These next dreams occurred on my birthday; yes, I am leonine to the core. It was my first birthday whilst living in Vancouver, British Columbia. At the time, I was returned to the city after having been off with Frederick Hinneault†, my two-spirit lover du jour who introduced me to the wonderful, spiritually evolved world of powwows and more.
I met Frederick as a result of the dream on summer solstice, 1994, some weeks earlier. That dream, of course, is shared herein on March 3, 2013. It was an uplifting dream and one which fittingly introduced me to Frederick.
More than that, of the six dreams the one of interest is of an astral plane encounter with dancer, Rudolf Nureyev at his Louvre apartments. This, of course, was dreamt after his passing.
The dreams were dreamt with focussed abandon on Tuesday – same day of the week as at my birth – August 2, 1994. At the time, the Moon was transiting Gemini and correspondingly my first house.
Joop happens to be my oldest friend and the only friend/lover with whom I have never had a fight or falling out which is no small feat when it comes to my thoroughly engaged passion mode which can be intensely overwhelming – what with this being my third life at seventh level mature and the fact that I am a combustible mix of warrior and priest indefatigable zeal… sixth position in third cadence, third greater cadence of entity six and cadre one of greater cadre 7, pod 414… of course, being a sceptic means that I will very callously – thanks in part to my Venus-Uranus conjunction – tell you to go fuck yourself in two nanoseconds – used to be with a cool and cutting look in my 20s; now, I just do so with inordinate impatience or charmed vituperativeness depending on my moody artisan prerogative.
Obviously, I am reposting these dreams now as a tribute to Lee Radziwill-Ross who recently passed. Hers was, at least from afar, a truly aristocratic, iconic American life.
*At midnight, I took to the pyramid where I meditated for quite some time or at least had intended to. The phone rang at quarter past as Joop van der Pelster† called to wish me happy birthday.
We shared a really lovely moment of great intimacy. I would then decline returning to the pyramid. Instead, I took to the bed and continued meditating.
Lying on my back, with lids closed, I felt after some time rather opened up and expansive. Then my inner vision became focussed and things began unfolding; so, here then is what I experienced.
Again, for the record, I had not done any drugs prior to this experience as I do not do drugs. Period.
I saw a large container coming, through the air, towards me. Turning around, it shifted and then opened up to reveal a large tunnel that was yellow-red hot-looking.
Contained in the rust-coloured container, it was a flame of light. The only way that I can describe the container’s unfoldment is by drawing an analogy to the protective lens panels on the Hubble space telescope opening up to focus on a point in space.
There was something inside the container which had a round aperture. Growing cautious, I had thought that it was possibly a snake.
However, I then felt myself being quieted into being less hasty to project. My voice to self, during this interval, was almost like Merlin’s at those times – when he would say or do exactly the same thing and encourage me to be open to potentials.
Thoughts of the container being there to suck away my life-force were, of course, premature. There was no way to get around the fact that this large container had a magnetic quality to it; it was almost, if you will, a giant vacuum.
I did not have a sense that it was sending me light energies. Instead of protesting anything, I decided to bleed all the bile within into the container. The container really did look like a gaping hole.
The mouth kept on shifting; yet, on the inside of the container’s mouth, the light was brilliantly red. Then I saw some stray wafer thin waves of energy leaving my body.
As though made of solidified carbon dioxide, they slowly radiated outwards. They left my aura and headed into the same opened up container. I was pleased to see it and, as it were, decided to go with the flow.
I then focussed on letting all spent energies, which were not of the highest nature, be allowed to become disengaged with my corporeal being and waste away – truly spent.
I thought of all the bile that has collected in my body, from so many clung-to painful life experiences. Mostly, this had to do with neutralising the shrapnel that had been psychically projected onto me for being here, in this archly hostile place – this racist black hole work environment here in phenomenally beautiful Vancouver.
I wanted all my fears of ill health and lack of certainty to be dissolved; I wanted it discarded into this large container. This was great meditative and healing work.
