©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Almost instantaneously, as the Moon transited Leo in my third house, my lungs besottedly drank the warm and dank, dark air. Thus I effortlessly drowned into sleep. Whilst wintry winds howled outside the window, this cold early Saturday morning – November 18, 1989 – my lucid focus seamlessly shifted into the dreamtime.
I readily knew that I was dreaming.
Here, just as moments earlier whilst awake and meditating, Merlin was uppermost in my thoughts. I could sense his presence. The shift from one dimension to the other was seamless. Lucidly self-aware, I was immediately come to in a dream that was set in the bedroom where I slept.
I was in bed with the artist Olaf Nordstrom – a source of loving support at present in the waking state. I was lying in bed, leaning on his bony chest, as he sat up in bed. It was obvious from his body language that he did not want to be in bed with me. I felt a still and quiet vibration to this dream. The moment was truly serene and peaceful. This was not a sexual or post-sexual interlude. We were both reflective. It was obvious that we were on the cusp of something momentous. It was the sort of vibration that signalled that something extraordinary was about to unfold.
Olaf behaved as if he was uncomfortable being there – it was a grave moment. He wanted to be there, however, to merely lend his support. It was obvious that he was wary of my clinging. Clinging, however, was not my intention. The moment together was brief – just a preparation for things to come. With that we parted. It was time to get up and participate in the events of whatever was to unfold.
This dream was possessed of inordinate lucidity; its every detail and nuance my faculties absorbed with acuity beyond the norm.
In the second dream, this cold Saturday morning, I found myself in the familiar territory of the Cabbagetown streets where we lived. I went into a store which does not exist in the waking state. It sat just south of the Pet Menagerie store, on the east side of Parliament Street, between Amelia and Winchester Streets.
It was a tailor’s shop that carried rather high-end fabrics. I was there to pick out some fabric because I had a definite idea of what I wanted to wear to Merlin’s funeral. I knew that the only way, to get the look that I wanted, was to make the outfit myself. The kindly, gracious salesman was trying to get me interested in a rather conservative plaid fabric but it simply was not to my liking. My aversion was not because it was plaid; rather, the tone was too sombre.
He was not insistent but let me know that it was appropriate. However, I would have none of it; I simply did not like the fabric or the colours. I simply was not going to have it. Unable to make up my mind and not wanting to make a decision about fabric, as there were so many ramifications to what it all meant, I left the store stepping into the light of day. It had been a very dimly lit, nicely wood-panelled, stately shop.
Once outside, I became acutely aware of Merlin. I was now returned to the yard of Cabbagetown’s 20 Amelia Street, where we lived, and Merlin was present with me. Thoughts of Merlin, on leaving the store, had me immediately posited in the front yard of 20 Amelia Street where I happily joined him. We were watering the lawn even though it was wintertime. Next door at 18 Amelia Street, where at this point Club Monaco designer Alfred Sung no longer lived, there were lots of potted plants hanging from the lone, purple-leaved, sugar maple tree.
Merlin was telling me to water the plants. He then began telling me, rather matter-of-factly, that I had to start taking care of the apartment – I had to make it a home again. Merlin asked me to start preparing things. He meant that this was not the time for procrastination. Of course, moments earlier in the prior dream, I had been procrastinating when down on Parliament Street to pick out fabrics to wear to his funeral. By avoiding the matter altogether, I had chosen instead to forego the purchase. As Merlin spoke to me, I became so aware of him that I completely became self-aware – both in the dream and in my sleep whilst in bed at 20 Amelia Street.
I was standing there very intently looking at Merlin. He, too, was very intently looking at me. Whilst we were unflinchingly looking into each other, I thought aloud with quiet resignation, ‘Merlin has died.’
I knew, too, that Merlin had heard my thoughts in the dream.
At that moment my sister Pandora da Braga, with whom Merlin enjoyed the best relations of anyone else in my life, suddenly became a presence in the dream. She never fully became physically manifested but her energies became overwhelmingly strong. Her energies were just to my rear as she played a loving and supportive role.
Suddenly, introspectively, I recalled a dream which I had had earlier in the week. With everything moving so quickly, in the waking state – with little time to collect my thoughts, let alone overlong time to record any dreams- it had slipped by unrecalled on awakening. However, now it was not merely being recalled, it was being relived in its entirety. I stood there and as I recalled the dream, rather seamlessly, I actually entered the dream which was being reanimated as it was being holographically recalled.
Within the reanimated dream being recalled and relived, I was again on the lawn at 20 Amelia Street in the warmth of the Sun’s rays. Just as in today’s dream, I was on the front lawn facing due north and the house with 18 Amelia Street on the left to the west. As Merlin and I were visiting in the outer dream of today, I had turned my body. Being in the same physical position had triggered the recall and reanimation of the dream from the past week.
To my left, I saw an incredibly ancient-looking, wise being who progressed across the lawn. The slowness of his progression was so measured that one’s experience of time, in the reanimated and recalled dream, progressed outside of time itself. It was simply magical to experience the progression of the very ancient and mystical being. The millennia-ancient figure progressed across the lawn, of 18 Amelia Street, heading towards our home at 20 Amelia Street. The being was male and small in stature; he was hobbit-like. His head was large, disproportionately large, compared to his tiny, frail-bodied frame.
He could not have been more than four feet tall. His head was absolutely massive. His forehead arched up and was high like an African’s. Too, his head was elongated in the back, reminiscent of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s skull. More striking than the majesty with which the august being progressed outdoors, towards our home at 20 Amelia Street, was the look of his face.
It was simply magical. From beneath the translucent skin, soft yellow-white light escaped revealing his very visible aura. Nothing but pure love, along with the same nonjudgmental look that ever peered back from Merlin’s eyes to mine, radiated from this being. The love radiating from the being towards me was awesome, immense – intense. The great being’s progress was purposeful. He was on a mission; he was unstoppable. The process had begun.
I was struck by the uncanny resemblance, which the face of this being bore, to the planet-being in the skies of Sandy Point, St. Kitts in a momentous dream during September 1983. It was a dream whose potency and beauty would lay unfathomable for years to come. The being progressed as though levitating mere millimetres above the rather zingy, extra-green grass of the lawns at both 18 and 20 Amelia Street. Though he did not pause as he progressed, the radiant being did turn and look at me. As though he was familiar with me, he acknowledged me by slightly nodding. However, he continued on towards our home.
He moved past me as I stood there, still and silent, drinking in the majesty of the experience. At soul-centre we were familiar to each other. I knew him. He knew me. I stood, alone and awestruck, in the front yard being refamiliarised by the vibration of his beauty as the effect of his potent powers spatially affected the dream. As he moved past, I was reminded of the film The Dark Crystal, by Jim Henson – with whom Merlin had worked, directing two episodes of the Fraggle Rock television series in its inaugural season. This movie would for several months, after we saw it together in New York City, be our favourite film.
Thereafter for several weeks, whenever we looked at each other – even when not being intimate, we had hummed at each other as the rival beings in the film did when communicating. The being here was much like the good beings in the Jim Henson film The Dark Crystal. The being progressed up the few stone steps, to the wooden veranda at 20 Amelia Street, and began making his way inside the house. As I watched him ascend, from the lawn to the veranda, it was clear to me that he was levitating. Though it was a dream and I too could have levitated and flown, he though had a power which surpassed mine.
This august-souled, mystical being clearly originated from a dimension which vibrationally and spiritually was of a higher plane than the astral, where the dream occurred, and the physical in which I am incarnate. Indeed, the same physical plane from which Merlin was rapidly taking his leave – it was that discernible. The moment the mystical being entered our home, being lost to view, I came to from the inner holographic dream which was a recall and reanimation of a dream that I had experienced within the last week. As I came to, I was about to go indoors to see what had become of the being that had clearly entered our home.
It was then, having returned to being fully focussed in the outer ‘shell’ dream of today November 18, 1989, that I saw Merlin anew. He was standing at the front door looking out at me. I stood there, in the front yard, transfixed whilst the bright daylight bathed my body throughout. The look on Merlin’s face was purely transcendent. He was perfectly still and perfectly radiant. Merlin stood in the midst of a nimbus of dazzling, blue-white light. As he lovingly glowed out at me, this splendid light only intensified.
Merlin was transformed and as his face lovingly lit up, at me, the light grew to more completely envelop his body. Whilst lovingly glowing at me with the warmest, most familiar knowing smile, Merlin slowly brought his right hand up with the palm facing me and more completely smiled. The radiance of his smile soon became lost in the glow of his aura’s light. The nimbus, enveloping his transformed body, radiated even more intensely at that point.
I was blown away. Arrested, I readily knew what I was experiencing; I could feel it. I knew that across dimensions, in the waking state, Merlin had just died.
However, as is my wont, I protested. I dropped the hose which was still bleeding its nurturing water onto the frozen, wintry lawn at my feet. I stood – paralysed. Determinedly, I then bolted for Merlin. I headed up to the veranda as my lover, as my mentor, as my friend stood transcendent in the doorway to what had been the most beautiful sense of home ever experienced. “Merlin!” shrieking in protest, I yelled out his name.
(Detail of oil on canvas by my sister Pandora of Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery where Merlin is buried.)
Suddenly, the thunder of my protesting breath abruptly drew me from sleep. I sat upright in bed, my arms outstretched and beyond, after having crashed back into my body and no longer astral-projected. From the foot of the bed both cats – Zora and Whoopi – knowingly, silently looked up. I was arrested by the frozen horror-struck face staring at me from the mirrored closet doors across the room.
In the near-darkness of the bedroom, a few rays of early morning light made it past the blood-red, velvet drapes heavily hung at the windows. Those rays starkly cast light on how horribly desolate my life now was. Merlin was gone. His spirit had taken leave from this world. It was that discernible as my world, my very universe, had experienced a massive vibrational shift.
I had been abruptly displaced from the astral plane. I had been lucidly dreaming a dream within a dream. I was being told so long as Merlin, transitioned from incarnate to astral plane habitué, bade farewell to our magically glorious union on the physical plane. I was heartened by the peace and knowingness in his transcendent face because I knew that it was a, “See you soon…” parting, for now.
I knew that there would be dreams aplenty up ahead. Just as he had pledged, he would magically weave in his indelible promise to me, before departing from the physical plane. There was such a cold silence, a stinging finality to the moment, as I sat there in bed. After having looked back at myself, silently waiting, I placed a call to the eighth storey nursing station at Wellesley Hospital.
I was immediately aware that the tone of the nurses, with whom I was by now long-familiar, had changed. In very little time, it was official… Merlin had indeed passed. Truth be told, it was not a surprise; I could sense it on awaking. He simply was not there. As always, I had reached out to sense him on awaking – his energies – just blocks away at Wellesley Hospital. Now, there was nothing.
Then, as if needing further proof, I thought about Merlin calling each morning. He would do so, to lovingly say hello and thereby, to lovingly wake me up. Merlin would then lovingly ask for a call-back, after I had audio-recorded the dreams. Merlin had, thus far, not called. Once again, I saw the stillness of my reflection across the room. I knew then, really knew… Merlin was gone.
As ever thanks for your ongoing support but if you really want to make me levitate then do buy my books!
© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Tonight my home is awash in the music of Jessye Norman… this brings me inordinate comfort at this time. Sweet and truly blissful dreams dear ennobled soul. As I am unable to do little else, owing to being emotionally overwhelmed, I pause here to republish this blog of earlier this year. So very glad that I was able to attend the Glenn Gould Prize Gala this past February.
As I work 7 days a week, I was debating whether or not to attend the Twelfth Glenn Gould Prize Gala at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. That morning en route home from some errands, I discovered that someone had jumped from a neighbourhood condo. I got in and realised that there was no more feet-dragging; to hell with being dog-tired. I got on the phone and called up Lucian Mann-Chomedy and said, “My darling, we are going to the Jessye Norman Gala!” As ever, always positive, Lucian chimed in, “Oh my, oh yes, how lovely. Well, I’ll be both honoured and delighted.” Indeed, life is for living!
Merlin and I met Friday, October 1, 1982 in a Hell’s Kitchen Walk-up, the following Monday evening, on his return to Toronto, Merlin called up crying. The man whom he had spent so much of our first evening together speaking of, had died; Glenn Gould had died. For the seven years that we were together, Merlin listened to Glenn Gould’s interpretation of J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations at least thrice weekly. Indeed, the first gift I purchased Merlin, was a recently released recording of the Goldberg Variations at Christmas 1982: I think that it is safe to say that that gift sealed the deal, I was a keeper for sure.
As I had waited until the last minute to get seats, I was sat in Ring 4 rather than the usual Ring 3. This, alas, was my view of the stage and of course, the butterflies are from the set for Atom Egoyan’s masterful staging of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte, which the moment I saw the set, I began chuckling to Lucian on recall of Tracy Dahl’s unsurpassed performance as Despina.
As I was too busy trying to throw something together for Instagram, I was heard gasping when it was announced that the head of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Jury this twelfth prize was none other than the actor, Viggo Mortensen, who then walked out onto stage. He, indeed, who in a few days time will be attending the Governors Ball where he may or may not be holding an Oscar.
Out onto the stage arrived the Twelfth Prize Laureate, Jessye Norman. Truly, it was a shock to the very core to see Madame being ushered out in a wheelchair. Suddenly, I was reminded of the events of earlier which caused me to rush home and purchase two tickets for the event. That aside, there was no greater joy than drinking of her soul’s inspiring beauty.
This beautiful gala was so filled with touchstones for me, none more so than the moment that bass baritone, Ryan Speedo Green was in full song. When he sang, “Aprite un po’ quegli occhi” from Wolfgang A. Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro.
Yes, indeed, this marvellous aria’s orchestration included a harpsichord. Straight away, I was teary-eyed as memories of the truly eccentric and delightful Milan Newcombe readily surfaced; Milan will ever remain a lover like no other.
During the intermission, I ran into two old friends not seen in at least 1.5 decades; we spoke of nothing but our surprise at Ms. Norman’s entrance. Life really does march full speed ahead.
After the intermission, it was the announcement of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Progidy Prize with the recipient being none other than, Cécile McLorin-Salvant, the most fabulous Jazz singer on the planet. Is this not an evening to remember during Black History Month indeed.
This stunningly unforgettable gala was closed out by the final recitalist being the divinely gifted soprano and Glenn Gould Foundation Prize juror, Sondra Radvanovsky in full song, singing Verdi.
The gala concluded with Ms. Norman returning to the stage and singing a duet with Cécile McLorin-Salvant. This was a moving, emotionally intense evening and my life was greatly enriched for having chosen to attend. The gala was nothing short of magical.
