Lesson In Older Soul Lovemaking.

dsh1993halloween3

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

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

______________________________________________________________

d8

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

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

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

home-design

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

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

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

20171125_160139

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

Quitting-Drinking-1160x773

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Merlin 26121988

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

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

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

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

dsh&ssk1985a

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

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

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

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

merlin-arvin-1987

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

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

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

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

000402374-1

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

______________________________________________________________________

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

______________________________________________________________________

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

The Fawn… It Definitely Was A Miracle.

Merlin Christmas 88

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. 

________________________

Montpelier Plantation Nevis

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.

_________________________

Satiro de Aaron Sims

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.

bison-1344761_960_720

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.  

maasdo-ii1

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.  

20111027mausoleum

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.  

41567660520_aa45897de7_b

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.  

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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 & Arvin 1987

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.

Anointed by Merlin; A Dream Like No Other.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

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

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

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

Sweet dreams you, I love you more!

________________________________________________________________________________________

d771a8d2347820dbdec7b06de8cbbf51

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

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

shooting

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

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

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

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

NYCBARS0915-The-Back-Room_Lower-East-Side_ProhibitionNYC-20

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

CL1-Chaise-big

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

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

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

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

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

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

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

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

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

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

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

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

istockphoto-495789644-640x640

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

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

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

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

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

r1545

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

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

Lapis-lazuli-necklace

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

C-Necklace

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

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

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

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

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

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

Finance_Wallpapers___Gems_A_handful_of_diamonds_on_the_black_leather_109200_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

41KBoDkbVkL

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

534bff4e15fd06c0a231574cf80601c2

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

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

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

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

____________________________________________________________________________

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

______________________________________________________________________________.

© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

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

devonshire-hunting-tapestry

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

the-great-hall-in-the

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

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

bookcases jammed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20160919_035237-e1474639797925-576x1024

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think you’re doing?”

conan-sword-photo-by-Ann

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________________________________________________________

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

 

 

 

 

____________________________________________________________

© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Jessye Norman & Glenn Gould.

GGPrize

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!  

glenn gould

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.  

GGPrize3

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.  

GGPrize2

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.  

GGPrize4

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.  

Elektra2

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.  

GGPrize5

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.  

GG

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.  

________________________________________

A Glenn Gould

Astral Plane Glenn Gould Recital!

 

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.

____________________________________________________

Related image

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.

Related image

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…”

Image result for gothic knave ceiling

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.

______________________________

Jessye Norman

Norman, Jessye 15/9/45,  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.  

________________________________________________

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

Jessye

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.

Image result for large many floored steep roofed house

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.

a madonna mtv 1990

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.  

Related image

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.  

Image result for large old flashbulb paparazzi camera

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.  

Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill

Rudolf Nureyev

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.  

Lee2

*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.

verandah2

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.

NEO SHINTOISM

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.

barre2

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.

Rudolf Nureyev in Louvre apartment

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.

Lee Radziwill by Andy Warhol

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.

Lee and Rudi

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.

Rudolf_Nureyev_Paris Louvre apartment

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.

skytrain2

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.

jetty2

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.

plane crash2

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,

donna summer2

“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.

__________________________________

© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

An Awakened Dream Like No Other!

20181118_095725

On the final full day of this trip to London, it was also the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing.  I had planned on visiting Spencer House, the Monday evening prior; however, the event which was a ticketed lecture had been cancelled –  this was my only chance at getting to Spencer House.  

20181111_161749

Climbing from the Underground at Green Park, the park was relatively empty and there was a crisp bite to the early morning air as I walked along the periphery of the park’s western edge.  I opted to take that route and be close to the park’s trees than use the suggested route – St. James Street and St. James Place.  The only persons in the park were intermittent joggers, looking fit; strange in November it was to see persons running in shorts.  

20181118_095705

Walking along, I passed a narrow break in the shrubbery; the narrow path that ran beneath on the houses stated that it was a private road and to keep out.  A few more steps revealed the signage; yes, indeed, this was the place that I was looking for.  Turning back, I made for the private narrow pathway and awaited as a tanned, moneyed man approached with a wonderful, happy dog before him.  The fat little thing tried its best to act on his vibes and grumbled; staying my ground, I waited for him to get closer, said hello and asked if this was the way to Spencer House.  