The presence – the force of the container was massive. It was as if a black hole had warped space and bled its way through to being close to Sol. Thus, it allowed for this energetic work to take place.
This experience endured, for quite some time, without me once falling asleep… unusually enough. When it was done, I managed to crack my back and got as many vertebrae realigned as when being adjusted by my chiropractor.
This was effortless and really productive. So relaxed was I that I had even been able to crack my neck. I felt truly yogic, relaxed and all expansive. After having manipulated my vertebrae, I returned to meditation and did some deep-breathing exercises.
When my inner vision resumed, everything was completely different. Now I was instantaneously flooded with a deluge of intense white light. A container had approach and, on opening up, produced the flood of white light.
This light was so intense, its beauty so uplifting, as to make it almost too sacred as to have been experienced whilst incarnate. Nonetheless, there you have it, we are here to spiritually get the most out of our journey.
The light was such a glorious experience, its touch a longed for aqueous, silken movement. Being able to experience this light was so very healing and uplifting as well. I was really rather impressed by it all such that I simply further let go and fell into sleep. END.
In this the first dream, I was on the veranda of a very tropical house. It also seemed to have been connected to a back alley. There was a van coming down the road which was to my left.
As it sneaked along, I suddenly didn’t have a very good feeling about this van and its occupants. The main entrance to the house was to my right. The road, on which the van progressed, was a back road.
With the backs of the houses visible as they faced out to the main road beyond, there were larger roads close by. Though I had no idea who was in the van, I had stealthily ducked out of view at the last moment.
A little while later, in the opposite direction from left to right, a car came by bearing Vanessa Banks-Abella†. There and then she was thrilled to see me and excitedly called out,
“Boy what are you doing up there? What are you still doing up at this time of night?”
I told her that I was reading over my notes as I tried properly recording my dreams. Surprised, she claimed disbelief at my still being focussed on recording the dreamtime’s experiences.
“Well wha ah goin stop fa?”
She then asked me to make sure that those kids – hers and others, stayed in the house. I could see her plainly because the car was a convertible. She then had to be off for an engagement.
I suppose that the house would have been hers. I then went around making sure that all the locks on the doors operated properly. In one instance, one had to push a latch to further secure it from the inside.
When the latch was in place, there was no way to open that particular door. I had been concerned that the latch was in place once the children were all indoors.
The door had been opened and I didn’t want any of them to get outside then not be able to get back in. So, for starters, I rounded them all up and made sure that they were inside and left things at that.
Here, too, there were lots of video games both on the veranda, and scattered about the living room. A very cluttered and noisy affair – Vanessa Banks-Abella and William Abella do have three boys, plus their peers, who were over to hang out.
I enjoyed listening to them noisily.
I had an encounter with Isha da Braga, in this the second dream, in which I asked what she had been discussing with Marc-André Viaux. I wanted to know if he had told her what my HIV status was.
Obviously uncomfortable, by being very evasive, she brushed off the line of questioning. She said that it would be more appropriate for me to directly speak to him than go through her.
She simply did not care to get involved. It was obvious though that she didn’t want to have to get involved. Too, it was obvious from her neurotic unsteady eye movements that she knew more than she was letting on to.
For my sake, I simply did not want to become HIV infected. I was in my darkened apartment, here in Vancouver, whilst speaking to Isha da Braga on the phone.
I could see her clearly in her Toronto condo as though we were face-to-face. She could see me too and, for that reason, was avoiding eye contact. A very lucid psychic connection this was.
This, the third dream, was set outdoors at nighttime. I noticed that there was a barre in the middle of the street. As they drove past, persons slowed down to observe.
I was near the back of the barre and felt really strong. Not only was my technique good but my breathing was really relaxed and expansive. I was quite so well grounded.
We had to do the tendus in plié. Maria de Cortez, the Mestiza, was taking the class as well. The female instructor told us what to do. Then she let the left side of her face rub against my right jeaned thigh.
The right foot was pointed in tendu to fifth position in front. At the time, I was in plié. She did this out of admiration of me. I was flattered though concerned that my jeans which were soiled could possibly be a tad malodorous.