As a tribute to this marvellous evening in the theatre, I will include herein two dreams, which were originally audio-cassette-recorded in the 1990s. Before each deam, one of Glenn Gould, the other Jessye Norman, I will include each individual’s Michael Overleaves.
Gould, Glenn Herbert 25/9/32 – 4/10/82, Toronto
This fragment was a sixth level mature artisan in the repression mode, with a goal of growth, an idealist in the moving part of intellectual centre.
He had a Mercury/Saturn body type.
Glenn’s primary chief feature was self-destruction with a secondary of arrogance.
Glenn was third-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity four, cadre five, greater cadre 17, pod/node 819.
This fragment has an artisan essence twin who was alive during Glenn’s life but there were no plans to meet. This fragment is still incarnate on the physical plane.
The fragment who was Glenn has a scholar task companion, who was in a previous life, Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach. They were not incarnate at the same time.
However, the fragment who was Glenn was exerting considerable influence on Carl Philip Emmanuel.
These two fragments had many lives together, once as luthiers, three times as court musicians, nine times as brothers of the cloth, twice as brothers in the flesh, as well as completing several important life monads, including student/mentor and master/slave.
In the immediate past life, the fragment who was Glenn had as his three primary needs: security, communion and exchange. Only the first of these was ever even partially satisfied.
So here we had a warrior-cast artisan who had seriously conflicting overleaves and a primary chief feature of self-destruction. He had a goal of growth but a repression mode which would not allow him to flourish.
He had a need for communion, but was sexually ambivalent and socially inept. Undeniably, he had great talent but took no pleasure from performing in public.
This fragment has a great deal of scholar energy that was used in the immediate past life to enable Glenn Herbert to painstakingly examine and interpret the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.
He was very interested in form and structure for all of his adult life. This fragment was, unfortunately, the victim of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, also for all of his adult life, which worsened considerably during his third and fourth decades.
This fragment did not, as popular wisdom teaches, retire from public life because of any strong beliefs in the recording industry. Glenn Herbert retired from public life because he could no longer bear to be in crowds, even if he was distanced by a proscenium.
Needless to say, this fragment did not complete work on his fourth internal monad.
Nothing is more uplifting than finding oneself at a great musical performance on the astral plane. This dream was about being richly inspired and by Glenn Herbert Gould, no less; it was truly marvellous an adventure for the spirit.
The dream occurred, on Tuesday, October 6, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house.
I am in France where I leisurely browsed through a store; perhaps, it was somewhere in Paris. It seemed here like at nighttime. Whilst in one corner of the store, I noticed that there were all these big slabs of cheese in packaged containers. There was a woman coordinating the display of the cheeses. Sometimes the cheese was being grated and other times not. There and then, I decided that I was going to buy one slab of the cheese that was packaged in a rectangular box.
The cheese was about an inch thick and about eight inches long. The cardboard box that it was in was white and almost like the size of a box of Cream of Wheat. Surprisingly, the box was rather heavy. Though not unlike cheddar, it was a dark cheese. The smell of this cheese was really hard – quite the bite to it. It had seemingly been opened for too long as parts of it was growing hardened and turning colour. I knew straight off the bat that I wanted to have some to take home with me.
So, off I went to purchase the slab that I liked. Everyone here was, of course, speaking French which I quite so understood and liked. Interestingly, I too was speaking very competently in French. It was obvious that I was not too heavily accented as the others were pleasant-enough with me.
The second dream had me leaving the store; I then found myself hovering in the air. Whilst in flight, I went into a building which had a green – oxidised-copper – roof. It was part of a long set of buildings that had very, very tall stone chimneys. These were chimneys that were not unlike the ones at the Palais du Louvre. As a matter of fact, the building was similar to the Canadian Parliament buildings though it was not those buildings.
This complex was considerably longer. These were a series of complex buildings. Here, I was easily thirty storeys up whilst in flight. I looked down at the complex which at maximum could not have been more than five storeys tall. After having contemplatively observed the complex for awhile, I began very slowly gliding down through the air. I intently studied a procession of persons, way below, who were bailing out of very large buses; they were, as a matter of fact, tour buses.
This was all happening in a courtyard-like area and away from the bustle of the street. I next noticed some men who appeared; they seemed, in their long, flowing white robes, to be priests. They were not Arabic or Muslims in caftans; rather, they were definitely Whites. The buildings here were long on the order of Palais Richelieu in Paris. When I finally alighted, we had to go through this incredible entrance.
This led into a wonderful sandstone building; it was very modern with a neo-classical design. On the order of being imposing, the door to this place was massive. They seemed to be the doors to a temple. To get to the entrance, there were many steps which one had to climb. On entering, off to the right, there was a passage that one could take.
An aisle led along another passage; it seemed illumined by a skylight. The priestly men had all entered before me. They preceded a procession of adherents who had come to partake of some ritual. I had gone to explore, off to the left, because it was the wing of the building that had reminded me of the Palais du Louvre. Going there, I wandered about being fascinated by the place.
Some women were posing for artists in this particular wing. They wore modern garb but were very exceptionally beautiful. What was most intriguing about their look was that it was exactly as they would have appeared on the finished canvases. They were very nubile young women; they had to hold their poses for interminably long periods. Here several kids kept on going through the place; they were seemingly art students.
They were all very North American, middle class with their loud, snobbish bourgeois affectations. Right away, it was obvious that all the muses were still virgins. Theirs was an innocence that could never be affected. They were all teenage girls whose bodies were very voluptuous and full. These were not skinny people at all. There was one point at which one girl was holding different poses. Each girl would be painted by from three-to-five artists, at a time. Thus every pose would be captured from different perspectives.
At one point, they told her to take a break; they then reverted back to an earlier pose. This was so that they could return to that work and put some more work into finishing it up. When she changed the pose, she had also turned some 180 degrees. This particular model, whom I was studying, wore socks with Oriental-looking sandals. Inside her socks she kept little items of hers. Whilst she was making the transition, she simply reached up her foot and pulled up her right leg to reach down into the socks.
Hers was a pair of blue-coloured socks – pale blue. To just above the ankles was the extent to which the socks rose. Looking at her, she took out something from about her ankle which looked like a wafer. Not the least bit self-conscious, she ate it at once; it seemed like a chocolate wafer which she favoured. She seemingly needed it to get an energy boost so that she could stay focussed on the tedious work that she did. After having found it all very interesting, I moved on sufficiently knowledgeable of the goings on here. Walking along a corridor, I ended up going into a room where everyone was very strange.
A guy there was a lot like Galen Shim – my very beautiful, Hong Kong-born, Eurasian friend. He reclined on a bed with his head close to the door. When I came in, I noticed that he was naked. When giving him a massage, I began by oiling his body. It was quite fragrant oil. Rubbing down his body, I began working on his toes and feet. Afterwards, I got up to leave but he very silently began coming with me. So out we went and joined the procession of persons; among them this time were several kids. Mostly, they were teenagers – amongst whom I did not want to be.
Galen or the guy who seemed like him, here the guy was not wearing glasses as before nor would Galen for that matter, and I kept walking through the place. Pretty soon, after we had left the noisy kids, we started hearing the most beautiful music. This was one of the rare times that I found the music of the pipe organ to be beautiful. Within the complex, we happened on this wonderful cathedral inside which were most of the people from the procession. On entering the structure, it seemed more like a concert hall. We soon learnt that the hall was specifically built so that only Johannes Sebastian Bach’s music could be played there.
Never before had I heard classical music sound so beautiful. We stood there transfixed whilst listening together. Who then should I notice way at the front of the hall, at the pipe organ that sat high on the dais-like stage, but Glenn Gould. I could see his right profile as if in close-up. My god, this was rapture and then some. He was playing with such rapt abandon that I steadied myself and whispered more to myself than to Galen, “My god, what an incredible dream to be having…”
There seemed to be a skylight on the side of the high-ceilinged nave. Instead of there being stained glass windows, windows for that matter, there was only intense light raining down through what seemed to be a skylight system. The centre of the halved skylight was a wonderful neoclassical, oxidised, copper-looking, greenish flying buttress. Here the look, though modern, was more in the style of Islamic mosques or even Moorish architecture rather than the classic Gothic signatures.
A series of the most intricate and complex circles intertwined, like some riotous jungle vine, in the cathedral-like, concert hall’s stonework. Breathtakingly beautiful it was. I stood there, just inside the entrance to the hall, on the left of the wide aisle. This was a very wide-bodied structure. As you progressed down the aisle, there were different levels where one could go up and sit. These were either on the right or left. The central aisle was covered by the most beautifully designed red carpet.
This place was considerably wider than Notre Dame Cathedral. Unlike the Parisian Gothic structure, it was not a darkened affair. Here it was very intensely bright out. The light coming in on the right and left side of the flying buttress-like, central girder fell through a slightly frosted glass. The light was an intense – almost aquatic – blue. Interestingly, there were no beams or columns, supporting the unusual central, flying buttress-like beam. For looking at the light, one became slightly languorous. I felt paralysed with pleasure; there before me, down the massive hall, sat Glenn Gould.
He wore the most thick-fabricked garb; it seemed from an earlier age. All the men in the white gowns were up at the front. They were all transfixed – as well they should have been. Though I love Johannes Sebastian Bach, at the time, I had some reservations as I am not especially fond of pipe organs. I suppose that it is because it has always had too many religious associations during my childhood. The persons attending the concert were there simply to recharge their batteries. They seemed, all of them, as if not quite in their bodies for being so transfixed – they were otherwise-engaged.
Eerily, I had a sense that these were all persons who were between lives as is Glenn Gould. They were in a form of processing, a form of deep meditation on the order of sleep, as they prepared for the next incarnation. This fugue was the most complex music imaginable. Indeed, the music seemed designed for those between lives. The fugue was composed for astral plane habitués who, sans bodies, could best endure the music’s intensity. Getting a sense that I really shouldn’t be there, plus the fact that I finally couldn’t get into the pipe organ, I started taking my leave of the place.
Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, and I then went out front. There we waited for the specific tour buses to show up and take us away. Whilst I waited with Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, I was joined by Pandora. It seemed that most of the people who were here were very young-souled. They seemed to be on a pilgrimage, like visiting the original Gohonzon in Japan or going on the Hajj, at Mecca.
As the pipe organ played, I could hear in the tone of the place a faint whisper from the men in white robes. Their thoughts, it turned out, could be telepathically heard. Even earlier, when I had been hovering in flight high above the complex, I knew that this was more so a political institution rather than not. This was a structure which was just as colossal as the temple at Karnak and considerably older. This place was mind-bogglingly complex and massive. The temple was posited directly in the centre of it all.
Just like La Chapelle in Paris is comparably dwarfed, by its surroundings, so too the massive concert hall-like temple was dwarfed by the complex. This architectural marvel was simply soul-inspiring. Whilst all the buses were waiting, I took to one of the buses with Pandora. I had gotten impatient waiting to be assigned to one. We spoke in French because everyone else here did the same. This was not unlike a Parisian bus – the seats all faced each other. Seated close to the front, we were on the left side of the aisle behind the driver.
As though getting close to Saint-Sulpice Métro, I got up and said goodbye to Pandora. I wanted to get off there then walk back to her rue de Grenelle apartment. Pandora planned to go out then come home later so had asked me to wait for her at her place. Here it seemed as if nighttime coming on to dawn. Speaking guardedly in French, I made sure that I was speaking properly and not just fumbling partout. Really, I rather enjoyed this experience of being together with Pandora.
I was very serene enjoying the very beautiful experience. Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, had silently slipped from my side when Pandora came and joined me.
*Of course, it would turn out that the person in question was Louka Duplessis and not Galen. I would meet Louka, who accompanied me in this dream, the day following this dream. Just prior to meeting for the first time, it is not uncommon for me to dream of persons who will prove important in my life experience.
Norman, Jessye 15.9.45 ✟ 30.9.2019, Georgia
Jessye is a first level old priest in the passion mode, with a goal of rejection – functioning for the most part in the positive pole of discrimination, a spiritualist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.
She has a Jupiter/Saturn body type.
Jessye’s primary chief feature is arrogance, with a secondary of stubbornness.
This fragment was third-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. She is a member of entity five, cadre six, greater cadre 33, pod/node 212.
She has a discarnate priest essence twin whom she did know earlier in this life but this fragment died in Vietnam. She has a warrior task companion and they have worked together and continue to do so occasionally.
Her three primary needs are: freedom, expression and power.
The warrior energy gives Jessye tremendous organisational powers and her stubbornness has enabled her to stick in there when the going got very rough many times.
Jessye is a warrior-cast priest who has been a spiritual rebel in this life. This is, by the way, not the first time this fragment has sung professionally. This fragment was a well-known castrato in seventeenth century Italy and performed many times before the crowned heads of Europe.
Jessye has great need to serve her concept of the higher ideal and has done so admirably by combining the folk music of her people with her operatic repertoire.
She performs well, as do most entity five fragments. This fragment has always enjoyed her work. Singing has been an extension of her inner spirituality. It is, in fact, a form of meditation for her.
These rather lucidly awakened dreams were experienced with an intense sense of wonder and joy, on Monday, July 2, 1990. At the time, the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.
This first dream found me in a very busy place. When going south towards the Danforth, it was not unlike being on Broadview Ave. It was at nighttime. I came there and found that there were tons and tons of Black people. Even so, it seemed like Toronto and at Broadview Subway station because there are all these streetcars there. One of the streetcars was improperly parked, as a result, it was going to go and turn around.
Waiting for it to do what it had to do, there was another streetcar out in the street. It was really more like a red-rocket streetcar. It was not like one of the newer ones. Everyone here was Black. There were no Whites or other non-Blacks that I saw. Everybody was in the street which was very jam-packed. They were getting ready to cross, after the streetcar had passed, to go in.
There was now a system, where you paid your fare aboard the streetcar, so that you did not have to enter the front doors of the station on Broadview. When you got aboard the streetcar, it was mandatory that you pay a fare. So it did not matter whether you paid a fare at the proper entrance or not. There were many people queuing up to get aboard a streetcar.
Passing these people who were seated there, I went through the proper entrance. One of them seemed like Gabriella Vartan† and they were talking about me. I came around and began going down the steps, into the nether regions, en route to the trains. There was this little old lady who was taking her time, holding up things, so I pushed her to my right. I made my way down then had to go around taking another flight of stairs; I then kept on going. There were a whole lot of levels to this subway system.
When I got down, there was this little cul-de-sac where there were these Black guys – homeboys – hanging out. However, they were not Black American. I found one of them very attractive and smiled at him. He, however, was very homophobic. He went running upstairs to go call the police on me. The train then came into the subway and it was a very, very large train. It towered very high to the ceiling. It was like an Amtrak train which seemed like a double Decker train. It was mostly silver, however, it turned out not to have been double Decker.