20181118_121414

“Is this the way to Spencer House?” 

“It is a private path…” he replied from behind thicker, darker and more-expensive-than-mine sunglasses, to which I brushed past his American accent by elegantly rebutting, “Thanks, I’ll find my way…”  

Entrance to Spencer House: looking west to Green Park & East.  

entrance_hall_primary

On entering Spencer House, I noticed that the splayed and slightly bloated feeling that began on approaching the stately home continued.  Inside were two men; both were rather pleasant.  We began speaking; for the next half an hour, we warmly visited.  Seemingly, there was a group tour booked and they thought that I had simply arrived especially early.  

morning_room_primary

As members for the guided tour arrived, I slipped into the ante room and enjoyed the still-life.  Remarkably, there was a real ease for being in his place, which seemed more than passingly familiar.  Finally, when enough of us were arrived for the tour, a silver-haired lady with clear, focussed eyes entered the foyer, walked up to me and smiling, we warmly greeted.  A group of no more than twenty-five persons, the informal gathering was cosy and engaging.  

ante_room_primary

As the tour began in earnest, it dawned on me that this house was remarkably familiar.  There were no doubts in my mind that I had never previously visited it; however, even the tour guide approached me and asked when I had last been to the house.  She was convinced that I had been there before and scoffed at my response that I had never before visited the stately home.  She had done so because I seemed with uncanny accuracy to know which door to next use to progress on the tour.  That aside, the energy between us flowed with the greatest ease.  

library_primary

As she spoke, the guide mentioned that Jerry Hall and Rupert Murdoch, who lived in the same street as Spencer House had actually had their wedding reception in the Georgian masterpiece.  As she spoke of the ladder, I suddenly experienced a vision and it was of seeing the room as it looked during Georgian times; however, as in dreams everything was back-to-front from the current life experience.  Indeed, I had definitely been in this room in the past; moreover, I had a rather memorable dream, which was set in this house.  Then as I intently looked to one corner of the room, the rather knowledgeable tour guide announced that in that very corner, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson loved sitting in that spot as he was a frequent and favoured guest to the house as the 2nd Earl Spencer had been First Lord of the Admiralty.  

diningroom_primary

In this marvellous salon is a painting of the Death of General Wolfe… it is even more grand and emotive than the painting of General Wolfe’s death on the Plains of Abraham at the Royal Ontario Museum.  

During that time, as a countertenor with Merlin (then female) my accompanist on harpsichord that I would have encountered Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, 1st Viscount Nelson.  I have dreamt of this man many times and some were set in the very house where, though it had not been planned, on the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing, I was taking a tour.  

20181118_112903

Just before we left the library, the tour guide then announced as she drew our attention outside the window from the library, there on the grounds of Green Park were cattle and other livestock kept.  Indeed, in one such past-life dream, which was set at Spencer House, there was the intense smell of livestock.  For this reason, I had assumed on awaking that this stately home on the edge of vast acreage was situated in the English countryside rather than in London.  

great_room_primary

Definitely, this room – the great room – was familiar; however, somehow, it did not seem as large as it ought to have been.  

20181118_093021.jpg

The view from the great room out to the beauty of Green Park.  Suddenly, it dawned on me as I looked out the window that is why on Armistice Day after I left the splendid exhibition: Russia, Royalty & the Romanovs at Queen’s Gallery, Buckingham Palace and cut through Green Park en route to Green Park Station, I felt so joyous. 

20181118_095657

That is why too, for moving past Spencer House earlier on November 11, 2018 and in essence, becoming harmonised with the locale of a past life that I would have such lucid flying dream activity on returning to the hotel that late afternoon and napping.  

painted_room

Without doubt one specific dream was centred in this room and there, a play was being staged in the past life dream.  In between acts, one retired to this room from the great room and visited whilst the performers took almost forever at costume changes.  

staircase_primary

This was the setting of great music and laughter; indeed, I may well have performed for the Georgian glitterati on this balcony/stage-like staircase.  

lady_spencer_room_primary

Lady Spencer’s room.  lovely.  