She could not have cared less as she wanted to pay me homage. We then did the battements tendus which incorporated a flick that was reminiscent of a coupé. Four times this was done, en croix, then repeated to the other side.
Naturally, when we had turned around to do the exercises at the barre, I had end up being at the front of the line. There were port de bras that accompanied this very rapidly executed tendu exercise.
Maria de Cortez had the port de bras down pat; I really admired her grace and focus. She and I were the only ones who were confident in our movements.
On the sous-sous to turn around, I then did a passé which I held indefinitely before closing, in plié, in fifth position at the end. My turn out was rather elastic and supple.
Here, I was wearing a pair of red legwarmers. When doing the tendus en avant, my arms were up in fifth whilst I looked under the arm. In second position the head was inclined up and outwards.
En arrière, if the arm was kept in second position, one looked below the arm with head inclined forward and down. Furthermore, there was the option of holding the arm in second position arabesque.
During the exercise, the instructor walked past and touched my arm when in fifth position. My port de bras was perfect. My alignment and posture were perfect.
I felt completely on my supporting leg and properly aligned. I felt rather elongated and princely. However, the nature of the discipline was such that she felt it incumbent on her to come by and break me down to size.
It was a way of pushing you to always strive for greater mastery of the technique. Too, it was a way of her saying that I should not have been so advanced yet.
There was a sense, on a personal level, that she almost resented my refinement. I could not have cared less; I was too connected to spirit and the light within to have become thrown by her intervention.
She took her leave of me as her tactics were to moot effect.
An encounter, in this the fourth dream, I would have with a woman who was rather like, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. She was an aristocrat and was quite concerned in nature about being loyal.
She had been the only one to have stayed with Rudolf Nureyev, until the very end, as he suffered from AIDS. This woman, whoever she was, had been the one to have gotten him to stop being in denial of his illness.
She managed to have gotten him to stop drinking, to excess, as he suffered a breakdown of his character. He turned into a literal vagabond about his very opulent, finely decorated Paris apartment.
Perseveringly, she had succeeded in getting him to rein things in. Too, in preparation of his death, she was instrumental in getting him to focus in on his spirituality.
At the time, she was trying to get him sequestered into a place where I was following up on her efforts. I saw Rudolf Nureyev and he did so look as though he were suffering from AIDS dementia.
Though he was standing up at the time, he really didn’t seem strong enough to be doing anything so taxing. There was no way to get around that this man was gravely ill.
His face was ashen, gaunt and his sagging skin left his eyes really large possessed-looking orbs. He wore a narrow-rimmed little hat, from that era in this century, when men customarily wore hats; his hat was not a broad-rimmed affair.
The doyenne went up these stairs, in a very lavish opulent building, that was so very empire and distinctively Parisienne. The stairs inside the foyer led up to a large museum where there was an art exhibit.
The paintings here were rather large. I helped her carry him up the stairs. In a bid to not attract attention, she had turned her back as if looking at a piece of art; it was a tiny drawing.
She did not want the public to notice her; she just wanted to be inspired as a way of recharging her batteries. Rudolf Nureyev was there but by himself.
We had struggled up the stairs, both of us on either side of him, supporting him just ahead of his elbows as his arms were bent at the elbows. I was across the way from them and being silently observant of them both.
There was a path that one could take diagonally to another wing. We had silently managed to slip the birdlike yet regal Rudolf Nureyev into the next wing; there, the space was smaller than the previous salon.
The floors here were of a rough marble that made for a noisy gallery as shoes marched across them. It was though a wonderful light-entrapping interior where the colours were pale and soothing.
Thus the walls enlivened whatever natural light made its way so far indoors. There was no direct natural light here, however, the soft tones of the walls left the place light rather than subdued.
The museum’s salon was rather beautifully laid out. As we walked down to another man, I noticed an African man who was clearly an exchange student.
He had some equipment; he was an arts student of some sort. The gear that he carried was a measuring instrument of some type. It seemed to be a surveyor’s gear or a mini telescope of some sort.