When it stopped, I began running full speed because I did not want the guy to come back and board the same car as me. I ran to the front of the train only to find that one couldn’t board there. Instead, one could only enter this train where the cars joined each other. You could enter the front or backdoors of each car but not the front ones of the first car. It was very sleek, round and Deco like a train from the 1930s. The whole place did have a feel of the ‘30s to it. It was very neo-Gothic like the Chrysler or McGraw-Hill buildings in New York City, or for that matter, even the Empire State Building.
It was reminiscent of very early in the twentieth century which was all about great architecture – of things being large, mammoth and spiralling upwards, too, things getting faster and faster. That sense of adventure about the wonderful world of commerce that one had created. It was that time when people had not yet begun to see, as we now know, the consequences of things being bigger and better and faster and all the effects on nature. I got onto the train heading, again, towards the front. Somehow, I felt relieved because I had lost the guy. I was there and noticed a stout man who was either High-Yellow or, perhaps, even White.
The people here were very strange because they were just rather unusual. Even though they looked White, they seemed more bronzish, actual bronze, than the pinkish tonality of the waking state. This was not a place that I knew. It was very otherworldly here, I soon realised. I did not get a seat and as I stood there I then noticed a woman. She was standing at the very front of the train. The train progressed with unusual speeds, I immediately noticed. When the train had shaken, the stout man had tried to brace himself by putting out his foot that was already out in the aisle.
In the process, he had stomped me and I had had to pull my foot out from under his and pushed his away. He wore business attire, a suit and tie, as though en route to an office job. The woman who was standing up was playing on a wooden flute-like instrument that was less than a foot long. However, the thing about all this was that she had unusually short arms. They were fully functional hands with tiny little fingers that nimbly danced over the valves of the wooden, wind instrument. Her arms were like a Thalidomide-damaged child’s.
Then I noticed too that there were other people on the train, about three or four musicians, practicing as well. I soon realised that everyone on board had some sort of physical deformity. They were just ill-proportioned people with torsos that were too long or arms that were too short. Arms too long or what have you, moreover, this also applied to the legs. The most pronounced cases were always the musicians like the female flautist – two or three of the other musicians were male.
Someone else who was on the train began laughing and, out of nervousness, I joined in. The person was laughing at the woman. She, however, hadn’t paid them any mind. Nobody else was paying people, who were laughing, any mind. They did not see anything wrong with the people who were being laughed at. I then got off the train and was out in this concourse area, where the trains arrived, before I went upstairs. Before I would go upstairs I saw this child seated in the middle of this white blanket that seemed more like diaper material than flannel.
The child wore a salmon-coloured merino. He had little, white, cloth diapers on. The infant had, again, very unusually, unusually short, short legs that made it look almost like a child because it was seated upright on its bottom. However, it had a very big torso – matured, such that the child seemed like a very big, big child for its age. Its head was very large with a very developed large and soulful-looking face. At the time it made me thing of Jake Hudson. Jake does have a very large head and face. I was trying to connect with him. He reached out his short little arms, crying out and said, “Dad, I want to go.”
There was this youngish man, who was blond like the child, and he seemed not unlike the guy Olaf Knight. He picked up his son and used the blanket, on which the child sat, that had these straps and put him around his shoulder. Like an African mother would, carry her child when in the fields, thus he was carried on his father’s back. He walked off with the child, who was holding on to him, except that the child was really an adult male. It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.
I ended up coming upstairs and going out in the outdoors. There were people here – again, mostly Black people. I was talking to them when I heard the strains of Richard Strauss‘s Four Last Songs beginning. I beamed and excused myself from the people, with whom I was interacting, and went running off up this plaza. It was a clay-tiled plaza and when I got there, I saw the symphony. I went and sat in lotus position and sat very close to the front. There was a gathering of persons in a semicircle and I was, as a matter of fact, the closest to the stage.
The stage was above on a dais and it was edged by old gold juniper. The juniper was really, really nice and quite fragrant, refreshingly so, to the smell. Along came, from around a corner walking, Jessye Norman – the high priestess herself. She had been preceded by her divine voice’s magic. She was, of course, singing Four Last Songs. She wore a beautiful, beautiful, glistening black dress that seemed almost organic with a life of its own. It was twinkling on and off but the lights were lifelike like fireflies.
They were sequins but they seemed, somehow, to be organic. It had hues of gold, silver, bronze, and dark green hues like pine and blue hues like lapis lazuli. It was very, very intensely rich a fabric. She started singing the first song, Frühling, and it was very hauntingly beautiful. She saw me and beamed down at me. It was so connected between us. I was so enthralled and overpowered; I was quite smitten by her. I thought very rapturously awakened,
‘Yes! I’m having a dream of Jessye Norman. So very good to see her again, my god here she is and performing Four Last Songs.’
She then came almost to the lip of the stage and stopped as though about to sneeze. Then she held her breath and started laughing because it was so hysterical. The look on my face was one of being truly horrified for her. This had actually caused her to crack up. Then she began singing again and began making gestures for me to move or be removed. I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.
‘Why is she snubbing me like this?’ I wondered. Then these two huge, burly guys came to eject me out of the area. As I was leaving, I could hear her starting to sing again. I was very, very upset.
I was, in the second dream, in this large house that was a very many-storeyed place. It had many apartments. I came out and it had a very slanted roof that one could go out onto. This roof was, however, very dangerously precipitous. I was looking about and thinking of Carl Leroiderien because, somehow, someone was talking about him. This White man was talking to me and telling me that Carl had been enquiring after me.
He then went on to ask me if I smoked dope which I denied. I can’t think of it doing anything for me except, perhaps, to make me sneeze at the most. Sometimes if mixed with hashish, I then got a massive headache. “It doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t really like it. I don’t see the point to it and I don’t smoke it.”
At the time that he was saying this, we were climbing some very, very steep stairs. Then at that point, after she had given her performance, I encountered Jessye Norman again. She was seated on a bench and called me over. She said hello very warmly and apologised saying, “I hope you weren’t upset. You realise that it was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t laughing at you; it’s just that you don’t seem to realise where you were.
“You were, well there are certain degrees of protocol and you were ahead of the dignitaries. And you shouldn’t have been so close to the stage because one of the reasons why your nose started bleeding was, in this dimension, if you’re this close to the stage… when I’m singing, when I hit certain notes it can shatter your eardrums but also shatter your mind.
“So you see it was very crucial that I get you out of there. Also, I was having a very bad allergic reaction to the plants at the edge of the dais. They made me want to sneeze. It wasn’t at all you or exclusively you.” In having embraced me thus, she was being most healing. I did, in fact, have quite the nosebleed. As I was being hustled out of the place, by the burly guards, it was then that I realised that my nose was bleeding.
At the time, I had thought it strange. As this dream progressed very lucidly and linearly, there was no point at which either burly guard had so much as touched me. I was so upset. It was so very good, after the fact, to have had her explain as she did.
*This dream really does validate the notion that all persons encountered in the dreamtime, without exceptions, are separate entities and not figments of one’s imagination. END.
When I was being bounced by her, I was so stunned, upset and humiliated. Had she not explained as she had just done, I would have awakened from this dream with a totally different perception of events. I had also no way of knowing that she was having an allergic reaction to the juniper which, at the time, I found so wonderfully soothing. What’s more, I hadn’t a clue that I had thrown the Chi of the place by having disrespected protocol.
I would never have thought that my nosebleed was due to her singing. In fact, it is possible that I could have awakened and not recalled that, indeed, I had had a nosebleed which I had totally forgotten until she had mentioned it. Jessye Norman has indeed straddled, with great élan and diplomacy, many a dimension with great frequency and fluency.
I then began holding her hand and told her that there were times that I had dreams of her, in which there were sometimes cetacean-looking creatures that came and did formations around her as she sang hyper-dimensionally. She was just enthralled and pleased. She squeezed my hands and laughed a healthy, really wonderful laugh. She was quite smitten by me and encouraged me to write it all down.
Her eyes here were so very large, soulfully dark and focussed right into me. It gave me a high just to have experienced them. I was wearing, when close to the stage, a satin merino-like shirt. So at the time of being bounced out, I had passingly thought that I had been dressed too scantily for her liking.
In any event, it was quite interesting.
This third dream was truly hysterical. It seemed like on Eglinton Avenue East, between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Road. It was at nighttime. There was a lot of goings on. Shirley MacLaine was there, Warren Beatty and Madonna Ciccone, as well. Warren Beatty was the man of the hour and the centre of everybody’s attention. He had a great deal of sexual energy and magnetism. He had been performing for the camera and for everybody around. It felt very staid to me though.
One very interesting thing that happened was that he had been heavily drinking and, whilst laughing, had bent forward. He then began uncontrollably coughing and was holding his chest and faking a massive heart attack. Next thing you knew, we were in a very crowded area and it turned out that he had not been faking the heart attack. He had a very, massive, massive heart attack. He was dead just like that. He was gone within moments. It was just incredible. Shirley MacLaine became utterly hysterical. Her bawling was like from some Greek tragedy.
She went into a trance-like frenzied state and began calling on astral guides and her Pleiadean guides. Pulling out a very impressive clutch of crystals, she threw herself onto him and tried healing him of death. She was placing them all over his body – at the chakras and elsewhere. It was too humourous for words. Meanwhile, as Warren Beatty died, Madonna came rushing up to the scene. It had all been too late and they couldn’t rush him to a hospital. There was no way that he could have been revived.
They had been out in some desert area having a big party; there were no doctors around. There was nothing that they could do; he couldn’t be saved. He was dead… he was gone. Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying, “This is so unfair. He hasn’t even been able to make the sequel to Dick Tracy. And right when he’s at the top of his career this is happening?”
“Well you know this will really immortalise him now. Definitely, this is great publicity, right at this point in his career.” someone had dryly said who was not attached to his whole entourage. I had heard this but Shirley MacLaine hadn’t heard it. Madonna came and whatever she thought about I could telepathically hear it. Her immediate response was, ‘Oh shit! This is just going to fuck up my goddamn career. If only I’d gotten a child by him. Shit why did I have to have that abortion of his child. Shit!’
She was thinking fast. She was someone who knew how to manipulate the media. She was really pissed off because it would have meant immediate Hollywood sainthood for her, were she to go on and have Warren Beatty’s only child, after he had tragically died. She was really pissed off because this was media manipulation beyond her wildest schemes, ‘I’ve got to get him out of here. I’ve got to have the best genetic engineers flown in immediately…’
I was stunned when I read her thoughts because, of course, she intended to harvest his seed and impregnate herself and then have a premature love child of Warren Beatty’s. I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania. ‘During the autopsy, I’ll have his sperm taken out and I’ll have it copyrighted. It’ll be my possession. I’ll have it engineered so that I’ll have a child… a son. God we can even have twins…’ She, all the while, was cowering over his face… kissing him and doing the wailing widow number, ‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’
She privately squealed to herself – unaware, of course, that she was broadcasting to someone like me. She was so triumphant at having had that idea because all she knew was that people who so loved Warren Beatty would take to her now. She was insecure as to whether or not she would endure through time. However, with this, she knew that she would automatically become iconic. She would become truly the virgin mother! She would be actually giving birth to some dead man’s child – he of course being, Warren Beatty. It was destiny. After all, she was ‘the’ Madonna.
She had this flash that this was why she had always been so drawn to crucifixes. She was going to capitalise on the whole drama by making sure that it would be a son. Of course, not to be outdone by that old, other Holy Mother with the virgin birth, she would eclipse that Madonna by having twin sons. Again, La Stupenda squealed with delight to herself. I passingly wondered if I were the only one to be privy to her thoughts. Then I realised that from my detachment, as everyone bawled and was truly horrified as though these were Olympians and not mere mortals, that I was the only one.
‘What could be better than having two Warren Beatty lookalikes crawling around the planet and who were his twins? And his only heirs! With today’s genetic engineering it will be a great coup. ‘Think of the press! I’ll be guaranteed perpetual immortality. I’ll be iconised for all history…’ I thought then and there, ‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’
In any event, the funeral was upon us and by some strange quirk of the dreamtime, I was very much so a part of the funeral. I was as though a fly on the wall, as it were, and aren’t you lucky? Why, was I participating? I do not know?
In any event, I was dressed to the nines. I had on a wonderful, lace outfit with a mantilla with my veil covering my face. I was part, somehow, of the funeral party. It turned out that Warren Beatty had had five wives and, at the point at which he died, his fifth wife was a High-Yellow woman. She was part Black, part White, partly Latina. He had had all these wives. They had always been paid and kept to remain silent. They were never brought out in the public or media. It was one of Hollywood’s biggest secrets.
People, obviously, never knew about it. It had never once been spoken about. There was an interesting turn to all of this… I had been going along Eglinton East on the south side. It was as though I was going towards Yonge Street; however, it was not Eglinton Avenue East. Madonna was going to be late because, luckily, it was that time of the month for her. She was off having herself impregnated, by way of a turkey baster, with Warren Beatty’s frozen sperm – the planet’s most expensively rare caviar fertiliser of sorts.
I was attending the funeral with a short woman who was the fifth wife’s mother. She seemed a lot like Sybil Ben-Daniel and wore a brown coat over her dress. I walked with my right arm embracing her as she was on my right. I had burly bodyguards all about me, before, beside and behind me. They were real Mossad-goon-cum-Wrestlemania types. My pants were those flare-legged Giorgio Armanis that allowed me to stride throwing my legs.
There was a lot of train to them and I had such utter style. I had enormous energies about me and great flare. My eyes were bedazzling even though mantilla-veiled. They were what were, of course, fuelling my high spirits. The onlookers were lapping up my entrance; I felt wonderful. We then went into the church and the mother was talking about, “We want the money to go to the Church because the Church is really the staple of society and civilisation. The Church does so much good.”
I just decided to let her babble on and kept my tongue in check. However, I cussed her under my breath saying, “You demented old fool. What Church are you talking about?”
The church had a metallic-silver front and it looked not unlike York Cinemas on Eglinton Avenue East. It was not a very big church on the inside. As we got inside, I turned around and hissed at one of the bodyguards because he had earlier stepped on my train. Of course, we were surrounded then by the paparazzi and the little people. His Bigfoot’s footprint was there on the pant’s train. I reached back and slapped his face real hard, calling him a fucking asshole.
Of course, I knew that it was safe to do it here because everyone here knew, only too well, that side of me. However, I couldn’t wreck my public image doing so outside. As we got closer to the church, I began striding firmer with each step in anticipation of getting his oafish arse. I was really careful not to show that side of me when in public. I started going down the aisle and there at the end was Warren Beatty’s corpse in the open casket. It was a pure black casket that glistened. It was a dark black wood and a really gorgeous casket.
