The Whirling Dervish

DhC8IRtVMAAD_G_

Whirling Dervish

Trevor Leat 

©2012

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

Lily Cole

Lily Cole Print

Lily Cole

Inkjet on Hahnemuhle Photo Rag Ultrasmooth paper, torn edges and hand finishing

61.5 x 51.5 cm

Edition: 48

©2014 Jonathan Yeo

This woman is phenomenally shamanic in dreams; then again with those eyes, that forehead and that shock of flaming mane, how could it be otherwise?  

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

A Young Painter

a-young-painter-57-58

A Young Painter

Oil on Canvas

16.0 x 15.25 In

1957-58 Lucian Freud.

Those exquisitely labiate ear lobes though… More than that, Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays dear dreamers.  

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

Cara VI (Mirror)

caravimirror2015

Cara Delevingne

Oil on Canvas

2016 Jonathan Yeo

Ravishing… she is the ultimate artisan soul chameleon… and those eyes!  

This portrait is one of nine of the young artist in an exhibition at Denmark’s Museum of National History at Frederiksborg Castle.  

https://www.jonathanyeo.com/

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

Sigmund, Lucian, Carnivorous Lilies & Freudian Overleaves (Redux)

Lucian Freud sleeping nude

*Since these dreams were first published two years ago, I have since had Lucian Freud’s Michael Overleaves channelled.  Naturally, as I have dreamt of him with inordinate frequency, the possible links needed to have been explored.  

As it turns out, Lucian is an entity mate of both Merlin’s and mine.  These were rather good dreams and I am honoured to gladly share them again.  – July 2016.

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reflection_self-portrait

These next five dreams were lucidly lived with every fibre of my ensouled being on Tuesday, August 24, 1993.  At the time, the Moon then transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house – wherein is posited my natal Moon sitting opposite Mars and simultaneously squaring Pluto and retrograde Chiron as it is. 

In any event, the beauty of this dream could never be adequately conveyed by mere words.  Whilst in flight in this dream, I experienced nothing short of rapture.  Dreams are so very empowering. 

To hell with what Freud thought; Freud and his opinions are those of a younger soul than yours truly.  Besides, truth be told, Freud’s relevance in the culture has more to do with the need to messianically self-anoint rather than anything else.  Sheer folly it is for any one human to preposterously claim to know the meaning or the value of another’s dreams. 

There is no such thing as dream symbolism as dreams are lived.  Surely, it is not as though each night on taking to sleep, one ceases to exist and dies.  One does not; one continues one breath after the other until wakefulness on the other side and therefore, all experiences whilst being focussed away from the waking state are about being alive, perhaps, even more so than when awake. 

Dreams are part of one’s spiritual journey; they deftly reflect where one has been on one’s reincarnational journey and, as such, can never be analysed, studied and fathomed by mere professionals who seem more concerned about their career advancement and socio-economic status than knowing anything about dreams themselves for having shared theirs – if at all they actually recall their dreams which I highly suspect not to be the case – materialist boors as most such persons appear. 

I will, though, say this much for Sigmund Freud, the only purpose his having been iconised served is that it made it an easier journey for his grandson, Lucian Freud to have achieved his fame – which, alas, is always more desirable than infamy. 

Indeed, Lucian an icon, Sigmund, however, definitely not the genuine article.  For all the sublime art that Lucian Freud has afforded human civilisation, therein lies the value of Sigmund Freud’s worth… and nothing more. 

I have been places and done much reincarnationally, hence, I use more of my brain for being an older soul.  Likewise, that I have been around the block reincarnationally and am an older soul is reflected by the maturity of my dreams and the absence of fear being focussed at the core of my dream experiences. 

Here’s to your own spiritual journey and may these dreams richly inspire you.  Remember, religion is politics; it has nothing to do with spirituality.  Since religion is not sublime art, great food, company or banging sex, let’s not be charitable.  Religion is bullshit.  Cue the music,

“Straighten up and fly right!  Weee shabadoobe do wee yeah yeah… shabada doo ya… poom poom yeah… bada ba doo ya!” 

Now catch the groove, push off and start flying! 

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In this the first dream, I happened on a large body of water which seemingly was a pond.  This pond was quite beautiful, serene and inspiring.  Placidly nesting on it were the largest lily pads imaginable.