The aristocratic woman was deeply concerned about this. She thought that for using the instrument that he would be able to recognise Rudolf Nureyev who was fairly well-disguised.
She seemed too to be concerned that he might just recognise her which she did not want. She did though seem to be, the more time that I spent near her, to be Lee Radziwill-Ross and not her sister, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.
There were times when she seemed to be Elizabeth Taylor. However, this woman was a born aristocrat and was dark-eyed. She also spoke fluent French which I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor does.
Besides, I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor was that close to Rudolf Nureyev. This person was an aristocratic arts enthusiast, who was also a patron of the ballet, which sounds more like the Auchincloss sisters, Jacqueline and Caroline (Lee) rather than Elizabeth Taylor.
Besides, these two were so close towards the end because it turned out that they had a soul connection. Not only did they have several past lives together but it would seem that they shared a close connection that bespoke being cadre mates.
She was in his life to spiritually help him. She wanted him to become focussed such that he would pass with some degree of dignity and be able to move on. This was something that one did for being of the same spiritual tribe or, in this case, cadre.
Finally, the African student, a tall East African Nubian, with richly dark skin did not recognise either of them. He was a deeply introspective Scholar soul who just didn’t focus beyond the object of study which presently happened to have had nothing to do with them.
Both Rudolf Nureyev and his aristocratic confidante were rather pleased that the African had not recognised them and tried to interact with them. I was rather observant of everything whilst with them.
Though I helped out, I was never intrusive and remained at times as though not a part of their party. She had needed me to come in, from time to time, and be of assistance but then I had become nonexistent as this was how she was accustomed to relating to help.
For both of them, being in this place was like a way of staying grounded and inspired. What’s more, this museum was connected to where Rudolf Nureyev lived.
This happened to be the case, in the waking state, as Rudolf Nureyev did have apartments which were a part of the Palais du Louvre – the majority of which houses the Musée du Louvre.
This was supposed to be his last visit to the museum. He had been actually cutting through it whilst en route to his apartments. This was a section of the Louvre where there were lots of prints and architectural drawings.
These salons, however, were not normally opened to the general public it would seem. Members of the diplomatic corps, the very wealthy the world over, could be invited to view these exceptionally rare prints.
It would seem that some of them were Leonardo da Vinci prints. The collection was considerably vaster than the prints that are on display in that wing that is close to the River Seine.
This wing of the museum did feel like it was closer to the Rue de Rivoli. Including Rudolf Nureyev’s, this would also be the wing of the Palais du Louvre where the exclusive apartments are.
I was hoping, in this the fifth dream, to get directions to some place that I had never been to before. There was a woman on the phone telling me where to meet her.
She said that she would be at a kiosk by way of the A1, at the Bay department store. This was here in Vancouver. I was then over on West Georgia Street, on the south side, east of Seymour Street.
Yet, I never saw her anywhere so soon became concerned. I could not quite figure out, why she would want to meet at the Bay. It did though contain the Granville Street Skytrain stop – the city centre’s major hub.
Then I thought that it was by the entrance to the Skytrain; she had said that the kiosk was close to the ‘A’ doors. She had said that she actually worked at the Bay department store so could meet me there.
I thought that, perhaps, it was at the doors by the Granville Street Skytrain entrance. There was, it turned out, no kiosk there nor had I seen her at the Seymour Street entrance. So I returned and went across Georgia to ask further directions.
Later, when she did point it out to me, I saw that it was at the northwest corner of Seymour and West Georgia Streets. Here, things were set up differently to the waking state. There was an overhang.
The side of the building, where the display stood, was cutaway and here in the dreamtime painted blue. Large television screens and other television studio paraphernalia were present.
They were interactive and gave directions to the public. The woman, who had been on the phone whom I was supposed to have met, I then saw across the street on the north side of West Georgia Street.
There was an island in the middle of West Georgia Street reminiscent of Toronto’s University Avenue. I walked along the island going westerly and towards Granville Street.