Escorting the mother-in-law, I came all the way down the aisle. I decided that I would go into the first pew on the right. The first pew on the left actually went further down the aisle and did go past the casket. It held men in white flowing robes; they were priest of whatever denomination this was – very cream, ivory-coloured and obviously very Catholic. I went and sat down and immediately behind me was the fifth wife’s family. They were very Hispanic-looking more so than Black. They were very handsome in that family.
I turned around and smiled at one of the men and the energies coming from them weren’t as I had expected – I had thought that they would hate me. I knew Madonna; I was apparently part of her hangers on. Somehow, I had known her through dance. I thought that, for that association, they would hate me. However, they displayed no such hostilities towards me.
Finally, the fifth wife came and was walking very slowly, regally. She carried a globular bouquet consisting of tiny, little white roses that were sprinkled in amongst some baby’s breath. There were one or two little red roses as well. She wore a white, lace outfit. Deliberately dressed as though attending her wedding, she was not though veiled. She came down to the casket and knelt before it, like Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis at the rotunda, staking her claim on history by her performance.
She sobbed in a controlled breath and then got up and walked around to the right end of the casket. Facing the church, she was now behind it and up on the altar. She was before the pews on the left side of the aisle. She knelt down again and this time began wailing and ululating. She was doing ritual port de bras with her torso and head as well. She kept on holding on to the bouquet.
It was a very Latin; a very emotional display; definitely, not Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. It was very soulful and moving. One really felt for her. Finally, Madonna made her entrance and began slowly progressing down the aisle. There was utter silence in the place because everybody was thinking, ‘Oh dear, poor Madonna was slutting with Warren Beatty at the point of his death. Here is the fifth wife and is she going to create a scene or not?’
Well, of course, she is. The fifth wife is Latin so, of course, there will be theatre. When the fifth wife had been crossing the casket, I took in her body which was very wide-beamed. I knew then, in a flash, that she was pregnant with Warren Beatty’s child and four months pregnant. It was clearly no Immaculate Conception as per Madonna’s little trick. She was a very big-boned woman. She got up when Madonna entered the church and stopped crying.
Madonna saw her and avoided her glance as I turned and watched this fascinating bit of theatre unfold. Everyone was really excited at the potential fireworks about to go off. She started coming down to confront Madonna. I immediately and intuitively knew that there was a gun inside the bouquet that the fifth wife so firmly clutched. Positioning the gun, the fifth wife began holding the bouquet to her stomach. Madonna, staying her ground, kept on proudly walking down the aisle.
She wore black; it was an outfit that was not dissimilar to mine. She wore a short veil and not a mantilla like I did. She came walking down towards the casket staying closer to the left pews. The fifth wife came around the right side of the casket and was walking down the right side of the aisle looking at Madonna. She had a very, very vexed and determined – an almost trance-like, expression of self-absorption on her face. All the energy in her body was directed at Madonna.
When she was about five feet away from Madonna, she held up the bouquet and callously said, “I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!” It was filled with so much venom that it reverberated throughout the very high-ceilinged-though-tiny church. It was also very Gothic an interior. Madonna stopped truly catatonically horrified. You could see it beyond the veil. She had no entourage or bodyguards. She showed up alone, so confident was she of the coup that she had just scored at the geneticist’s.
She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back, “I dare you…” She was very nervous and said very quickly with a weak, little laugh. She was also vamping à la Breathless Mahoney – the character she played in Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy film. She was, however, visibly ashen. Madonna was visibly shaken with fear.
Those persons in the left pews automatically screamed out and crouched down for cover because the fifth wife had held up the bouquet in both her outstretched arms like the gun that it so obviously hid. “Come on. You wouldn’t want to do that. That’s just stupid…” Madonna bravely said. “…You can’t do that. Besides Warren’s already dead. What are you trying to prove? You can’t do this to me! Don’t be stupid.”
The woman, however, started slowly walking towards her not buying her bullshit. At that, Madonna turned around and started to bolt and she fell down over her long-trained dress. She had already made it to the back of the pews on the left. She was much too vain, to run outside and possibly be murdered in front of the little people. So she got up and began running around the far side of the pews. Of course, as she ran away, the fifth wife could easily have shot her in the back.
Then Madonna got really pissed off, stopped against the far left wall of the church, holding out her palm at her attacker saying, “Stop it! You don’t want to do this. This is stupid. You can’t kill me. I’m Madonna!” She was just winded; the expression on her face was unbridled rage, fear, terror, chutzpah, all in one. Then the fifth wife pulled the trigger, which was the only sound in the place, releasing the magazine.
Madonna cried out and began pleading with her. It was truly a spectacle. It was really pathetic. The fifth wife then pulled on the trigger and there was a loud plopping sound. Everybody just screamed and the place became flooded with blinding blue light. It turned out to have been an older-model camera and the flashbulb from the camera as it went off.
At that, the fifth wife laughed this loud, truly callous, heavy-from-the-womb, ripe, wicked, vindictive, victorious-all-in-one laugh. It echoed throughout the church. When her echo collapsed, as Madonna stood there truly disempowered, the fifth wife uttered in a weary breath, “I always said to Warren that you’re an ugly slut. This picture will prove it.”
At that the fifth wife turned and came and sat down on the pew next to me. Her Latina family members were just going wild clapping and hysterically shrieking. Now that’s a Hollywood wife! Poor Madonna was still standing there involuntarily shaking. She was holding her chest and gasping for air like an asthmatic. Her left hand placed on her chest, with her right hand holding on to the pew, thus she stayed her ground.
Although her hand was on her chest, she was being most clever. However I knew that really where it should have been was at her pussy because what the fifth wife instinctively knew, as did I, was that she had just miscarried. Madonna was profusely bleeding. Poor Madonna was so humiliated. The look on her face was truly sad; she was sweaty and runny-nosed. She soon collapsed and had to be taken away. Of course, she would be beaten out of having Warren Beatty’s heir by the fifth wife.
The whole thing was so funny and hysterical. I was so stunned that the fifth wife was going to pull this stunt. I really thought that it was a gun; I had, at least, gotten this flash that it was a gun. The idea to have a bolt release, affecting a gun, was truly ingenious. The picture turned out to be truly horrific. It was all a joke being played on Madonna by Hollywood’s film elites who could not have cared less about her and her parvenu ambitions.
The whole affair was so very wickedly political. The whole thing was so hysterical. I wondered as to what next was going to happen. Is the fifth wife going to come forward and produce the first Warren Beatty heir – the true child? A child that would look like Warren Beatty – more like a child of the future being of multiracial heritage and a bronzed version of Warren Beatty would the fifth wife bear.
What then will she do about Madonna’s copyright of Warren Beatty’s sperm? Will the fifth wife, for producing the heir, win the legal rights to them and have them destroyed if she chooses to? Will this not, in fact, begin a Pop Religion rivalling the King, Elvis Presley’s, if Madonna had won custody of the sperm and gone on to impregnate herself and bear those miscarried twin sons because of her bonds to Warren Beatty and his two pseudo-virgin-birthed children – sons at that?
Truly, this is iconography for the new millennium, indeed.
*A very, very interesting dream. Certainly, that I would be dreaming about these people is interesting enough. I don’t pay much attention to any of them beyond the passing. I had seen Dick Tracy three weeks ago. That the whole thing would evolve the way it did was rather insightful. I was totally surprised, as much so, as was Madonna in the church.
I really did think that she was going to be shot. I thought that it would be so messy. You know, I just did not want having anybody’s can’t-wash-out bloodstains on my Giorgio Armani pants. A truly, truly funny dream this was.
*What can I say, dreams are purely experiential. I dream it and awaken, immediately bringing forth the dream experiences, committing those experiences to audio-cassette tapes. I rather enjoyed being alone and visiting with Jessye Norman in the earlier dream. Clearly, those dreams were set on a parallel Earth in another dimension and one in which the mostly Black population is differently proportioned than we humans of waking state Earth are.
On the eve of the Oscars, I thought this a fitting offering. I could never have fathomed the outcome of the fifth wife’s agendum until it unfolded. Ingenious, to say the least, was her use of the bouquet. As ever, sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… and so what if you bump into a wall, just attempt doing so again and this time believe that you can effortless transcend the barrier. Perception is, alas, everything.
As ever my dear sweet ennobled friends, I am ever grateful for your continued support. Please do spread the word, far and wide about this happening dream joint on the cosmic wide web. Always remember to push off and start flying… I love you more.
©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
(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.
©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
On this the eve of what would have proven Merlin’s 72nd birthday, I share these rather totemic dreams. This November 18, 2019 marks the 30th anniversary of Merlin’s passing of full-blown AIDS, on a cold November Saturday morning when icy snowflakes aimlessly drifted across the city streets. Whilst at dinner recently, a dear friend asked if I am never saddened at the loss of Merlin and if I ever do miss him. Of course, as I write this blog, I am warmed by the fact that on December 2, 2006 – almost 13 years ago, Merlin was reincarnated in a canalled northern European city. Merlin is now female and the third of three children – two older brothers.
What’s more, Merlin reborn has eyes that would now be even more phenomenal than when last I gazed besotted and rhapsodic into those large, soulful hazel eyes. Whereas Merlin was on his sixth life as a seventh level mature scholar soul, now reincarnated and female that soul is now living its first incarnation as a first level old scholar. These next dreams were dreamt in May, 1989 when Merlin was then still incarnate and at that point, he daily listened to the audiocassette recording of my dreams. This he did because they fascinated him; more than that, he did so because ever the director, he was keen to give insight and direction.
“Come on, Arvin, you have to be more descriptive. I have no idea if the car was blue, green, for that matter a convertible and was it a tan or white leather interior?”
Certainly, it can never be underestimated the pivotal role that Merlin played in the depth and thoroughness of the audiocassette recorded dreams. He was ever a loving but tough taskmaster and happy am I to have had his loving input and direction. After having listened to the recorded dream being now shared herein, Merlin came to dinner at our 20 Amelia Street home and declared, “Well, let’s not get too caught up in trying to interpret and figure out the symbolism of those dreams.” After, he winked, we softly kissed; his lips as ever warm and full as internally an unrelenting disease determinedly consumed his body… but never alas his spirit.
These were potent, lucid astral plane dreams. To say that they were totemic would be understating fact. The dreams were a glimpse beyond the veil as Merlin shamanically wound down another incarnation and got ready to put to rest another life. Ever focussed on my spiritual maturation, I am immensely proud to have survived so long after Merlin’s passing. Had anyone wagered that I would be still in the game 30 years later, I would have said, “You are reading the wrong tea leaves.”
Well, here I am still shaking arse and the Rathore to the core. These totemic dreams were dreamt on Monday, May 22, 1989, audiocassette recorded on tape IX of the 250 audiocassette recording of my dreams and yet to be found in Volume one the 25 Volume dream opus. Too, at the time, the Moon then transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house – wherein my natal Moon is posited. Truly few are they who are brave enough to drink from the chalice that is life.
Your support and choice to be focussed herein are both humbling and a source of inordinate pride. I am immensely grateful. Sweet dreams and as ever do remember, death is just a shift in focus; one is merely focussed at a different frequency. Besides, as one rather beguiling astral plane habituée put it, “Trust me, death is not wasted on the living.”
Dreams serve as the most expedient conduit for sustaining the bonds and communion of souls between persons who are no longer focussed in the physical plane but refocussed on the astral plane between lives as astral plane habitués whilst resting, reviewing and weaving the tapestry of future incarnations. So, drink and live in the moment. Take a deep breath, open your eyes within – don’t be afraid – and there within the silken folds of self is the massive beauty which is spirit.. go on explore and discover the true you. I love you more.
The first dream found me posited on a hilltop looking down into a valley which then rose up into a lower hill. From the vantage of the mountains in Sandy Point, St. Kitts or Nevis, the view was of being down towards the ocean. Topographically, it seemed more like St. Kitts – however, this was definitely set in Nevis. I looked out and what did I see but a house on this hill; it was a very huge and lovely house.
Down from the sky, before the house on the rolling plains, fell a column of white light that shimmered. The manifesting light had the power of a tornado and it was a force that moved… it undulated. Truth be told, this was a liquefied white light – not unlike a waterspout. As compared to the left and right sides of the shaft, it was as though the centre of the light was faded. The centre of the column of light seemed invisible but it wasn’t. As a matter of fact, it was sort of greyish-coloured.
*A very fleeting dream this was but it was one that was potent. The sky overhead was ominously dark as though the cloud cover was simply to mask something else. There was no getting around the fact that the light was used as some sort of transport or conveyance. The light was being used for the relay of energies between the house’s occupants, if there were any, and whatever was beyond the clouds.
The dream seemed to have abruptly collapsed because I had happened on the scene. There was no one else about. Too, it was the only house on the landscape. I felt as though I had been ejected, from the dream, for having been there and witnessed what I wasn’t supposed to have been privy to. The dream collapsed around me; I was deprived any further knowledge of what was going on. In light of the dream that would follow, it became fairly obvious that the light column was channelling.
Eventually, the astra-human soul quality of Merlin’s would quite potently manifest. Of course, just as in the dream of Thursday, July 7, 1988VI, again, there was a lone house on the landscape. As will become evident, in later moments of the dreams, Merlin’s soul quality would manifest. END.
The next dream immediately found me in bed with Merlin. He got up and he looked very old. Looking very tired and old, he turned around to me then went out into the hallway. He turned around and asked me, “When are you going to start moving on because I’d like to die by the end of this year? When are you going to go back to school? I’m really tired of this; I’m tired of this illness… I just want to move on.”
He was terribly impatient. Indeed, Merlin here was very forceful. That was when he began shapeshifting; Merlin underwent a metamorphosis before my eyes. He became, as he spoke, more impatient. I watched spellbound as his physiology morphed into the very astral-looking faun – though elfin-looking, he was taller than his known humanoid self; Merlin became the archetypal Chiron. I started crying sounding real childlike and said, “No… no! Please, please don’t!”
His face then became part of the pink walls, thus his transformed face was flesh-toned. Here his face looked faunlike; his eyes were on the sides. He had the face of a faun and I only ever saw the right eye. The eye was black-within-black. The eye looked down at me because the head – which was the only thing visible when mounted – was up on the wall. Shapeshifted, Merlin’s was a very hard-looking eye.
