking at a fast-action film of a crystalline rose bloom over a massive expanse of time. This, however, was as if being cinematically experienced in slow-motion and in reverse – very spectacular.

*God I am so glad that I have never done drugs. END.

When the supra-circle had finally collapsed, to cover the self-illumined, face-like, planetary being-like entity beyond the veil of glowing lights, the orb it now hid then novaed in an explosion of intense white light. What then shot through me can only be described as enlightenment. Quite simply, my cellular integrity was vibrationally sped up to momentarily become light itself. When the orb’s light had imploded to nothingness, I was left instantaneously feeling very drained. Even here in the dreamtime, I was aware of having a numbing headache.

By the time that I came back, through the crevice-like lane, all the gun fighting had finished. They were all gone, as a matter of fact. On looking down, I discovered that there was nothing now wrong with my knees. Just as I had suspected earlier, I had been wearing boots but they did not cover my knees. Coming out into the street, I hurried along the sides of the buildings going back to the wonderful, palatial residence. Going back towards the grounds, this time I saw another building there which was one on the side of the property. Looking down the block, I saw four or five cars and all of them were red.

Sure enough, just as I suspected, Magnus Colsen’s car was one of them. As I came closer, his car was beginning to move but only slightly. I went and said hello to him. Inside, there were lots of boxes crammed everywhere as though he was moving. It would seem that he was moving out of his family home, to get a place of his own, for the first time. Unusually enough here, he was spectacled – so perhaps he is a Scholar soul. Whilst we warmly spoke, the lens over his left eye automatically moved upwards in a sweeping arc. Revealed, his left eye was intensely blue and warm. They were much bluer than, in the waking state, they actually are.

Magnus let me know that he had to be on his way and began driving off. However, he did suggestively add that he would be back later to get some more things. We parted, saying so long and he took off. With that I turned around, never returning to the grounds of the palatial residence.

*This dream was totemic for me. I knew instinctively that it signalled the mark of me beginning to manifest at my true soul age. Of course, during the time of my Saturn Return and Merlin’s illness, my transit from young-souled consciousness and egocentrism was affected. During the time of Merlin’s illness and transition, there were those rather momentous and totemic dreams. I had a very strong sense of Merlin’s vibration during the experience. However, I never thought of him as being physically close-by nor had I anticipated seeing him in person. Now four years later, pushing closer to my true soul age, I was crossing the seas of consciousness. I was manifesting as a seventh level mature soul.

We are incarnate for two chief reasons, to empower ourselves and thereby spiritually grow. Of course, this can only be successfully achieved by choosing to conquer fear through love by choosing to love rather than fear. This momentous dream had positively nothing whatsoever to do with anything so disempowering as experiencing God or any such tribal bullshit. I was come face–to-face with my soul state and the energies and power which being part of an entity and itself part of a cadre represent. There were times that I had an awareness of Joop van der Pelster who, of course, is a cadre mate. Of the more than one hundred and fifty Michael Overleaves that I have had channelled, through both Mathilde Duchenne and Kritika Bhatt, he has proven to be the oldest-souled at fifth level old.

I do know that I definitely do feel a sense of limitlessness when in his company. Truth be told, the sweetest most pleasurable sex that I have ever had was not with Merlin but with Joop van der Pelster. With Merlin there was passion and intimacy that was unsurpassed. However only with Joop van der Pelster would one, after lovemaking, feel so exquisitely fulfilled that there was a fatigue that was of the most pleasurable order. Every time that we have been intimate, afterwards I have felt as though that all I would have to do is simply continue the smile by closing my lids and letting go. For doing so, I would become instantaneously an astral plane habitué – yet again.

It is shamanic what Joop van der Pelster affects as a lover. This is something which is also achieved between us during phone sex. This is why he remains the only person with whom I ever have phone sex. It is an aspect of our relationship that has lasted, for the some thirty-five-plus years that we have known each other. Joop van der Pelster and Merlin never met nor did they ever once speak on the phone. What Joop doesn’t realise is how incredibly uncannily his voice, when we are having phone sex, is exactly like Merlin’s. It has always been that way even when Merlin was incarnate and knew of my phone sex relationship with Joop.

It is as if we get into a groove whereby he channels Merlin and affects, what can only truly be called, long distance intimacy. It is the most pleasurable form of lovemaking imaginable. I have lived a richly beauteous life and, when it is concluded, I and a choice few will celebratorily dine on the astral plane. I suspect that then, we will experience moments of quiet rapture. What we will be celebrating is having lived life with the greatest panache and the sophistication befitting the brotherhood of the truly sly shamans that we are. We are, every last one of us, truly magus.

These dreams – and these twenty-five volumes of dreams – would not exist had I never met and loved both Joop van der Pelster and Merlin. They have affected in me the expansion of spirit and consciousness which is reflected in the nature of the dream experiences that I have lived. Of course, Joop van der Pelster was in a previous life the Flemish painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck.

Now then, before this afterthought meanders on longer than the dream itself…

______________________________________________________________

As ever, for your unflappable support, I fly-without-moving and mean it when I say, I love you more.

_______________________________________________________________

Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Month: August 2019

Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

Lesson In Older Soul Lovemaking.

Buster En Repose Pyramid Green Room.

Poetry Most Rare: A Rose Like No Other.