I saw three Black women with long braided extensions who looked rather well turned out. On seeing them, surprised to see Blacks here in Vancouver, I grew self-conscious.
As compared to being in Toronto, it was such a rare occurrence seeing Blacks locally. Seeing me, they totally scuffed at the eccentric, outré look of me. I could not have cared less about their fake-arsed weave-headed self-loathing idiocy.
One of them had blonde streaks in her hair. Though not High-Yellow they were light-complected and clearly of mixed parentage, perhaps, a generation removed.
All three were of mixed familial heritage in the past, with Whites, and were possibly related. They were very cliquish that way that young women can be.
I did notice in the blue schemata, over by the overgrowth next to the Scotia Tower, there was an opening where there was more blue. This opening up which created a break in the Scotia Tower complex does not exist in the waking state.
A guy was there who was genuinely, archly even, eccentric. This man immediately reminded me of Daryll Newcombe†. On his head he wore a tiny blue and white umbrella.
A striped affair with slats in it, it looked much like a propeller which he could use to take off à la Mary Poppins. Terribly eccentric, he was and just the sort of thing that one could expect of Daryll Newcombe.
I kept on moving along the island, going westwards, on the wider-than-in-the-waking-state West Georgia Street.
Eventually, in this the sixth dream, I came to the end of the land. I looked out to sea past two jetties that were quite built up. I was high up from the water and with me was a Black man; he was young.
I rather liked his energies. One of the jetties doubled as a wharf in this deep-water harbour. Though it seemed fairly tropical here, I was certain that it was not St. Kitts.
Standing to the rear of my Black companion, there was a wall to my left. Though not grey out, it was also not bright and sunny either. The land went out to the left more and formed a peninsula.
I had a pair of binoculars which I used to try and find the second jetty. I was trying to find the large ship; it was a navy vessel rather than a tourist cruise liner. The ship was rather large.
However, I couldn’t find the bloody thing to be able to have surveilled the deck of the ship. All that I could find was the steely grey of the cold-looking sea. Never did I get to find the vessel with the binoculars.
Soon enough, I was otherwise engaged as a jetliner came into view. It flew from right to left whilst headed for an airport. There were times when this place did feel as if some part of Basseterre, St. Kitts.
This was definitely a Tri-Star L1011 aircraft. Wide-bodied with some red in the schemata worked into the tail and the third engine – which sits atop the back of the fuselage and beneath the tail.
Coming in to land, the plane cut quite a majestic line. The plane travelled unusually slowly which caused me some concern. My companion, though, assured me that he was just making its final approach for the airport. This didn’t seem to be the case to me; for this reason, I asked him when then was it going to deploy its landing gear.
The craft at that point was dangerously close to the ground. It did eventually initiate the deployment of the landing gear. Moving away the binoculars, it did seem to my eyes that the flaps had not opened sufficiently to enable the wheels to drop.
Replacing the binoculars confirmed my suspicions. Still following its progress through the binoculars, the plane then began turning to the left. It was seemingly a standard manoeuvre at that point in all approaching flights to the nearby airport to our rear.
To compensate for having dipped too much, the right wing sharply tipped – in a bid to prevent it from curving too close to the sea. With that, the plane went into a sudden nose dive and landed on the shore of a black volcanic beach.
Skidding in the sand, the plane travelled some distance breaking against the wet sand. The waves were gently crashing ashore; it was not at all a rough sea. I drew my companion’s attention to the fact that the tide began suddenly changing.
This I pointed out was good as it allowed the plane not to move into the water. The craft was veering off towards the right, rather than left, wing. My companion, however, was not the least bit concerned about the plane’s supposed crash landing.
Meanwhile, no one seemed to be the least bit scared. Too, no one was screaming at the unscheduled landing. At one point, the plane’s nose fell downwards and kicked up lots of sand as it dug in whilst barrelling its way along the beach.
It was a muddy consistency as the sand was still fairly wet; it eventually covered the entire plane in a wet sheen of black sand. Ultimately, after having made a sharp left turn facing towards the land, the crashed craft came to a stop.