Merlin’s eye rapaciously looked right into the soul. An ancient eye it was. I caressed the softness of the fur-like skin and pleaded with him and said, “Please, I can’t live without you. I couldn’t go on. Please don’t lose your strength and get ill,” I pleaded with the shapeshifted Merlin and cried. I was aware of being here in bed asleep whilst dreaming and that my body was going through the motions of crying and being pained. Merlin did not hear me, although, I thought that as I slept that I was talking aloud in my sleep.
*This was an intensely upsetting dream because it dramatised how Merlin wished to be allowed to move on. He no longer cared to be focussed in the life. Though it was obvious that he could have soldiered on for months more, he simply lost the desire to go on being focussed. Clearly, this was owing to the bilious discord created by Tytanikka and Oleg’s betrayal.
Though he never physiologically resembled the classic centaur, Merlin’s face not only further morphed becoming like a fawn’s, more accurately, his head and face did have the eventual shape of a young bison’s – very Taurean, strong and potent.
On preparing for the video to celebrate the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth back in 2017, I decided then to head off to the costumer, Malabar on McCaul Street where artist and lover George Hawken lived in the late 80s to early 90s. Inspired by the first dream of Merlin had 41 years ago in July 1978, I decided to get a cowl as a tribute to the cowl Merlin wore in the inaugural dream encounter with him, four years before having met on Friday, October 1, 1982 in New York City. So, there was I at Mount Pleasant Cemetery on Saturday, July 15, 2017 in my cowl and the panama hat purchased at Versailles to escape the heat. I thought it fitting as Merlin always loved wearing panama hats.
My trusty friend, J.J. who happens to be an artisan entity mate whom I have known in 20 past lives –- which is a high incidence of contact -– was the director. Initially, I had hoped to throw a white party on the lawn to the southwest of the chapel at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and have a drone film the event where a gathering of friends would raise a glass to Merlin on the anniversary of his ennobled birth. Merlin always threw a white party each year for his birthday at his parents’ stunning backyard in north Toronto’s Servington Crescent.
The plan was not approved by the cemetery and thus, one had to improvise. I got my panama hat and my cowl and together, we proceeded with a dozen long-stem white roses to visit Merlin’s resting place. I had a pretty good idea what I was after. With the matching white cowl, I wanted to evoke the magic of meeting Merlin in that initial dream which is shared in volume one of the dream memoirs, which is already published: Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey.
Get your copy! Thanks as ever for your support!
In the hardcover edition of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs, the initial dream encounter with Merlin is shared. The dream begins on page 110 in the hardcover edition. I wanted the same sense of wonderment and magic that I felt for having met Merlin in that first dream four years prior to having met reflected in the video. In that dream, Merlin’s appearance was preceded by a white totemic creature which seemed, in its astral plane outréness, to be part Russian wolfhound, part alpaca, part dog.
So, moving to the lawn, having descended the steps of the chapel, I began walking across the open lawn towards the statuesque lion-festooned mausoleum with the five remaining white long-stem white roses. Seven roses, of course, were left at Merlin’s grave -– one rose for each of our seven glorious years together. As I stepped onto the lawn, it seemed magical… timeless even. Slowly, confidently as I approached the filmmaker at the other end of the lawn, I thought of Merlin and that initial dream.
Just then, I very distinctly thought of Merlin greeting me by purring, “Hello Lambs.” As if right on cue, from off stage left, an adult deer came from behind the bushes and tombstones that line the far edges of the open lawn. Never before had I seen a deer at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Indeed, the good burghers of Forest Hill who clearly regularly jogged in the park-like setting stopped and were overheard remarking that they had never seen a deer in the cemetery before. All that I could do was tear up and continue walking as the deer then bolted and ran from stage left to right as I continued my stride uninterrupted –- unfazed by the appearance of an adult deer on the grounds of the cemetery. What is more astounding, is that J.J. at the time was filming my walk; at the last minute, I decided against a run-through as I was concerned about the natural light possibly changing if we were to rehearse the shot.
Unbeknownst to me, the deer after having made it to stage right, then returned to the centre of the lawn and stood there perfectly still whilst observing my progression across the lawn. J.J. who was astounded by the occurrence remarked that he had just witnessed a miracle. There is no doubt in my mind as I tried to recapture the magic of that initial dream encounter that there was a subtle validation of that dream from the magical shaman himself on the other side by having had Merlin’s spirit step in as director emeritus and had the deer enter the shot as validation and a token of his appreciation of the love that we shared and my steadfast loyalty to him. After crossing the lawn and turning to watch the deer stand there, looking down the lawn at me, I felt such utter peacefulness and abandonment of spirit — just as when alone and intimate in the dark with Merlin.
Yes, I believe in magic as did Merlin and as though an appreciation of having stridently done everything to fulfil his mandate to me, Merlin’s astral body conjure up the same magic here and now as he had in July 1978 –- four years before slipping inside a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up and readily winning me over with his sexy elfin charm, magic and sex that proved the most grounding shamanic passion… every time. Standing there, I was reminded, too, of that dream in 1989 before Merlin passed wherein he shape-shifted and became a fawn-like creature who morphed and became one with the wall in our Cabbagetown home.
All the music chosen for this 13-minute video is music that Merlin loved whilst incarnate and to which he returned time and again -– whether at Joe Morton’s tiny Upper West Side apartment in autumn of 1983, Toronto’s 20 Amelia Street in tony Cabbagetown. From Glenn Gould’s mastery of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations, to Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight and Dionne Warwick singing That’s What Friends Are For –- in that segment of the video, I included friends whom Merlin valued: Kareem Benezra, myself, Wayne Robson and his oldest and most loyal friend, the ever-gracious, Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.
Of course, for Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely, I exclusively included photos of Merlin and his very handsome and gracious father, David Ben-Daniel. Whereas I favoured Sir Paul McCartney’s Hey Jude, Merlin ever loved George Harrison and especially My Sweet Lord. Of course, one Saturday, whilst staying at actor, Joe Morton’s Manhattan apartment, when Merlin and I secretly committed to being together, we slow-danced to Supertramp and Roger Hodgson’s unmatched magical vocals on Supertramp’s Breakfast In America.
Additionally, Jeffrey Osborne’s On the Wings of Love which was one of Merlin’s favourite ballads is also included. Merlin loved Black male soul singers: Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jeffrey Osborne –- most especially –- George Benson, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Donny Hathaway, Barry White. Most of all, I am especially proud of the video that J.J. and I have created; I think that it masterfully captures the depth of my love and fealty to the most fabulously magical shaman encountered on this incarnation’s spiritual odyssey.
Naturally, before having left for Mount Pleasant Cemetery, I had flooded my apartment with the music that appears in the video. Perhaps, unwittingly by so doing, I was invoking Merlin’s spirit, which later joined us when he played ultimate director and pulled off the most magical bit of stage direction –- an adult deer in the middle of a cemetery in the heart of mid-town Toronto. Lastly, I played the sublimely soulful Shirley Horn’s interpretation of, Here’s to Life! Whilst raising a glass of coconut water, I had forgotten to pick up some champagne the evening prior and it was too early in the morning to find champagne anywhere –- the lighting was way too good. Besides who knows if that magical deer would have been anywhere about.
Here’s to life… most of all, here’s to Merlin… here’s to dream shamans everywhere!
Merlin’s mandate to me ever remains:
“Please my darling, I want you to write about our lives together. I promise you, however possible, I am going to send you dreams to include in the story of our love… our lives together.”
Of course, there is my Instagram account: Instagram Arvin da Brgha
The YouTube channel is: Arvin da Brgha YouTube
For now, here’s to life, here’s to you and thanks so much for your ongoing support all these years!
©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex announces the birth of his son.
Lips trembled and I came undone whilst watching this beautiful spirit revealing his sheer delight at becoming a father. As a last-born, I always more readily identified with this man rather than his brother.
Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor being introduced to his great-grandmother HM Queen Elizabeth II whilst his grandmother, Doria Ragland, his great-grandfather HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh by his enraptured parents, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.
Doria Ragland, grandmother of Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl of Dumbarton. This woman has the most exquisitely beautiful papaya-seed succulent, ensouled eyes.
Meghan Markle en route to be wedded and pronounced, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.
There is a reason why there was so much beauty and love overflowing at the marriage of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, for less than a year later they would give birth to a most remarkable older soul. Before getting to that, I still think that the best dressed woman at their nuptials was the dowager Duchess of Westminster who looked for all the world as though she were merely traipsing about her lair in her favourite muumuu. There was something so disarmingly unpretentious yet elegant about the look and air she projected.
At once delicate and vulnerable; it is so immensely satisfying to see this young man flower into the true essence of his being.
As Meghan possessed of a true sense of theatre, she who was formerly Margaret Beaufort, entered and strode the knave of St. George’s Chapel alone… a Queen returned, she joined her lover and invited us in to share in a love that was tangible, real and undeniable.
Less than a year later, the love blossomed into the most beautiful, magical flower.
There he is, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, of all the senior royals he would prove the oldest soul. This young man will prove a most uplifting member of the British Royal family.
Mountbatten-Windsor, Archie H. 6/5/2019
Michael: This young fragment is a seventh-level mature priest – second life thereat. Archie is in the perseveration mode with a goal of stagnation. A, realist Archie does not yet have a centre.
Archie’s, as can be expected, does not have chief features.
Archie’s body type is Venus/Mercury/Mars.
The fragment Archie is second-cast in the second cadence. Archie is a member of greater cadence four. Archie’s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418.
Archie’s essence twin is a priest and the slave task companion is likely to be known at a later date.
Archie’s three primary needs are: exchange, acceptance and communion.
There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 7 with Merlin.
This fragment does have a facilitating agreement with the father, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex to be his son; he also has one with the artisan, his mother Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and it is that of parent/child. All three, along with HM, The Queen are of course cadre mates.
We would say that this inspirational fragment is likely to have some notoriety as would be expected and can serve to inspire others to cross perceived boundaries.
The higher ideal has to do with unification.
HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales his paternal grandfather has to date been the oldest-souled senior royal. Like HRH Prince Charles, Archie is a seventh-level mature soul; however, whereas Charles a warrior soul is an ordinal fragment, his grandson, Archie is an exalted fragment for being a priest. Priests are the feel-good great souls. I rather suspect that this man will go on to have the same inspirational effect as have Barack H. Obama, Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King Jr. all of whom are priest souls.
Of course, President Obama is a young-souled priest, whereas both Martin Luther King Jr. and Nelson Mandela were both sixth mature priest souls. Archie is an older soul than the latter two mature-souled priests and like both, his role will prove rather uplifting and inspirational to blacks globally. Indeed, there is no happenstance that as TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel in the Ascot landau, after their nuptials, the Kingdom Choir sang, This Little Light of Mine.
All priests have one thing in common; they have the most radiant, magnetic eyes. You never forget their eyes; indeed, their inner beauty of spirit is more readily reflected in their eyes than with any other role – at least, that has been my experience of priest souls. Priests constitute roughly eight percent of all souls in the cosmos. They are greatly motivated by a sense of justice and are in the world to both inspire and promote harmony. With his father’s double sixness, Archie, born a six day, is well equipped to inspire and empathise with the needs of many. He is, like his father, greatly gifted with the ability to inspire others. Archie also happens to be a cadre mate of both his parents TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, plus his paternal great-grandmother, HM The Queen.
One thing is guaranteed, as the only priest soul who is a senior royal*, Archie is going to be a standout like no other. This is a family of slaves, scholars, warriors and artisans. I think that his parents’ open and abiding love speaks to them serving as parents to this rare soul being born into the BRF. In a way, he is the perfect maturation of the qualities that his paternal grandmother embodied; Diana, Princess of Wales with her inordinate empathy and compassion gave birth to a deeply empathetic warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, who in turn has fathered the very embodiment of all the higher ideals that both mother (Diana) and son (Harry) have represented.
*As I have not had channelled the Michael Overleaves of the three children of TRH Duke & Duchess – HRH Prince George of Cambridge, HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge and HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge, I do not know if any of them are older souled than HRH Prince Charles or Archie. I also do not know if any of them is an exalted role – King, Priest or Sage, though, none of them strike me as any of those three roles.
On another note, what more proof does one need that Diana, Princess of Wales had greatly succeeded in being a parent.
Third royal wedding in twelve months, featured the handsome Lady Gabriella Windsor – look at that neck! As always, one looks for the notable sartorial moments.
Carole Middleton wearing the best hat and outfit that easily surpassed the Catherine Walker ensemble which she wore to her daughter, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding and her outfit at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex last year.
Look, as we West Indians always say, ‘there is always a but’ her blackamoor brooch notwithstanding, I am always a sucker for a woman with a prominent forehead and HRH Princess Michael of Kent has always been a favourite of mine.
I definitely did not like her lilac outfit at the wedding; the mother of the bride looked infinitely more elegant in what she wore later to the reception.
HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal, Lady Frederick Windsor and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.
Hands down, Lady Frederick Windsor was the best-dressed lady at the recent royal wedding – that hat, those feathers that soothing blue… perfection.
HRH Princess Marina, HRH Prince George TRH Duke & Duchess of Kent.
Without doubt, the most handsome Windsor male of the past century. Of course, that tiara was worn this past weekend at the royal wedding of the Mr. & Mrs. Kingston.
HM The Queen at Lady Gabriella Winndsor’s wedding.
HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh at Lady Gabriella Windsor’s wedding.
James Middleton attending the recent royal wedding at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, Berkshire.
There is no stronger validation for the fact that all gap-toothed Caucasians having been black in their immediate past life than this photograph of James Middleton. James is a spitting image of a black Haitian former coworker in Montréal. Same vibe, same eyes and the exact same teeth. Jean-Yves was a pretty laid back man who loved fishing and riding donkeys in his native Haiti. One gets the same vibe of James; his is a look that I have seen many times throughout the West Indian community – laid back men with the same gap-toothed smile. Moreover, his smile is exactly like that of a voluptuous woman who lived in Sandy Point, St. Kitts when I was a child; who knows, perhaps, James is her reborn.
Here’s to love! Here’s to this beautiful dream called life. Here’s to HM The Queen. God Save the Queen!
Most of all, thank you for your ongoing support, happy to have you vicariously along for this most lucid of flying dreams. Be well as ever, and don’t forget to push off and start flying for magic is the stuff of the sweetest dreams. I love you more.
©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Anna Wintour Vogue Editor-in-Chief; because there would be no Met Gala were it not for her.
Dowager Duchess (Joan Collins) in Valentino… there is something to be said for staying power.
Alexa Chung; always stylish and those shoes!
Cardi B… because someone had to take up the slack for Rihanna.
Céline Dion: Reine de Charlemagne; true eccentric and guaranteed to bring it… every time.
Cody Fern; when the dandy does camp… look out.