This did vaguely seem like the pond before Pogson’s Hospital in Mount Idle, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  Yet, here in the dreamtime, it would have been up on the hill before the clinic and across the main road from said hospital.

Large enough, this pond was about 40×60 feet.  Though teeming with an abundance of lilies of several species, the water was extremely black and murky.  There were so many life forms in this water; some of them looked like tadpoles, perhaps, they were incubi.

One species of water plants looked remotely nothing like lilies.  They had two large thick leaves that came together.  Where the stems came together, it left them with a shape that was not unlike that of ginkgo leaves.  They both joined the stem exactly as the ginkgo leaves do.

There was a little aperture around the juncture where the two stems met.  These water plants turned out to have been carnivorous because the apertures would be slightly ajar then when the creatures would come around their mouths, they would quickly move upwards clear of the water and closed in the process about the tiny creatures.  They thusly ate the tiny tadpole-like creatures.

I had arrived at the pond whilst in flight.  Very slowly, after having been more rapidly in flight, I had willed my way through the air.  On seeing the pond way up ahead, I had slowed down considerably and glided in so as to be unobtrusive to the activity there.

I wanted to observe the goings on therein.  My movement was as if some majestic crane that was slowly gliding effortlessly through the air.  A very beautiful feeling of abandonment I experienced at this point.

Were I to have flown any more slowly, I would have possibly fallen from the air.  I was as if a giant leviathan leisurely cruising through a dry yet aqueous medium.

After having hung back from the edge, I inched closer then directly hovered above the centre of the body of water.  Whilst looking down, I would move from one lily pad to the next by directly being over it to watch it feed.

Each lily pad was about one foot in diameter and anywhere from 10-14 inches from stem to tip.  These were quite beautiful plants that were the same hue as a green coconut’s shell or, if you like, green olives.

The blackness of the water had a deceptive quality to it.  The opacity made it very hard to exactly tell what, just below its surface, was going on.  One had the sense that it was an abandoned fountain which would mean that it could not have been very deep.

Yet, there was no water being recycled here nor were there any sculptural signs of it being a fountain.  Though daytime, it was non-too-bright here.  The thought occurred to me that if these were the incubi of mosquitoes, they would shortly be hatching and I would likely be eaten by these hungry hatchlings.

This was one scenario that I was not looking forward to; indeed, it was best to avoid the likely eventuality than to have to regret afterwards.  With that, I began flying again.  This time, I soared higher and faster in the direction of the brilliant light with Sol to my rear.

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Whilst inside a house, in this the second dream, I decided to step outside for some air.  On doing so, this was when I saw Marcel Agnew.  Here, in this dream, it was a wonderful afternoon which was not too warm; the light was bright but not too much so either.

The house was not any with which I was familiar.  I was standing just inside the doorway, to the yard, when I noticed Marcel.  He was making a phone call on a cellular phone.

When he called the party, he had had to leave his phone number as the party was away from the phone and had not answered.  His phone number was either 287 or 278 but the rest of the number was 8874.  Keenly, I had been listening to him say the number whilst simultaneously writing it into my left palm.

Then I made for the interior; there, I intended to commit it to paper.  Whilst speaking on the phone, he had mentioned that he would be coming down that way – to Ottawa.

He would then be heading down to Montréal; it was to that city which, at the time, he had been calling.  He wanted to know if he could get together with the person, on his arrival in the city, in a few days’ time.

Standing there, I was quite smitten by him.  He had never noticed me standing there and I certainly had no intentions of calling him over.  This man can be very rude and dismissive of me.

He has a marked homoerotic streak which he is rather keen on denying; at least, in his relations with me it informs his rejection – which, of course, speaks volumes about him rather than not.  After all being associated with me, could only cause others to question his sexuality.

*Of course, in time, I would happen on Marcel at a bathhouse on Yonge Street.  Naturally, after that chance encounter at the bathhouse, his open animus towards me was dissolved.  Naturally, Marcel feared me running off at the mouth to co-workers which he and I both know I am quite capable of doing.

Then again, what do I care?  Marcel is of little consequence; he is a repressed bore despite that cock of his looking like something one is more accustomed to seeing on a young elephant’s face….  END.