The rear end of the fuselage was being partially covered by the sea. Still, the tides receded some more and at which point a group of us began rushing down from the cliff to the shore below. We were keen to investigate the crash.
Not knowing what next would happen, I hung back as I feared the worst case scenario of the plane possibly exploding in a massive fireball. A little bit to the rear, and right of the plane the ocean floor dropped off, suddenly.
Beyond that, the ocean had receded to beyond 100 yards. Stranger still, from beyond the receded cover of the ocean up to the plateau came a procession of persons.
There was no mistaking the fact that they came from the ocean. The look of these people was decidedly Oriental. Clearly, they were rushing to the aircraft to try and help pry the bodies or passengers from the crash.
They were there to help out in this emergency situation but there was no getting around the fact that they lived in the ocean. Though wet, they seemed not the least bit affected by the wetness or the cool temperatures of the water.
From my vantage point, high up on the beach, I saw that the aircraft had opened up an emergency exit shoot. Instantaneously, all these bodies came popping out of the craft. This was a horrific sight. Truly it was.
Everyone in the airplane was doused and appeared as if made from rubber. Also, one feature that they all had was that their eyes had popped.
Their mouths were wide-open in the same horrific arrested scream as in the Edvard Munch canvas, The Scream. Clearly, their deaths had been horrific and their final expressions were frozen in death.
Too, from their mouths poured what appeared to be the small intestines, brain matter or lung tissue. They had vomited a great deal. Obviously, from this, one could deduce that the airplane’s cabin had suddenly depressurised.
I got the sense at that point, at which I saw it coming down to land, the entire group – passengers and crew – had already died whilst at greater altitudes. The plane was simply flying itself in on autopilot.
The landing gear failing to deploy was another indicator that the entire crew had died before they had gotten so close to landing the craft. The bodies were all squashed, and atop one another, as though they had been banged around at high altitudes, during the flight.
It was all very sad. Then I noticed a stout woman trying to shove her way free of the craft but the listless bodies proved a formidable obstacle. Eventually, I noticed that there were others who wanted to make their way free of the crashed airline.
These survivors were in a state of shock, not surprisingly, and screaming their heads off. As a matter of fact, they seemed on the verge of savagery in a bid to shake free of the bloated exploded, rubbery-looking bodies that were piled everywhere and obstructed their escape.
One stout woman appeared to be in the process of being birthed by the clamor of dead rubbery bodies piled thick, pouring through the mouth of the escape hatch.
The look of the piled up bodies was tantamount to toothpaste being forcefully squeezed from a tube. Once halfway out of this macabre birthing canal, the woman then turned around.
What seemed like a bid on her part to free her body, from the tangle of listless bloated limbs, proved a bid on her part to pull others free who were struggling to make it out after her.
This was quite the grotesque spectacle. By this time, some of the people began making it onto the beach rooftop from which I had safely been on looking. For fear that the airplane may yet explode in a sudden fireball, I was still cautious about getting any closer.
The rooftop was not especially large. A Black woman came out sometime after the stout woman. She looked completely dazed, and just out of it, as though she were still on the astral plane whilst her body clambered and struggled of sheer instinct.
Truly exhausted, she – like all the others – was covered in a white substance that looked much like rice or stringy pasta. This was a very lucid experience. As much as I wanted to turn away, I simply couldn’t. It was way too garish.
As much as I wanted to turn away from this horrific sight, I was magnetised to its surreal unfoldment. Truly horrific was the experience vicariously. Eventually, the Black woman made it from the aircraft and then came up onto the rooftop with the rest of the crash survivors.
Laying there on her side, as though she were looking for the solace of the womb’s protection, her legs were drawn up foetally. Clearly, she was in retreat. Too, she was experiencing a great deal of abdominal pains.
I had a glass of ginger ale or some such soda. Kneeling down before the Black woman, she rolled over onto her back and rocked herself back and forth whilst writhing with pain.