music_room_primary

The Music Room where 2.5 centuries earlier, Merlin and I were in creative full bloom.  I had a really powerful response when in this room.  I was left teary eyed and on looking in the mirror, I actually saw the outline of my aura; it was silvery as it picked up the stunning sunlight streaming through the windows on either side.  Somewhere in spirit, Merlin was with me and there was further validation that this place, this day… indeed, nothing is coincidental.  

palm_room_primary

This room was pure sensory overload.  I felt gay and as though on the cusp of flying.  This visit was more adventure than even I could have imagined.  When the tour was concluded, I warmly parted with the staff and assured them that I would be back.  Then out into all this balmy, glorious sunshine, I headed into St. James Street and made my way to Piccadilly Street. 

20181112_113344

Feeling way too glorious, I decided against using the Underground and instead, headed east along Piccadilly and slipped into the Burlington Arcade’s splendour, browsed then went coffee table book-shopping at the Royal Academy.  Though I hardly had room to pack the six books.  Well in excess of 300£, the handle-barred and zoot suit-wearing poseur – eccentricity is never affected, asked way too condescendingly what did I mean by VAT “dear” and why would I get money back.  You blasted, silly little twit; as I do not gladly suffer fools, I shot back, “Look do us both a favour and go restock these… and try finding a brain while you are at it…” the latter stated whilst walking away from the counter; you’ll get no commission from me.  Who are these people, forever trying so damn hard? 

20181112_113337

With that, it was across the street into Fortnum & Mason to buy more teas and rose petal marmalade and jelly.  From there, further easterly I bopped and grooved in the glorious sunlight and circumambulated Piccadilly Circus and bailed into Coventry Street and into the crowded intensity of Leicester Square. 

20181118_123406

From there, I snuck from the rear of the National Gallery and inside.  

The delightful guide at Spencer House had insisted that I return to the National Gallery before leaving London and catch the Mantegna and Bellini exhibition.  She could not have spoken more highly of it.  I did tell her that I had reservations about seeing Italian art as it was much too ecclesiastic for my liking.  However, since she had been such a gracious host, I decided to just this once to go with an open mind and just explore. 

20181118_123413

You cannot believe how fast, I got out of there.  As I said to the West African museum worker, who asked why I had left the show so quickly, “You cannot imagine how deeply disturbing I find a culture that goes to such great length to never address in their art their savagely ‘civilising’ influence in the world.  It is as though it never happened or they played positively no role whatsoever in the brutal murder, enslavement, extinction of peoples and cultures.  His response was, to the victor go the spoils and the shaping of history in his image; he added that he was very very proud that I am aware, unlike so many of us.  With that, we bumped fists and it was back out into the bright sunlight of this glorious day.  

20181118_123539(0)

Apart from the usual suspects, Yodas seemingly levitating – now there’s a gig! – I made it past a rather engaging African artist who had the soul of a sage if ever anyone ever did.  Being drawn to its beauty, I drew closer to get a really good shot of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and it was then I made the most glorious of discoveries.  

Well, there could be no better way to restore the spirit after the disquiet that I experienced for moving through the Mantegna & Bellini show.  Great art should reflect life, not neatly reinvent and compartmentalise away all that which one would rather not address – likely, though, Bellini had no knowledge of Columbian expeditions to the New World. 

Bellini maria1.jpg

Presentation at the Temple – Giovanni Bellini c 1460

Certainly, the prominent artists of the 16th century: Tintoretto, Botticelli, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian were supported by the Church of Rome, which by its patronage of these artists was intent on depicting itself in a glowing ecclesiastical light rather than the brutal realism which afforded it the prominence and wealth it then enjoyed… which endures even now. 

20181110_101946

So with that, richly inspired by both the guitarist and Spencer House and all that it represented, I slipped into the National Portrait Gallery, to drink once more Wim Heldens masterful Oil on Canvas of the collectors Harry and Carol Ann Djanogly – she passed earlier this year.  Satiated of spirit, it was off to grab a bite and then a nap of glorious dream-filled sleep – one of which was a flying dream.  God it felt goodly glorious to have returned in spirit to Spencer House.  

20181118_210510

After having overslept by a hair, it was a mad dash by Underground and taxi make it by mere minutes to Royal Albert Hall.  One of my favourite concert halls, any show would do.  