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I was in a doctor’s office, during this the third dream, with a female technician.  The doctor was concerned because I had turned out to be rather anemic.  There was a large black machine on the doctor’s desk which was about the height of a Macintosh Classic computer.

There was a monitor with the computer too; I guess that it was, in fact, a futuristic computer which was black.  The technician was brunette, middle-aged and stout and the one who would be running the tests on me.

All that one had to do was put a finger on a pad.  There was no longer any blood drawing done because of the risk of HIV contamination, as well as Hepatitis and other blood diseases.

What this machine did was sample some bit of skin or a hair on the back of the hand and in that way get a thorough reading of an individual’s DNA.  The information gathered was precisely what was required to make an analysis of every aspect of a patient’s health.

This was quite advanced, indeed, revolutionary medicine.  Placing my right index finger down, I felt a slight-to increasing warmth from the dark glass pad below the finger.  This laser-generated heat caused my skin to heat up and sweat.

The briny bodily fluid, which contained the DNA, they needed to analyse a patient’s thorough health.  In mere seconds, the machine gave a result which was completely impartial.

Since it was machine and not human, there was no emotional considerations here.  This approach was strictly an academic one.  The test results indicated that I was HIV-; therefore, without the technicians having to be overly protective, I could go on with the rest of the treatment.

Jan Hartley, who was present, immediately assumed that the machine’s answer of ‘No’ meant that I was not healthy.  She took it to mean that I was HIV+.  She quickly went on blabbing away as though I were some inanimate object.

In any event, she was arguing that I had to have been HIV+ because she knew what a nasty little Jezebel I was.  She dismissed me as a flighty little idiot who no doubt didn’t use protection.

Of course, she added, I had to have been long ago infected.  She was so convinced; rather, she so wanted me to be infected more than anything else.  Truth be told, she was rather rude and abusive.

The grey-walled room was tiny as a matter of fact.  Three chairs sat on the side of the desk which was about six feet long and L-shaped.  I was on the long arm of the desk in the reception area.

The atmosphere here was rather soothing; one had no way of knowing what time of day it was outdoors.

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Whilst walking along, in this the fourth dream, Doug Addergen came towards me; he wore navy-blue overalls.  There were a couple of other people about.  As though to imply that his cock was large, he suggestively held a white ruler in his hand.

He came together with the guys, this after I had passed them, in the high-ceilinged hallway of an industrial complex.  Here, it was near-dark.  The legs of his pants were rolled up such that you could see his very shiny hairless shins.

He wore short socks (Oxfords) and sneakers.  Going down the hall, Doug had been making a number of suggestive remarks about screwing.  He obviously could tell that I was interested in him; this was why he was behaving the way that he was.  He was flirtatious and a bit of a cock-tease.

He kept on mischievously grinning at me then walked down a hall; the hall was perpendicular to the one that we were on.  When he got down a stretch of it, he looked back at me, flirtatiously raised his brows, grinned his non-too-smart-looking face off.

He was really enjoying stringing me along.  Better yet, I was simply playing him.  Of course, he in his solipsistic daze didn’t even realise to have been the case.  He was such a conceited prick.

I then sat there on a window sill where I noticed that there was all this garbage strewn about the place.  Who should come down the way, in these gorgeous bellbottomed pants, but Ghennifer Voss?  When she saw me, she casually remarked,

“Hi Arvin, how are you?”

Though she was being gracious, I could tell that she was uncomfortable.  This finally was the only way for her to have dealt with an unavoidable situation.

Clearly, she had been mindful of relations back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet School and how less-than-gracious she had been at times towards me.  Not an issue for me was it.  To put it mildly, those had been frosty times.

In kind, I warmly greeted her whilst she collected garbage from the parked flatbed.  Jumping off the sill, I did so not to go help her but rather walked away.  Then, I sat down at a work desk where I busied myself and forgot all about her.

A fat White Gay then came down and proceeded with this not atypical, snarky idiotic behaviour.  Since I neither cared for him or his attitude, I simply and completely tuned him out – to the point where I could no longer even see him.  Several persons in the meantime, kept on passing by the area.

Later on, I saw Ghennifer in an eatery where she sat at a table with friends.  Going past them, we looked at each other and acknowledged the other with genuinely warm smiles.