Because it’s Emily Blunt… that’s why!
Florence Welch because dream encounters with this one are truly evolved.
Because if André Leon Tally could not make it; someone had to show the children how camp is done. Go ahead, Hamish Bowles.
When camp meets art, along comes Janelle Morae!
Diane von Furstenberg… staying power and then some.
Kate Moss… not exactly camp but then again…
Katie Holmes… some ladies never do camp.
If only passingly so but there is something about Jared Leto that reminds me of Merlin and the few dream encounters with him would at the very least suggest that he may be a cadre mate of ours.
Who cares if it works or not, Katy Perry is back with Orlando Bloom and that’s all that matters.
J-Lo and the best accessory that anyone could hope for A-Rod.
The Queen slaying as only a queen can.
Lewis Hamilton: I don’t know about camp but he should by now have been knighted.
Salma Hayek is in the house… that’s who!
Priyanka Chopra & Nick Jonas; it is fairly obvious that if you attended one of the two royal weddings in 2018 at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, you would most likely end up being invited this year to the Met Gala. Priyanka looked much better in years past.
Serena Williams & Alexis Ohanian became a power couple for walking the cobbled red carpet down to the lower ward at Windsor Castle’s St. George Chapel in May 2018 at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.
Camp? Cool and Sophisticated Zoe Saldana definitely is.
Nothing screams camp like Lupita Nyongo’s gold afro picks.
Zendaya takes Disney into the realms of camp!
There is something definitely camp about being goddamn illiterate… Just look at Tiffany Haddish announcing the 2018 Oscar nominations.
There ain’t nothin’ camp about Kylie and Kendall Jenner coming through being fierce.
Penelope Cruz in Chanel…. yes please!
Ciara in fishtail, glam afro and all that fierce attitude… Lord Jesus!
Billy Porter showing the children how you do camp. Goodness, I am reminded of so many beautiful souls from NYC in the 80s, who are no longer with us. Camp never looked more fierce!
Thanks so much for your ongoing support. Sweet dreams, push off and start flying and buy my dream filled memoirs…. I love you more!
©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
After having pored through an interesting OperaCanada article that featured the opera Otello‘s lead, Russell Thomas, and a predictably snide review in The Star – look there is no black lobby in Canada, so one can always be expected to be as curt and dismissive of blacks at every turn; this is after all the culture where the obsession with Jazz is almost as fever-pitched as the predatory late-night runs of Klansmen with nooses at the ready – I comfortably settled into my usual ring three seat, next to trusty Lucian Mann-Chomedy and warmly awaited the magic that is theatre to unfold.
After a month that was not soon revisited, my mind was at times distracted by the dreck that one must at times endure in order to get by. I thought of the heaviness in the air that the subject matter of the opera addressed; the quartet of retired ladies who usually chat about who has taken ill, moved to hospice or died since last they gathered, did a lot of coughing, sniffing and whispering. And as these things are as predictable as flies on shit, sure enough, I heard one of them whisper, “Meghan Markle.” Will these people ever just leave the damn woman alone and stop hunting her at every opportunity?
Otello, Verdi’s take on Shakespeare’s take on race relations did also from the row of retired and widowed ladies spirit the whisper of O. J. Simpson’s name. Some things just never change… alas. Indeed, at some moments as I looked at Otello onstage, I began to realise how we as a people are stigmatised and stereotypically projected onto. I soon got greater insight to why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is so reviled. Objectified, she as a black woman was only ever to have been nothing more than a bit of rough, a tryst.
Naturally, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his double sixness is seen as being readily taken advantage of and needed to be protected against the lascivious bit of rough who clearly conned her way into the royal family. Born September 15, 1984, Henry born in the year of the rat has quite beautifully empathetic, compassionate numbers and with his double sixness is given to OCD behaviour as displayed by his need to fidget with his clothing – right hand inside his jacket et al. Six people are awesome beings and Henry, a double six, is no exception. 15.9.1984 = 6.6.1 = 4.
With Otello, this projection of the black male as emotionally volatile, violent, easily manipulated has certainly proven an archetype that fits blind fools like Tiger Woods and O. J. Simpson to the letter. Either way, it was uncomfortable to watch this production in places as it so mirrored the warped perception of a people by persons who question our humanity and who never seem able to perceive us beyond their generationally custodial perception of a people.
Be that as it may, I so hungered to be removed from the morass through which I recently waded at the end of which, I dismissively remarked of yet another power-mad woman in the work place: “She certainly doesn’t look like a fucking horse for no good reason… Oh please, it’s just a matter of time before she rots the fuck in hell, eating every pope’s arse!” If you cannot take offence then don’t damn well give offence… Honest to god, some women in the work place are nothing but dickless faggots addicted to creating drama for the sheer sport of it and simply because they are just so drunk with power… to say nothing of being bored out of their frigging minds. Well, like a bowel movement, it did not take too long for me to sniff, flush and walk the fuck away from the BS,
This Desdemona was an earthy, warm, beautifully soulful portrayal of a wronged woman, a woman dominated by an insecure and deceived man. This production was a beautiful sweeping affair; I especially loved the dark broody look of the sets that captured the essence of the human condition portrayed. Indeed, it proved a good elixir after all the dross that I had recently endured in the work place.
During Otello‘s intermission, I received a forwarded Instagram post from an old dancer friend, which he labelled #everythingwasbeautifulattheballet. Of course, it was a direct response to my last blog, which highlighted the intense isolation and racial animus that I experienced for two god fuck-all maudlin years in Winnipeg. Yes, indeed, the world of art is saturated with lisping, bottom-feeding, small ‘b’ bigoted boors who see positively nothing remotely gauche about this sort of fare well into the 21st century.
On yet another too cold, rainy day, which proved all too reminiscent of Vancouver, I abandoned my art-filled lair in search of more inspiration the day after the opera. I cannot quite recall a season in recent memory that has proven both so cold and rainy as this protracted winter.
That’s right, the day before attending Otello, there was a break in the perpetual rains that gave way to snow and hail… truly, the dog days of summer cannot get here fast enough. As more of the city’s 19th century streetcar tracks were being ripped up and replaced so that the racket that is the TTC outdoor workers and the local constabulary can make a killing in overtime, it took close to 40 minutes on a bus for me and my fuck du jour to get from Yonge and Dundas to Dundas and McCaul.
My date, a lissom twenty-something with smoky hazel eyes, which were vaguely reminiscent of Merlin’s, was good company. I had for the past several hours pummelled his prostate as his daddy issues were satisfied and my angst from work place tensions were nicely dispensed with. We men when in our 20s can be so alarmingly insecure; I have often wondered how Merlin managed to stay with me during those angst-ridden and redundantly solipsistic years.
My date on exiting the Yayoi Kusama Infinity Room expressed chagrin at not having done magic mushrooms before leaving my place where incense and Jazz magically perfumed the air, intoxicating our spirits as we riotously fucked our way out of winter’s gnawing frigidity.
Without question, no trip to the AGO is completely inspiring without a visit to the galleries where the stellar art of Inuit artists are housed. There are some real masterpieces in the AGO collection.
As it was the tail end of this exhibition and I still had not visited, I simply had to make it there. Whilst walking along the long corridor to the start of the exhibition my fey-eyed beauty suggested that we take a break and go make out in a stall in the washrooms. Fingers interlaced, I assured him that there was better intimacy to be had the sooner we got through the exhibition and hightailed it back to my place by Uber.
To my very discriminating eye, the moment I saw this verbose title, I fully expected to observe a show that was curated by too much extraneous fare and not enough impressionist art. Tumescent and impatient, I had no time for reading, reading and reading more yada yada, all of which was to compensate for the lack of genuine, to say nothing of quality, impressionist art. Just as well, I was growing achingly moist by the minute as both my energetic ectomorph and I hungered to be carnally consumed with each other… yet again.
This marvellous bronze fully captivated me; it would prove my favourite piece in the shoddily curated exhibition.
Highlights from a rather underwhelming show.
Detail featuring two of the most beautiful creatures. Their depiction is not the most masterfully executed but there is something rapturous about the look of the dogs as they ambled with their human companions on a journey which they had taken countless times before that made me stop and gaze overlong whilst being truly inspired.
Detail of what for me proved sheer magnificence… the lighting is phenomenally executed.
A masterpiece to be sure; however, where it was hung and the palette of the salon were decidedly inappropriate. This was all I needed to see to finally wink the left eye at my horny power bottom and to speed home by Uber in the rain for noisy, exhausting, passionate play.
As ever, for your ongoing support I am both deeply grateful and indebted. Sweet dreams and don’t you ever forget to push off and start flying because life is a most beautiful drink. Cheers!
© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Recently, I caught up with an old friend from last century – that sounds so deliciously cool… in any event, whilst hanging out, I got a call from one of those deranged clowns from the world of the theatre to whom one’s only response was to simply hang up and readily call-block the damn nuisance. Who has time for yet another egomanical twat who drones on ad nauseam about life decades long past?
In any event, soon there was talk about Winnipeg and had I not heard the news? If I am honest, Winnipeg is the only place on the planet that I would never revisit… ever. For two years whilst there, if I spoke more than a thousand words, I spoke a lot. Diana, Princess of Wales’ astute remark in her televised interview with Martin Bashir, deftly betrays the hellishly bruising isolation that I knew for living in Winnipeg: “There’s no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.”
For two excruciating years, I, the school’s only black, was the most invisible, ignored, objectified, ridiculed and dismissed. More than that, each of those two winters, on especially cold days when the windchill approached -40°C and below, a male colleague would piss into my locker and into my sole pair of shoes and socks. Those walks home in piss-soaked socks and shoes which by the time I made it home to my 380 Assiniboine Avenue apartment, my feet would be frozen and swollen.
Sitting across the desk from the hairy back-and-arsed, glass-beaded-eyed male in the near-dark clutter of his office, I knew that this man was the most venal, to say nothing of transparent liar. So after he sat there with that smug grin on his face, I approached him a month later, asking if he would let me become the school’s janitor to help my sorry financial situation.
Naturally, I was confident that this dim, shallow, transparent bigot hadn’t a clue that I was as shrewd to say nothing as intelligent as I am. Months earlier, after having been relentlessly pursued by a pudgy, local tea room devotee, I gave in and ended up being blown and rimmed like it was nobody’s business. Pretty soon, my paunched lover got to the business in hand. Surprisingly, he was an ex-lover of the man across from whom I sat being boldfacedly lied to. Adamantly, he insisted that I not get my hopes up because his ex had an almost violent repulsion to blacks and there was positively no way that I would ever make it into the company…. over his ex’s dead body he had declared.
That notwithstanding, I daily did extra minutes of daimoku in hopes of magically spiriting my way into the company. As long as I live, I will never forget the pain of icily frozen feet, glazed in loud syphilitic piss and the smirk and goofball idiotic grin of the circus freak fare whose cock more so resembled an extra girthsome angel trumpet flower and pushing either side of six inches when flaccid. Once my feet were so swollen that I went into my sparsely stocked kitchen and broke every glass by hurling them across the tiny space.
That episode was the only time that I have ever felt suicidal and the only thing that saved me was the thought that the fucking idiot would be the one to laugh loudest on hearing of my demise; truly, nothing more than a bipedal, STD-riddled petri dish. Neither technique nor his idiotic personality can ever explain this person’s decades-long sojourn in Winnipeg save that the glass-beaded-eyed one was dismissed by his ex-lover to be the city’s most notorious size queen.
So alas, a career which ought never to have been then morphed into many things as no size queen ever wants a prize catch out of sight. So there was I, for the few weeks that I did the job of custodian at the then Portage Avenue studios, rushing feverishly through the tasks of brilliantly cleaning the place so as not to give cause for concern, then into the offices I would take. Whilst there, because I was ever confident that for being only perceived as “black” far be it from them to passingly have associated a shrewd intellect with me. Meticulously, I pored through this man’s files of every male student dancer and then made handwritten copies of what he wrote.
Years later, whilst living in Vancouver, I reminisced with an alumnus of the school and classmate. As he spoke of why he took leave of the school and his troubles with the glass-beaded-eyed one, it suddenly came back to me; within those notes, there was the portrait of the sexually predatory taskmaster. I vaguely recalled that his description of the fellow alumnus validated what my classmate shared; he had no desire of being bedded by and being touched inappropriately in class and feeling like he was being groomed into submission – this resulted in a tense confrontation between both men once during the barre section of class.
Not only is an obvious bully a sexual predator, in my experience, said bully also proved a racial predator – despite the fact that neither academia nor medicine will acknowledge what clearly is fact. No one made me feel more dread, repulsion and loathing than the source of current infamy associated with both the company and school, the latter with which I was familiar and the subject of current media scrutiny having been for those two years a classmate.
He did not exist in a vacuum and his enabler is just as culpable, having groomed, promoted and harboured overlong said predator when of negligible talent; trifling talents, I might add, which were allowed to manifest by any means to allow and support what masqueraded as creative artistry. More bruising than having to walk home in piss-soaked socks and shoes, was having to sit there in the dark during the dress rehearsal of the company’s 1981’s production of Romeo and Juliet where the predator’s mentor sat a few rows back of me in the house and laughed his head off at my not being in the production. Indeed, so exquisitely isolated was I that I was the only one never to come down with mononucleosis when it ravaged the school. Truth be told, never once during the two years of being in Winnipeg did I have sex with anyone from either the school or the company.
Well, it certainly was well worth the wait to have the truth karmically surface and expose that vile dog as it finally has to eat its vomit. Go on bitch, start licking; ain’t a damn thing like schadenfreude to embalm old wounds.
Finally, I caught an air pocket after the spiritual turbulence that was Winnipeg and ended up in New York City without knowing a soul there. Within a year, I was dancing independently and got reviewed in the New York Times. More than that, I found there, away from the hellish, racially predatory madness that was Winnipeg, the most gloriously soulful pair of eyes yet met in this lifetime. Into my life, one cool Friday evening strode the very magical Merlin from a dream dreamt four years prior.
These rather lucid astral-projected dreams occurred whilst Merlin was still then incarnate in summer of 1989.
I have come to realise that many of the dreams that have to do with being astral-projected to past or future lives often occur when the Moon transits cancer. For whatever reasons, this seems to be a strong likelihood in my experience.
I really don’t think that it matters much over which house my Cancer rules. Rather, it seems more telling that ruler of Cancer, the Moon, is in my case found in the seventh house.
Too, it should be noted that though much of my second house is dominated by Cancerian energies, Gemini sits on the second house cusp with the cusp of my third house being 20º of Cancer.
Truth be told, they were rather insightful dreams to have experienced. As such, these dreams occurred on Sunday, June 4, 1989 whilst Merlin was then incarnate.