Ah nothing beats a good old nostalgic adventure.

Interior of Royal Albert Hall.  

Intermission from the stalls at Royal Albert Hall.  

You cannot beat a room full of love and wonderment.  Truly spectacular.  Of course, it goes without saying that Merlin was wild about Jim Henson, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg.  This was a glorious way to have capped off a great trip and to remember the life of an extraordinarily phenomenal human being, Merlin.  

thumbnail_IMG_20181123_093417_760

And like that, the following day, I was returned to Toronto, my art-filled home and this most glorious photograph of the most magical fellow who made life truly a happening, for seven glorious, love-filled and magical years.  

As ever, sweet dreams and thanks for your ongoing support.  

_______________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

The Day After the Night that Was.

20181111_073750

By now the effects of the stewed fruit at breakfast has seen my waist shrink; I am grateful.  The morning after the night that was, I am still elated and humming away that catchy melody from Ludwig Minkus’ greatly composed ballet.  

20181117_093412

After breakfast I decamped at Leicester Square where it was time to enjoy the bright, cool sunlight and catch a movie.  The Vue cinemas are rather interesting; I was keen to know if I would have a repeat of what had transpired last winter. 

f26b7046508219.58579b8d72341

Back then, I was upstairs at the same cinemas watching, Darkest Hour, which proved a real tour de force performance from Gary Oldman.  Sat in the back row, soon I became bloated and expansive.  Though not the least bit drowsy, I felt wide-open and lucidly self-aware.  Next, as the film progressed, I watched as several pure white humanoid forms simply stood up and walked to the sides and quite seamlessly walked through the very real walls of the cinema.  

fantastic-beasts-poster-1-700x1037

One of the things that Merlin and I always loved doing, was seeing a film during its opening weekend.  Naturally, so close to the anniversary of his passing, I was keen on seeing a film.  J. K. Rowling is among my favourite contemporary writers and having seen the first film in this series, it only made sense to go.  

 

 

Whilst waiting for the cinema to open, I caught a series of items; all are favourite actors of mine, especially Sir Kenneth Branagh.  

20181117_095155

The first screening of the day was a special affair with about one third of the theatre occupied.  A lovely Chinese couple sat to my right with their precocious son of about ten years stuck between them.  We chatted briefly and I thought it so strange that conversation with strangers is almost unheard of when attending a Canadian movie.  

20181117_093248

I emerged into the crisp Saturday morning in Leicester Square a bit teary eyed as thoughts of Merlin at one point during the film overwhelmed me.  It was after all the eve of his passing some 29 years earlier.  

20181117_093801

Slipping inside this tiny joint – I always favour hole-in-the-world, ma-n-pa joints, I got a couple of really good slices of pizza whilst pouring through the Times of London.  There was conversation close by, which struck me as interesting; it went from Theresa May and Brexit to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  I soon realised that both persons were openly criticised chiefly for being women; in the case of the Ms. May, she is dismissed and not taken seriously chiefly for being female.  As for Meghan, like every woman who marries into the BRF, she is readily reviled, though, some of this has bordered on racial hysteria and seriously threatening.  

20181111_143226

In a bid to cleanse my very soul, after all that, I slipped from Leicester Square for the uplifting sophistication of the National Gallery where I deftly moved through my favourite salons with usual mercurial speed, taking the time to pause and admire the key works of art that bring me the greatest pleasure.  

20181117_212811

Well, after all that art, it was time for more prowling the decidedly unCanadian wintry streets of London.  Along Shaftesbury, I strode my Crockett & Jones booted and blistered feet into Neal Street where my favourite hippy-dippy (as Merlin would remark) New Age store, The Astrology Shop in Covent Garden.  Though, it most definitely does not have the best choices, I still love the feel of the place and their sagebrush collection is second to none.   

20181117_150421

Along with marvellous pieces of crystals and a wonderful Citrine, I really connected with this gorgeous agate ring.  The moment that I saw it, I really resonated with me and it felt so right. 

20181119_174829

After a rather warm conversation with a green-eyed, redhead, she was fascinated by my custom Reuben Mack messenger bag.  