Pandora da Braga was also here, incidentally, as an observer. She seemed fairly numbed by all the devastation here. In any event, the Black woman wore a brown floral printed dress that was soaked.
The smell of gastro-intestinal acids was rife and stifled the briny sting of the ocean. A sour smell it was. Holding the Black female survivor by the right hand, I bled my very life-force into her and soothed her spirit with the quiet whisper of cooing reassurances.
I told her that it was all up to her that if she wanted to she could definitely survive the ordeal. Too, I let her know that she was merely in a state of shock. As we were all right there for her, there was no need for her to panic anymore.
Important too, I thought, to seek out someone who was Black to comfort her. After all, over the course of her life, the stresses of all-pervasive racism are so Real that her tolerance threshold was already considerably diminished.
She needed not to have been abandoned. I knew how important it was for her to feel not to be passed over, as is socially customary, in this hour of need. There weren’t, anyway, White survivors up on the rooftop.
I felt that it was important to stay there and give my support, rather than run off, lending my energies to the others who were exclusively White.
However, there was one woman in all of this who was beginning to go hysterical; her child was being administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Ridiculously, this idiotic Black woman began screaming at the man to stop kissing her child. How dare he put his mouth on her child’s? This was all a part of her denial – the state of shock into which she had been catapulted with the high altitude incident that had led to the crash.
She had had to be restrained. I gave the glass of ginger ale to the other Black woman and then went over, with Pandora da Braga, to pacify the mother. The mother wore a brownish-red floral-printed dress.
As the others worked frantically, in a bid to resuscitate her, the child was very limp. Then she went stark raving mad, all bug-eyed, saying to whomever off in the indeterminate distance,
“I know it, you know. Ah goin’ sue dey ass! As soon as Donna Summer announced that we were going to crash, that’s de firss ting ah say. ‘Ah goin’ sue dey ass!’”
Similarly dark-skinned, this woman so much reminded me of Dian Mason. She was, in both senses of the word, truly hysterical. Then she added, licking her lips frantically, and looking so distinctively West Indian,
“Boy, yu wait! If ah live, ah goin’ sue dey f-ing mudderscunt…”
This woman proved the point of one of the most hysterical dream experiences in ages. Offering up some reassurance, I told her that she had to calm down and not get herself too agitated.
I told her that she simply had to focus on calming her nerves. If the child were to survive then she needed to focus instead on the child and not her issues, to which she answered,
“Boy, hush yu damn ass!”
She went wild with rage at my suggestions. Then she turned on Pandora da Braga and made threats of her whilst insisting that it was Pandora’s fault why all of this had happened.
According to her, it had been Pandora da Braga’s idea that she take the bloody flight. Threatening to beat her up, she pounced towards an unflinching Pandora da Braga. And she was a tall woman too, much like Jan Hartley.
With that I leapt in between her and Pandora da Braga, squaring off with her, meeting her eyeball for eyeball as I hissed at her,
“Watch your fucking mudderscunt!”
I was deadly ferocious; my intensity was more than she could withstand. This diffused and centered her energies; she was the first to flinch then stand back.
There was positively no way that anyone was going to attack Pandora da Braga once I was around or alive. The tension diffused, I watched her back as she walked away to go look after her daughter.
There was then a woman, down off the rooftop, to the left of where we stood. Looking down at her intently, she was a somehow familiar Black woman.
It was as though I was supposed to have known who she was. Perhaps, I had encountered her years earlier in a dream. Perhaps, she was from another time… another life.
At the time, everyone was laying blame at Donna Summer’s door. Apparently, the chartered flight had been organised by Donna Summer. The entertainer was headlining at a resort which was a partly owned business venture of hers.
The discussion was about who exactly was karmically responsible for the crash and the number of persons who had lost their lives as a result. The woman down below was there to keep score of everything: who had been lucky enough to survive, who had not.
Also, she sought to learn the severities of the injuries sustained by the survivors. Her record keeping was also on the order of keeping akashic score of who owed who karma in this multidimensional group dilemma of sorts.
She was rather officious and adroit.
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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul. 