Too, at the time, the Moon magically transited both Gemini and my first house wherein my Mars sits nicely conjunct the ascendant. This placement of Mars – along with its grand mutable square associations to Luna, Pluto and Chiron, tends to have me attract persons of less evolved spirituality who are ever ready to project their base emotions my way.
Of course, it goes without saying that I am always unwavering in deflecting that dense energy with lightning shamanic speed. Keep your dreck away from my aura!
More than that, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on audio tapes nine through ten and are to be found in the as-yet published Volume II of the dream opus. Sweet dreams as ever and as has been recently observed – nothing says wretched existence like bipedal canines who fixate on their quadripedal kin.
One can only hope that most of these otiose overbred castoff humans do not eventually breed. What do they know of either art or dreams the lot?
*I am reposting these dreams as subsequent to having shared them in July 2015, I have since had the Michael Overleaves charted for two of the persons featured in these dreams. To that end, at each dream’s conclusion the Michael Overleaves for the applicable person will be shared. As ever, I am most grateful for your ongoing and burgeoning support. Sweet dreams and don’t forget to indulge your shamanic skills: shapeshifting, manifesting one’s aura, rendering oneself invisible, walking through walls and, of course, pushing off and starting to fly!
In this the first dream, I saw Nicole McHugh. She was cooking with a White man in a kitchen.
He was standing around and was quite friendly so offered to help out, that sort of thing, out of the goodness of his heart. She had these large trays of food.
She was cooking a great deal of food for a great many people. The flame was an open blue-white one and, somehow, he put his hand over the flame to pull out a tray – yet it did not burn him at all.
He did not react to it. I thought that he must have been cooking for quite some time, and been accustomed to these flames, to have had the flames not burn him at all.
He did go off and he had a glass of water – some of which he drank. I went over and I thought of saying to her and did, “Would you like a spritzer or something?”
She did, in fact, say, “Yeah, that would be nice.” She had sweat on her brow because she had been working very hard.
I then went outside to look in my locker because I did, in fact, have a locker there. In an earlier scene, I had put some stuff in said locker.
There were some washing machines – tiny, tiny washing machines. This place resembled a dormitory in the basement area of a co-op or building where people lived.
I was somewhat upset because my locker had, somehow, been displaced and replaced by washing machines. They were tiny, little brownish washing machines.
I had opened the lockers just to see if maybe my lunch was inside them where, in fact, it should have been – inside the fridge. There was, however, nothing inside the lockers.
There were one or two other lockers at the end but mine was more or less in the left of centre. There, in place of my locker, was where the washing machines now were.
Nothing was removed except the one locker. I did open it and it wasn’t mine.
Inside were the contents of somebody who reminded me of that Black guy who worked part time at Nature’s Own. Tall, handsome; his mother had nicely positioned him into the company.
I then went off to get the stuff when I saw a man who seemed to be Bert Jacques but it wasn’t him. He was walking a little girl who was one of Madella Jacques, rather, Maryse Jacques’s daughter.
She was a sweet little girl who was wearing a blue dress. She was quite light-skinned and sunny.
He was walking her outside and coming across the bridge past our yard in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was in the yard and where the orange tree was under the genip tree, in the waking state, I was putting monies into a slot.
I remember taking money out of my pocket to put in – 50¢, I had had two quarters. I noticed that there was a token as I took the money from my right pocket.
When I saw the token mixed with the money I thought, ‘Oh I must be aware not to do this.’ I then got the dime and I was trying to put it into the slot but it was having problems going in.
As a result, I moved away the metal part of the slot. Interestingly enough, you could then see the tree.
I then put in the coin but you still did not hear it fall inside with the rest of the money. I then peeped up because the slot was higher than my field of view – higher than eye level.
As a result, I had had to poke the money in; it was a dime. However, it was sort of flat on its side; it was standing up so that the face of the coin was looking out at you.
I was poking it in to help it to fall in. At this point, whilst I was on the veranda of the house, I was aware that Nicole McHugh was coming down the lane.
I had been looking into the garden where the curtain trees were on the south side of the property. Here in the dreamtime, however, the curtain trees were gone.
In their place were three or four little baby curtain trees coming up. The rest of the land was dug up and it hadn’t been watered.
The soil was drying out and so I said to myself that I would have to water it. I thought I would have to go inside and get some seeds or plant some wonderful little flowers that were going to bloom.
Until the curtain trees grew up, I figured that they would add beauty to the place. So on remembering, I said to Nicole, “Oh yes, let me get you the spritzer.”
So I went and I got her the spritzer. She came and was then going in the house.
A lady then came out of their house and there was some sort of consternation. As it turned out, a White woman had a little terrier-like dog.
The dog had a black collar and the same fur as a Calico cat. This had been Nicole’s cat which the dog had obviously bitten up or eaten it up or whatever.
So there was quite a great deal of consternation. Nicole was standing up outside a wooden half-dilapidated house.
On the far right side, there was a cement staircase much like the arrangement at The Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. That part of the house, the cement part, was also crumbling.
Vida McHugh was there with Nicole and someone else – a little girl. The girl who had had the terrier was being rude.
She was cursing and saying, “Watch yourself wid me.” She had wanted to get in the door, from out on the landing, but the McHughs were in the way.
So she cursed and carried on. Eventually, she ended up rushing her way into the house.
Then I immediately was on the inside of the house where I watched this drama unfold. The events were as if an Opera and I said to myself, ‘My goodness this is Opera.’
Truly, this was much as if Opera. Then persons were coming in and there was movement – people coming down and pointing their feet.
They had on wooden toe shoes. As the movement progressed, there was advancement then retreat.
There were different forces of people. Like a ballet really, it was all being done in silence.
They had on long period costumes. The dramatisation was interesting.
Next, there was a sense of seeing the same woman, and everybody else, being extremely studious. The one woman was in a large area that had stained bronzed, clay-coloured, sand-coloured glass.
She was in the pews with the man who had been helping Nicole earlier. This was set in a large area and she was studiously reading the Bible.
She did take the Bible to be the literal word of god. Everybody else was more or less of that bent – I thought that it was so sad.
At this point, I was struck by the fact that this was where the Christ was going to be reborn. London, England, in fact, was where this was going on.
At this particular point, Diego Lunamas was about because there had been lines of people who were in the balletic part of the opera. Diego had been one of them.
At the time, he was sitting down on a set and it was lit by blue light. He was being grilled by this asinine White guy who was talking about, “Well if you believe in oversoul 7, then you also believe in overbigtoe 7, and what about oversole 8, and overhead 7?”
He was making fun of the philosophical concepts by way of the anatomy because oversoul could have been spelt, as though ‘sole,’ as in the sole of your foot. He was really stupid.
Diego was saying, “I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.” On Diego’s behalf I interjected saying, “Through my experience, I’ve read the Seth Material which I find far more well put together an idea construct.”
At this point Seth did, in fact, come through and began channelling. His voice was booming and it shook the entire place to the beams.
This was happening outside in the street between the McHughs’ and our houses in Crab Hill, Sandy Point. A stage had been set up in the street – a bluish-white lit stage.
I thought about Diego and the guy who, was in front of him, wore a blue-white costume. The booming voice was coming from behind the McHughs’ house.
Everybody was absolutely scared because here were these god-fearing, fear-obsessed people. Totally dismissing them, this was a booming voice which claimed to be Seth; the channelled voice then began calling them fools.
They were very fearful. I thought that it was absolutely great.
In the second dream, I was in a wooden dance studio. The floor was wet because, in place of resin, they used water.
I had a sense that it was in the past, however, I seemed to be my present self. Even so, there were aspects of me that were different.
I remember the way that I postured and used my face; I knew that I had very Caucasian features. I could see the tip of my nose and yet I felt like I do now.
*I was not so much Caucasian-featured, if there’s actually such a thing – frankly there isn’t. I was, though my present self, actually Caucasian.
I was present in the exact same body and I was my usual-personaed self. However, the body was no longer Black but White.
The packaging had changed but nothing else had. END.
Ahead of me was a guy in black trousers – nylon stretch trousers. He was, in fact, the reincarnation of Vaslav Nijinsky† and again male.
Again, he had very mercurial energies and he was a mover. He had exceptionally large thighs.
He could phenomenally jump and leap about. He was just incredible.
When at the barre, I was directly behind him and then just behind me was Pandora. Although, truth be told, it wasn’t Pandora herself but an aspect of Pandora’s.
I never really had made eye contact with Pandora. I remember after we had finished the barre, Nijinsky went and laid down on his stomach – in the frog position to work on his turnout.
The girls then went and they were feeling his muscle tone because it was quite unusual-looking. His feet were so pliant and flexible as well as his calf muscles.
He had eventually turned over because Dannie Cyrta, who was one of the instructors at the head of the class, was saying, “Guys, just leave him alone.”
When we were then doing the grands battements, I remember being really elongated and holding my port de bras. You had to do it turned out, doing grand battements, turned out to the front.
You had to do it out, towards the centre of the room. Also, then in second position, you were facing directly ahead of you. When doing grand battement en arrière, you did it out again.
The arm positions were up and in second position. When you did grand battements en arrière, you would put your arms up again as though you were peeping under your arm – when you were in arabesque doing the grands battements.
I remember before I was doing the exercise, whilst I was doing the current exercise, I was thinking of how I would do the position and how I had to use my port de bras. So I remember standing there in développé and you had to do these grands battements in plié and, somehow, I was in plié and I was holding my back up in port de bras.
My back was absolutely perfect; my port de bras and torso were perfectly open and I wasn’t sticking out my chest. I was thinking, ‘This is so improved.’
I remember my neck being quite elongated, with head held high, as a result. I was wearing a navy blue woollen set of tights and white dance slippers.
My feet were beautifully pointed. There was a sense of looking up.
Interestingly, my whole sense of self – attitude and posture was all about looking down my nose. This was when I realised that there was something about me that was Caucasian – physiologically.
*There was a half-mirror across the room and I was never at the front – the girls, of course, of custom were. That was when I looked and found myself, I was indeed Caucasian more Tartar than not – dark-haired.
I had a strong sense, for looking at myself in close-up without moving, that my eyes were smoky-green-coloured. My nose though aquiline was flared in the Tartar style and my teeth were gap-toothed.
This is not uncommon a feature when someone is currently Caucasian but was Black in their immediate past life – in fact, I was told by Sarah J. Chambers that it is always the case without exception as she was instructed by the Michaels.
Case in point, Madonna Ciccone, the Pop icon, who in her immediate past life was Black American entertainer, Bessie Smith – she has the same gruff raunchy persona. Prior to that, though not immediately before that life, her soul was then incarnate as Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.
Vis-à-vis Madonna, her life is a completion of the agendum she set out to accomplish, in her immediate past life. She thought that it sucked being Black and a woman in showbiz.
However, her immediate past life did give her an understanding of the way the world works. So she decided to take the world by the balls, a ‘give-me-what’s-mine’ approach, as it were, this time around.
Madonna, as per her immediate past life has the same talent, same drive, “Now give me what’s rightfully mine!” Power to her! END.
Dannie Cyrta was, unusually so, very nice to me. She was saying, “Yes, yes Arvin. This is perfect and is much improved.
“Everybody look at Arvin because this is the way it should be. This is as close to perfect, as you can get, in the way your torso ought to be.”
*Imagine that – the Mormon princess, Dannie Cyrta, being remotely civil towards me. She even feigned to pretend that I was not a strongly projecting phantom as she treated me back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s School. END.
I remember the Nijinsky-like character, coming off the barre to look at me. The other people who were behind me were peeping around to look at me.
I felt very open and joyous. Mine was a really good, good feeling.
When we were doing the exercise and I was holding my torso, Dannie Cyrta and the rest of the people were discussing and saying, “This time he’s really ready to go out and perform and he’ll be okay.”
I felt that way too and I knew that I was going to be okay when I went out and performed. My body was quite together.
I was prepared within myself to face an audience. I felt really good for being in the studio.
*Dannie Cyrta’s energies were extremely unusual and contrary to what they were during Winnipeg days. I felt there was a good feeling in this class.
What was really sad, though, was that Dannie’s behaviour had much to do with the fact that I was not Black but Caucasian. In that sense, she truly was ‘the blind’ because she still did not realise that it was me.
To her, it was someone named Arvin but more importantly it was someone who was White. More than that, Vaslav Nijinsky is a mature sage entity mate of Merlin’s and mine. END.
In this the fifth dream, I saw a beautiful hairless White boy who seemed Tartan. He was dark and handsome.
He also seemed to be a mélange of White, East Indian, Oriental and Black. He could well have been one or any of all those ethnicities because he actually had a bronze or even Hispanic look.
He had a bronzed hue to him. He was not however, for being so hued, extra-human.
Such that he seemed somewhat High-Yellow, he had taut smooth skin. He was extremely good-looking.
He seemed like a male prostitute or a gigolo. He was half-naked and teasingly aroused.
I was quite attracted to him. I made a play for him.
He seemed to be in the lane up by ‘Aunt’ Edith Dean, outside by Beryl Babbin’s wall, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I made a play for him but he dismissively brushed me off.
He then moved off and went along his way. I felt quite rejected and naked really.
Afterwards, I was thinking that perhaps I should not have made a play for this person. Nonetheless, I had and I was not fulfilled in my desires.
My aspirations were not met but that was okay.
*What’s really interesting, too, is that he was basically a younger version of the Tartar, green-eyed, ‘Arvin’. So, in essence, though in the body during the dance class, I would see myself at a younger age.
At that time, however, I was outside of my younger-future-self’s body. I was resoundingly rejected by him – that is precisely what I would have done at that age.
Later on, of course, I was taking class with the reincarnated, Vaslav Nijinsky. A class it was which was being taught by Dannie Cyrta.
I shudder to think that in my next life, I will be a male prostitute, gigolo. Then again, it would not have been the first life passed in the much-maligned profession of providing succor to the sexually-repressed and the sexually-obsessed.
Long after this dream, I have since learnt that my essence twin† is now reincarnated. He is male and was born during the second decade of the new millennium.
He is born to German, Japanese parents and lives in Germany. Our overleaves are quite similar though he is a realist.
They are, in fact, rather writerly overleaves. Too, one or both of his parents are artists; I believe that the mother has been a dancer and the father a portrait painter.
Perhaps, I was picking up on him in this dream. If not, it may well be me in a near-future incarnation.
Photo: Costumed performers in period piece
Sandy Point, St. Kitts seen from Brimstone Hill Fortress.
Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.
Green-eyed Tartar young man.