20181114_114933

I then headed back to The British Museum for more shopping.  As it was the weekend, there was now a sizeable lineup to gain entry.  As though my impatience with crowds were not enough but soon, I had two Torontonian women doing what Canadians do best; they spent much of their time gawking at me, talking about me and cultural appropriation for wearing the custom Reuben Mack messenger.  Standing there in line, I was reminded of what petty, small-minded bigoted jackasses the average Canadian can be and god do they love being openly racially predatory towards blacks. 

thumbnail_20181216_054733

Never once had I experienced a scintilla of racial animus from a Briton or for being in London to that point; there you have it, the land where racism is enshrined in law: employment equity law of Canada: All employers must employ, Caucasians, First Nations persons, Disabled persons and visible minorities and therein is the framework of Canada’s own form of Apartheid – state sanctioned racism.  All employers, in particular crown corporations (government agencies – federal and provincial) employ visible minorities to the exclusion of blacks and if and when they do employ blacks, they then hire blacks only as casual workers which means they are not entitled to benefits, pension and guaranteed hours.  

20181117_145347

So smugly established is this state of affairs that the current prime minister refused to attend the 50th anniversary of Caribana – the nations West Indian community’s gift to Canada on its 100th birthday in 1967; however, he attends ever Gay pride parade in the same city as Caribana, Toronto, and has repeatedly been to India, to dress up and act a right clown because who gives a damn about blacks in Canada.  As one friend said, blacks over the past three decades have become as marginalised as First Nations persons.  But enough about aggressive young souls and their racialised worldview.  Meanwhile, as they were openly rude towards me whilst queueing to enter the British Museum, I grabbed my phone and pretended to film them to which one of them suddenly became enraged, demanding that I not film her…  You have to laugh or truly you would go mad.  In any event, I got the feisty Buster a nice but scary Egyptian stuffed cat – he is actually afraid of it.  

thumbnail_Screenshot_20181216-060809

On my return to the hotel, a couple of blocks from The British Museum, I slumped into bed and decided that my aching feet needed a break from the rest of the day’s planned events.  To that end, I stayed in that night rather than return to Barbican Hall to catch a celebration of the Windrush Migration.  At that concert were to have been Calypso Rose and The Mighty Sparrow; though it had been years since last seeing either performer, I just was not into it.  Moreover, I wanted to take the time to be with myself and reflect on the eve of Merlin’s passing some 29 years earlier.  

20181114_122344

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and ever remember to push off and start flying.  

___________________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Overleaves Validation and All That Jazz!

20180613_122322

In the lead up to the annual Jazz Festival here in town, I decided to seek a bit of inspiration and take in a couple of documentaries.  Both proved rather satisfying.  On a temperate Wednesday midday in June, I made it to the Bell TIFF Lightbox building, to which I had never been before to indulge.  

20180609_185941

Relaxed in my comfortable seat whilst waiting interminably through too many ads, I focussed on the latest book on my KOBO being enjoyed to the hilt.  Just then the lights began going down and I was about to be wowed by Grace Jones in all her fabulousness.

20180613_121117

Without doubt, Grace is a force of galactic dimensions and thoroughly absorbed and entertained was I.  There was no getting around the fact that she felt like family in her West Indian realness of essence.  Of course, she also happens to be a cadre mate of both mine and Merlin’s.  

Jones, Grace 19/5/1948 Spanish Town, Jamaica

Michael: This fragment is a seventh-level mature warrior – first life thereat.  Grace is in the power mode with a goal of dominance.  A sceptic, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Grace’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary greed, is fixated on accomplishment. 

Grace’s body type is Mars/Saturn. 

The fragment Grace is second-cast in third cadence; she is a member of greater cadence two.  Grace’s entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – yet another cadre mate of Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

Grace’s essence twin is a warrior and her task companion a sage. 

Grace’s three primary needs are: power, freedom and adventure. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin. 

______________________________________________

The weekend prior, I decided to drop everything and go catch the André Leon-Talley documentary.  I knew that it had been playing, Juan-Felipe de Castro — a most exhaustingly funny sage… no, they are not all funny — had raved about it and insisted that I go.  In any event, there was I, playing femme au foyer with my Swiffer and came across the coffee table gem: ALT 365+ and immediately took a shower, booked a ticket, opted for some Tom Ford Black Orchid eau de parfum instead of patchouli, hopped on my bike with my Dorothy Grant messenger bag and my snazzy Wellingtons.  

20180609_192737

I got to King West and John Streets, opted to lock up my trusty bike on John Street and dashed across John for the 40 storey plus condo.  There are too many of these damn hideous things and more people jump from them than one would care to have to admit.  That aside, I made my way inside, for the first time — I never do TIFF — and was wowed by the place; seriously, though, what’s with having to climb stairs when your bladder is about to give out?  

20180609_185810

Comfy, the beautifully interiored salon’s lights went down and thus began the pleasurable and immensely enlightening adventure that is, The Gospel According to André.  Great it was to see the grand dame, Diana Vreeland.  Of course, I was reminded of the summer of 1983 when working in the garment district, running errands for milliner, Frederick Jones; these were all persons whom he knew and with whom I became briefly acquainted for tagging along with him to some mid-afternoon or mid-morning meeting after which we would be off to buy fabric.  Frederick had actually taught me how to block hats, which gladly I did as he feverishly worked away in his West 43rd Street Studio/home.  

Talley, André-Leon 16/10/1949

Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature atisan – third life thereat.  André is in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance.  An indealist, he is in the emotional part of intellectual centre. 

André’s primary chief feature is greed fixated on satisfaction and the secondary, arrogrance.  

André’s body type is Jupiter/Venus. 

The fragment André is fifth-cast in the first cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three.  André’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 414. 

André’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a sage who is known to him. 

André’s three primary needs are: expression, expansion and communion. 

There are 14 past-life associations with Arvin and 10 with Merlin. 

_____________________________________________

20180623_195513(0)

Last Saturday feeling deathly exhausted and suffering from allergies — my sneeze is phenomenally loud — I debated whether or not to make the Liona Boyd concert at Church of the Redeemer, on Bloor Street West at Avenue Road.  

20180623_195632

Slipping inside the pyramid, I grabbed a clutch of crystals, intently focussed on ridding myself of this allergic morass and dosed off for a spell.  When I came to, sneezed louder than normally I would then found myself nose-blowing and ejecting a pond of phlegm.  At that, I felt grounded, focussed and as though I had never been in the throes of allergies.  I took a cold shower, in my perpetually freezing apartment, the AC is always on at 61° — I cannot abide heat… to say nothing of summer.  

20180623_200232

With unassigned seating, I went and sat at the edge of the last pew in the stage left transept.  No sooner than having taken a seat that the smell of the persons to my right precluded remaining where I was; they, frankly, smelt like burnt flesh which also had a melange that was not dissimilar to the loud smell of a long-haired dog when wet.  Who knows what Canis Major world from whence their hybridised alien stock originates but I always find the smell of such persons off-putting.  

20180623_200218

Thus, I opted to stand for the performance’s duration and a gloriously magical interlude it proved.  This was billed as a celebration of Yorkville in its 1960s heyday.  After the youth choir had opened, out walked Liona Boyd in a flowing white and blue gown, looking positively ethereal.  

20180623_214007

This performance for me was just as bucolic as when passing late afternoons in childhood high up my favourite fruit tree in St. Kitts and being swept along by air currents as the branch on which I would be perched, rocked and swayed, taking me higher as I blissed out to the magic of Beatles’ tunes from the neighbour’s radio; naturally, no such ungodly music was ever allowed in our household.  Great fun it was to hear Liona’s recollections of Gordon Lightfoot, Leonard Cohen, John Denver and others.  For the first time, after her anecdote about working in a London, England studio where also John Denver was working, Jet Plane proved a most poignant moment in the concert.  

20180623_214903

There was a hush after we all sang along to the John Denver tune, with Liona on vocals and guitar, that moment was simply rapturous.  This performance was just as intimate as if we were merely a few persons in a backyard, hanging out by candlelight after a fine meal, good wine and having a sing-along whilst some august soul strummed on guitar.  A truly soul-stirring adage, the evening proved.  I was only too happy to grab my autographed copies of her memoirs — which I have yet to devour.  One had a true sense of communion when singing along and afterwards when briefly chatting whilst she signed both memoirs.  I really didn’t need the overleaves to have validated the connection; quite remarkably she felt solid which is how all soul connections register… at least for me they do.  