©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Battle, Kathleen Deanna 13/8/48 Portsmouth Ohio
This fragment is a seventh level mature sage – second life at current level, likely will be old soul soon. Kathleen is in the power mode with a goal of growth. An idealist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Venus/Mercury.
Kathleen’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary martyrdom.
The fragment Kathleen is seventh-cast in seventh cadence; she is a member of greater cadence six – very cardinal. Kathleen’s entity is four, cadre six, greater cadre 5, pod 408.
Kathleen’s essence twin is a sage and her task companion is an artisan.
Kathleen’s three primary needs are: expression, freedom and expansion.
There are 16 past-life associations with Arvin, 14 with Merlin.
This next dream does reflect the beauty of being in the company of spiritually evolved souls. Said dream was the first on Monday, June 17, 1991, whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house – close enough to the summer solstice.
Interestingly enough, there was a dream within the dream in question. This was one of the most rhapsodic and uplifting dreams had during my fourth decade of life.
I was going out from this apartment block’s front door. I was aware that in apartment 6, down the hall, the door was slightly opened.
I could hear some classical music being played and tried to figure out who the composer was. It was very complex music. I went down to the front door of the building, unusually enough, to call Whoopi.
However, I had decided not to open the door to call her because if I were to have called her there, I wouldn’t have wanted her to then start showing up at that door to be let in.
I had noticed, on the way to the door, a whole stack of mail outside the door to one of the apartments here. It was a door, which sat in the middle of the hallway wall, where there shouldn’t have been a door.
Stranger still, it was brown unlike the other four doors which were white. So at that, I decided to walk under the ground floor by going down into the basement.
Whilst I was going, I was still listening and then heard Kathleen Battle being introduced on the radio… She was going to sing.
As I was walking, Whoopi appeared in the basement as I headed for the backdoor of the building. She began playfully running amongst all the many boxes stacked high in the basement. From time to time, the adorable cat would run ahead of me and was quite playful.
Kathleen Battle† then began to sing and, my dear sweethearts, greater music has never been woven in the waking state. The music was highly complex indeed. It was supremely divine.
The aria this woman sang and the beauty of her voice was supremely stellar. It was dignified; it was divine. It was so beautiful that, as I walked and Whoopi joyously played, my body became healed to have heard this music.
At that, I hurried Whoopi upstairs into the apartment and took to lying in the bed to more intently listen to the music. There was much talk afterwards about the music.
There was a White man around and I was being told by him that this music was, in fact, not native to this world. The music was not native to Earth, he claimed.
I certainly agreed with the information. It galactically towered above any of this world’s greatest music to date.
Also, lying on the bed with me was a girl. She deliberately was forcefully putting her feet down the bed and was trying to put them in my face as I lay in my bed with my head at the foot. She was White and I was just too into the high just experienced with the glorious music to have had time to go fighting with anyone.
Later on, I went out to wait for a bus. Yet here too, at the closest bus stop, the music kept on playing. It simply permeated the fabric of the dream experience.
*Of course, it should come as no surprise that all throughout sleep, the radio here in the waking state was on in the room whilst I slept dreaming. END.
However, the music being filtered into the dreamtime had been considerably transformed. Here it was uplifted and expressed in a superior light which befitted the dreamtime’s magic.
The radio being on became my leap off point to experience some truly uplifting moments in the dreamtime. Though CBC FM was playing classical music, at the time of my dreaming, the galactic music that I was hearing far outdistanced the familiarity of classical music by light years.
It was so complex and cerebral that as I stood there, at the bus stop, I suspected it was the classical music created by cetaceans. I speculated that a pod of dreaming cetaceans was weaving their music, in the classical idiom, in the dreamtime.
I merely happened to have tuned into it, whilst the waking state music served as the leap off point, for vicariously entering the cetaceans’ dream dimensions. This was so much more complex than classical music.
It was an intellectual high beyond belief. Kathleen Battle, throughout it all, kept on singing. It blew me away, to contemplate the amount of breath work involved in Ms. Battle singing that complexly and for that length of time.
There was a guy when I got onto the bus which was like the double-deckers of London. I was on the lower level, in the middle section, looking back to the rear.
On the same side, as I was seated, there was a guy there who seemed very familiar. He was aware of me in the same soul-resonant way that I was him. However, we did not interact.
Across from him, there was a rowdy guy who seemed drunk. The police had come and taken him to the front of the bus to take him away. Interestingly enough, the police wore the uniform of the London Bobbies with the hat and the whole gear.
When I got to where I was going, it was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful tropical island with a beautiful mountain range. There were two large homes and I was told that both of these homes were, in fact, owned by Kathleen Battle.
This was where she retired to recharge her batteries.
‘How fine, indeed,’ I thought.
There was a party being thrown for her by marvellous celebrities. It was then that I recalled having been at a concert earlier prior to going out and taking the bus.
It was either at Salzburg or Bayreuth. When Ms. Battle was onstage, she wore a blue dress that billowed in the breeze which created a wonderfully hypnotic slow-motion effect.
She had more fucking-goddamn fire planets in this dream, I can assure you, than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis does with her six fire planets no less. Kathleen Battle possessed, in this briefly recalled dream within a dream, great spiritualism.
She sang and what she was doing with her voice was nothing short of magic. She was as if the ocean because each note was so liquid, time-stretched yet complex. There were more nuances worked into each note than is, in the waking state, humanly imaginable.
It was not unlike all the funky innuendo that a female Jazz singer can cram into one little song. It was absolutely incredible what she was doing.
When she was done, the house went wild. Everybody here was so spiritually elevated. I was up in the balcony, on the right side of the stage and I screamed down bravo with thunderously deafening passion. My ecstatic celebration made all the people close to me laugh with enjoyment at my rapture.
As I lay asleep, my body simultaneously began zinging and tremblingly with energy as I thunderously shouted, ‘Bravo’. When articulating my passion, I had shoved out my neck and at that my neck began elongating.
My overjoyed face moved possessed as my voice operatically roared from my soul itself. My face ended up snaking down through the air, from the balcony to the stage, my neck like some exquisite anaconda swimming through the air bearing my proudly ecstatic face.
My face was peeled wide-open with ecstasy. Indeed, the fire in my eyes was just phenomenal. This dream was inordinately empowering.
It was as though I had become truly animated with a hyper-elongated neck and my face was not unlike the faces of those spiritually elevated and regal ladies that I had recently dreamt of.
Also, I was quite certain that my warping behaviour in this dream had been much inspired by the eloquence of physique that these strangely beautiful women had presented me with their august bodies in another dream of days earlier.
To have best expressed the gratitude that I felt, from my very soul itself, it was as if my neck had become a giraffe’s. Here I was looming down over the house and up to the stage.
To begin with, in all of this, I had not even been seated at the front of the balcony. My ‘bravo’ was a very long, extended, purely male-energied war cry. This was pride in this woman that had nothing to do with our shared race of being both Black rather our both being human.
I was simply applauding her very soul itself for its great achievement in artistic self-expression. In point of fact, I actually got a high from hearing the thunder of my voice when saying bravo because this very deep and resonant baritone was not my familiar register.
Moving up, I climbed up the hill to both Kathleen Battle’s houses. There was a woman there who was White and older. She was helping this old, old, ancient White man. I wondered,
‘Who is this man?’
I knew straight away that he was definitely very important, in the spiritual scheme of things, here on this planet. I thought that, perhaps, it was Herbert von Karajan but he is now passed on.
He did, after all, have quite an attachment to Kathleen Battle. This is why she was always invited to Salzburg.
However, then too, I thought that it was more than likely Herbert von Karajan because the energies of this man were incredibly magus fitting the archetype of the magnetic old king from the Michael Teaching which Herbert von Karajan was/is.
I thought that perhaps he looked as old because he was doing so much immense energy work in his function as a sixth level old, magnetic old king soul. Naturally, his agedness would have been a reflection of his having passed a large number of lives, to date, at sixth level old.
He was very transcendent and, you could tell, was no longer physically focussed. More importantly, everything about this dream indicated it being very much so alive. The dream was very much so real and set on the astral plane which is where that magnetic old king, Herbert von Karajan, now resides.
In any event, he was being helped down by this long-legged, handsome, strong-willed woman. She much reminded me of Marella Agnelli, the wife to the CEO of FIAT motors of Italy Gianni Agnelli. However, this woman was older than Marella Agnelli presently is.
*One of the things about some, definitely not all, wealthy persons is that their stratospheric wealth enables them to be in their element. As they are such mature-souled, august, reincarnationally sophisticated souls, money allows these spiritually elevated persons to exist in the world unencumbered by the Maya of the wretchedness of every day existence.
Such wealth enables them to transcend the Maya of financial limitations that entraps and stifles the merely working class to upper middle class.
For the latter classes, the lines of demarcation are more nebulous than they would like to accept. Hence, the excessive restrictiveness and obsessions with class, looks, greed, Brahmanism et al.
Some of these truly wealthy people do not suffer the strictures of belief systems. This allows them to just live in their element and be supremely human.
This is not true of all wealthy persons because, for one, the nepotistic cupidity of Hollywood certainly validates this. These people, such as Gianni Agnelli and Marella Agnelli, do not suffer the displacement of humanity that many greed-fixated wealthy persons experience. END.
This woman here in the dream, in that sense, reminded me of Marella Agnelli. The latter impresses me as someone who truly does embrace her humanity. One gets the sense of her that she is not separated from the little people of choice.
We then all came down after, of course, I had gladly gone to give the graciously handsome woman a hand with assisting the magus himself. We sat in this long, long, long enclosed veranda that had a fine linen mesh covering it.
There was a wonderful breeze. The magus was on my immediate right and talking away. Indeed, he did make my energies zing and become reshuffled. It was at the level of the atomic and it was subtle but noticeable.
He was talking about the music, raving about how great it was, and how fabulous Kathleen Battle had been in performance. Next, he opened a large bottle of spirits which was like champagne but it looked more like a bottle of gin.
He then took up a magnum of some expensive champagne or other and raised it saying,
“My dear, you must have a drink. You have earned a drink.”
He had a wonderful soulful voice. Whatever he said became the law. He was beingness in the flesh. He simply held court. You experienced his spirit, more to the point, one experienced his very soul.
He was truly what the Michael Teachings would call a magnetic old king. One just intuitively sensed and knew it because this, after all, was the astral plane. One did not doubt insights gleamed here. He was so grounding to have been next to.
When he was pulling out the cork it proved very long. In fact, it was extremely sexual what he was doing with the cork. It was very slow and hypnotic. I got a sexual high experiencing him uncork the champagne.
I never did look into this man’s eyes overlong because his face was so powerful and so tremendous. He was someone who was clearly passed on. I also knew that it was not Merlin.
I had only looked at his face, in the distance, when he was up on the hill. He wore the most spiritually refined face imaginable. Up close, I knew that I just did not have the power to peer overlong into this face.
I was too drunk by his magus energies that bled outwards magnetically permeating and fine tuning everything – man and nature. Thus I had to hold the champagne flute with both my hands with my knees sexily drawn up whilst my feet rested on the edge of the chair.
Giggling, simply giddy from his energies, I said en Français,
“Champagne! Oh god I love champagne.”
He began pouring in the champagne whilst it was fizzing. He poured it in a decadent manner. As it crashed into the glass there were a lot of bubbles from the bottle, gurgling aloud, where gobs of drink orgasmically splashed over the rim of the flute.
It was so sensual, so timeless and wonderful that on concentrating on his actions, I experienced the stasis of time. I began besottedly drinking and grew giddy at the implications of the fine company that I was in and that he was serenading me at that.
It much reminded me of the garden party that I attended in Toronto with Merlin, the second to last summer of his life, when the writer Ted Allen had me sit by him spending the party regaling me and flirting with my spirit.
It was a nonsexual thing… just an intimate commune of our spirits. Really fine and memorable it was too. There were other family members about – Pandora as well as Harella.
He told me to move away the glass before the champagne did not spill, over onto my lap, which shortly it would have had he not prompted me. I moved it to the right between him and me.
Immediately, on taking the first sip from the flute my mind stood still because the cool potent touch of it illumined me. Instantly, I realised that the bottle of drink was merely a metaphor. What I was being given was an elixir from his very soul itself.
The magus was healing me thus. What utterly potent aqueous magic. It was cool yet simultaneously warm. It was all the things that the music was and more.
In fact, it was exactly what I needed after having been made drunk and high from the music of Kathleen Battle’s magic. When he finished, it turned out that he had only poured a drink for two other persons of all the others gathered at the party.
I was so blown away by the fact that he genuinely wanted me to be sitting next to him. Perhaps, it was because I had been considerate enough to have assisted him. I had made it possible for him to go down, the hill from the upper mansion’s gardens, to the veranda of the lower house.
He chose not to have passed on the drink to anyone else. It was very subtle but was not, of course, lost on me. He did not pass it around although everyone had glasses and were quietly waiting to be served by him.
Certainly, the impressive magnum could have amply supplied every glass. I was then told by Harella not to be greedy and she advised me to perhaps offer my glass to others.
Ignoring her, I languorously looked out beyond the mesh and thought aloud in a whisper,
“God this is such a wonderful dream. What did I do to deserve this dream?”
Just like that the dream dissolved for me being doubtful and seemingly unappreciative.
vDream one. Earlier, in one section of the dream as I had listened to the music, I saw an inner vision of a holographic diagram. The hologram indicated where in the Cosmos the particular music that was playing, to which Kathleen Battle was singing, had originated.
There was this cardboard-like diagram, which much resembled an Olaf Nordstrom lithograph, which was very sculptural and intellectually placed. Olaf Nordstrom interestingly does, in fact, have six air planets.
Simultaneously, I knew that as much as the successive diagrams were of the cosmos, they were also of the human spine, the nervous system and the human chakra points.
I could see the crown chakra which was very, very expansive. I then saw the first chakra which was close to the tip of the spine. I was being shown that it was very tight and needed to be opened up.
I was being told, by way of seeing this network of cables of light, one had to have one’s energies realigned. It basically was about yoga, breath and, also, about the awakening of Kundalini energy within my body.
It was about becoming more so opened up, at all chakra points, so that I could get more flow. Too, it was stressed that I needed more positive light into and through me.
There was a great deal of blue light flooding the diagram’s holographic systems. There was red light, as well, in certain areas of some of the chakra points.
It was deemed to be neither good nor bad. Rather, it was an energy that was presently focussed in my body.
I was being told that it could be successfully transmuted. I certainly think that I know, to what it was referring, in terms of the sexual energy flow and my sexual centre’s proper functioning.
It was mentioned that it was terribly ego-based and not all that highly evolved in the end.
As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support; I am immensely grateful. Sweet dreams and don;t ever forget to push off and start flying.
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