20180623_214858

Boyd, Liona 11/7/1949 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature sage – second life thereat.  Liona is in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth.  A pragmatist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Liona’s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary, self-deprecation. 

Liona’s body type is Lunar/Mercury. 

The fragment Liona is fourth-cast in fourth cadence; she is a member of greater cadence three.  Liona’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – Liona is an entity mate of both Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

Liona’s essence twin is a sage and the task companion an artisan who is known to her. 

Liona’s three primary needs are: freedom, adventure and power. 

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvn and 12 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

______________________________________________________________________

20180626_192923(0)

Naturally, no trip to the Royal Conservatory of Music’s Koerner Hall would be complete without crossover from the hall to the old majestic red-bricked building that faces onto Bloor Street West and pay a visit to the Bella Bartok statue.  Vibrationally, I don’t know why, but I am always reminded of Leonard Cohen when looking at this statue.  20180626_194633

Settled in comfortably and it was time to be wowed by Savion Glover and boy did the old shamanic griot deliver!  Never had 1.5 hours of dancing been so phenomenal.  This was sheer uneclipsed beauty of spirit.  Whilst I sat there waiting for the house lights to go down, I poured through photos to include in my instagram account.  

20180626_212043

Just then, I came across the account of someone met days earlier whom I had added to Instagram but who has yet to follow in kind.  Naturally, this lost soul claimed to be impressed that I knew of crystals and had a pyramid but like too many Canadians, he was really big on letting me know that he was too busy to check  his Instagram account.  To look at it, it is the most flaky, crowd-following, lost soul bullshit imaginable.  Of course, this clown is too busy dropping whatever to even know that there is a Jazz festival afoot and likely would dismiss it as not evolved enough.  

20180626_194328

After having been wowed by Savion’s sheer genius, I stumbled out onto Bloor Street West lightheaded both from the performance and the fact that I was quite frankly hungry.  There had been no water in my building all day; not able to cook, I sped to the performance by bike and soon realised that I was more famished than I reckoned.  Throwing caution to the wind, I poured into the revamped McDonald’s across from the ROM (Royal Ontario Museum) — wouldn’t like to be a homeowner in the swank new condo only to have the smell of French fries night and day permeating your tony Yorkville digs?  

20180627_024801

After having repeated my order three times to the vapid-looking but shade-throwing Southeast Asian server, I finally spoke up 15 minutes later, demanding to know what was taking so long.  As the order got to me, I was so bored of having to look at stupid, overbred fools, I took the food said my best “fuck you/thank you” and departed the store.  When finally, I opened up, glad to be able to dig into my two McChicken sandwiches, the above is the sight with which I was presented.  Inside the clear top of the container, which would normally hold eggs, pancakes or other breakfast fare, were two greasy, deep-fried patties that for all the hell I could have cared might have been dog as it certainly was not chicken.  Not in the mood to row with anyone just then, I ubered some Jerk chicken and some coconut water.  20180626_194039

Almost an hour after initially I had ordered food to address my hunger along came my order.  Sure enough another overbred fool presented with the most god-awful malodorous bouquet of smegma, dirty arse, armpits, curry and bad breath that suggested that he had at least half a dozen cavities.  Right about then, I was one none-too-thrilled and hungry motherfucker.  So repulsed was I that I simply tossed the food in the fridge and had one of the coconut waters.  How unaware must one be that you are going to have the fuck-all temerity to serve the public and smelling as unhygienic as is humanly possible?  

20180627_201634

Another day and another church for sinner man moi to grace.  The Jazz festival this year was missing its usual verve as the concerts would usually be hosted by on-air hosts from Toronto’s JazzFM.  Since a couple of months earlier, the absence of Garvia Bailey from the airwaves on her morning show and I began counting down the days to her return from holiday.  Of course, this being Canada, I always worried when Garvia was away from her show as being Black in this country means that job security is as rare as pussy at a bathhouse.  

20180627_202115

Never before had Garvia been missing from the airwaves this long; heck, I had even called the station one Friday to ask when she would return and was told that she would be back on Monday.  That Monday rolled around and Mark Wigmore, who had previously worked at the city’s Gay radio station, was still hosting and now there was no more mention of Garvia Bailey.  Now I was beginning to get more than a little bit pissed off.  Was she ill?  Had she quit?  Had she been fired?  At least, Garvia was still there on her twitter account.  Then one day, I looked at the JazzFM website on-air host page and Garvia’s name was gone.  Wow, I would really have to start rethinking my support.  

20180627_202800

Then the unfathomable unfolded as I opened the day’s Globe and Mail newspaper to read that five on-air persons had been fired and there had been a string of sexual harassment allegations against Ross Porter.  Brazenly, he was still on-air and the station, which relies on listener support, had the gall to keep Ross on-air.  Regardless, there is nothing more odious than having to suffer someone who has been the focus of sexual allegations, true or not; it is just immensely disquieting. 

20180627_210537

So there was I to see Cecile McLorin Salvant weave her indelible magic.  I sat in the back pew in the balcony which afforded a commanding view of the stage and in particular the very engaging drummer.  Cecile was in superb form.  Next to me sat a couple, who clearly did not care to be there; one had to buy tickets in blocks of three concerts — at least for that venue.  Naturally, the night before conflicted with the Savion Glover concert at Koerner Hall.  The third concert would be the day following and as life is about making the most discriminating of choices, I had positively no fuck all intentions of time-wasting seeing another fraudulent arsed Canadian ape black culture and turn Jazz singer because, let’s face it, there is no such thing as a viable pop music career in Canada especially if you don’t stand a chance in hell of crossing over to the America market.  Besides, from my years of crawling the halls of the CBC when Merlin worked there, being the product of the moneyed classes and being able to buy a career does not a Jazz singer make.  Besides, ain’t nobody gots time for chit the day after Cecile’s held court and wove her magic.  

20180627_220330

So as I bobbed and weaved, enjoying the soulful groove that is Jazz — black high art — the Indo-Canadian couple next to me could not have been more disinterested.  She, seated closer to me, kept her hands clasped at her cross-legged knee.  He on the other hand kept on slamming his back into the pew as protest for my enjoying myself.  I think she might have clapped once or twice.  What really struck me as the couple next to me engaged in the usual passive-aggressive BS that one fully expects to manifest partout from tout le monde , is that as JazzFM restructures and returns with new on-air hosts, it’ll doubtless be persons of their ilk who will be the chosen replacement hosts; god only knows, the landscape has been deftly rid of all semblance of blackness in the television medium of late.  A true mystery to me how Canadians can so blithely whistle Dixie whilst purporting to be enamoured and passionate about Jazz, all the while slowly but irretrievably excluding blacks — whatever did we black have to do with Jazz; surely, we must be mad if we so much as entertained the notion that we could have done something so phenomenal as having invented the art form and that there is anything remotely ‘black’ about Jazz.  Indeed, the Canadian way…  That aside, I really missed having the on-air hosts from JazzFM being part of the hosting lineups during the annual Jazz Festival which was exquisitely memorable.  

20180626_194300

 Until next year, as the full moon in Capricorn climbed high in the sky above Yorkville, I say, sweet dreams and as ever thanks so much for your ongoing support.  

20180628_224252

____________________________________________________________________________________________

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights .Reserved.

The Dream Chamber

Pyramid2

With some lovely sandalwood incense going, a beeswax candle and some late 18th century harpsichord breezily distant, evoking deeply buried memories of life at court in Regency London as a countertenor, thus one slips lucid, fecund and supremely feminine into sleep’s warm embrace.  For me the day begins at bedtime, the beauty of sleep is, one can never imagine the bounty of vistas and dream experiences about to be lived a few shorts breaths away. 

So come with me, take a few deep breaths, feel the bedding lovingly warm against your wide-open naked body.  You are a soul about to unfurl its wings and take flight into the dreamtime… what happy quests await…  As ever, sweet dreams and thanks for your ongoing support.  Thank you Robert Davidson, Susan A. Point, for sharing your inspiring light with me.  Windows are highly overrated intrusions.  

__________________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.