There was no other way to have related; there was no great loss about any aspects of how we related in the waking state that was wrong.  Besides which, it had all happened too long ago experientially to have emotionally been of import.

I chose to be my true self and generously extended of myself.

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In this the fifth dream, both Pandora and Isha da Braga were in an unfamiliar house with me.  We were getting moved into the house whilst Maxwell Bowleson was giving us a hand.

Harella da Braga, who was also present, was concerned as to how many items I would actually be moving in.  How many boxes, trunks and large items, I had, needed to be assessed.

Afterwards, there had been a lively discussion between us.  After having just eaten the chicken, which I had prepared, Maxwell was grinning away.

I was non-too-pleased that both he and Pandora had had the meal which I had prepared.  Having cooked the food, I had hoped to at least have had some of it; I really did feel cheated out of things here.

I had been so looking forward to eating that food, later on, after having toiled at the task of getting moved in.  So far as I could see, there was a great deal of politics at play here and none of it I especially liked; the politics here did not bode well in my favour.

After that, Maxwell had asked me to come accompany him down on the elevator.  I had had to help him bring up some more items from the move.  This new apartment was quite beautiful.

The hallway was absolutely beautiful.  The carpeting there, which led to the elevators, was the most plush-feeling, gorgeous tone of red.  This was a very tony affair.

The elevator doors were silver and rapidly hissed open then collapsed shut, just as quickly, after having remained open for a few long seconds.

When we got onto the elevator, as soon as the doors closed, Maxwell looked over at me and sincerely smiled into me.  Reaching forwards, he lingeringly kissed me.  This was so totally unexpected that I hadn’t a clue as to what to do.

As he affectionately rubbed me on the back, the bond between us was very warm.  We got down to the lobby and, as we parted from kissing with the doors hissing open, I came to lucidly awake.

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Art: Leigh on green sofa 1993

Oil on canvas

17.1 x 22.9 cm

© 1993 Lucian Freud.

Provenance:  Private collector.

Exquisite Lucian Freud of Leigh Bowery.

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

HRH Charles, Prince of Wales.

HRH Charles, Prince of Wales & Frances Segelman

Bust of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, sculptor Frances Segelman & HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

Just as when first discovering Lucian Freud’s and Jonathan Yeo’s works, I was greatly moved on discovering sculptor, Frances Segelman and her masterful work.  Pure creative genius.  The bust was recently presented on the occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Prince’s Trust, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ successful charity.

A couple of years ago, I had the most rhapsodic flying dream which had me in low flight through St. James’ Park.  Once on the edge of the park, I alighted and began crossing a very deserted Mall towards the entrance road to Clarence House and St. James’ Palace beyond.

There, where the road joins the Mall was the largest statue, it was of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II riding a great steed.  Without a doubt, on having seen this bust, the statue had been created by Ms. Segelman – at least in this probable future… one in which, at that point, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was HM, King Charles III.

There was so much grandeur and elegance to the lines of the sculpture.  The horse was on its hind legs, though not fully rearing, Her Majesty sat confidently sidesaddle whilst serenely looking down at the throngs and not the least bit thrown by the steed’s action.

Though tuning in to a probable reality, it would be great to have a statue to honour HM, Queen Elizabeth II by the masterful, Frances Segelman.

Until such time as the probable become reality, God Save The Queen!

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

David Bowie 1947†2016

David Bowie

Lazarus ©2015 Music & Lyrics David Bowie

Sweet and blissful dreams be yours.  Some of my best memories of living in Babylon/Manhattan involved hanging out with Philip Emerson for whom everyday was a good enough reason to play David Bowie’s music.

A true creative genius and someone whom it was also inspiring to have dreamt of.  Here’s a repost/link to a dream previously shared herein involving him and his beautiful widow, Iman, displaying for all the universe the sheer beauty of their enraptured love.

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Bowie, David 8/1/47 – 10/1/16

This fragment was a fifth-level mature artisan in the passion mode with a goal of discrimination.  David was a sceptic who was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

David’s primary chief feature was impatience with a secondary chief feature of stubbornness.

David’s casting is the fifth position of the third cadence in the fourth greater cadence.  He is a member of entity six, cadre six, greater cadre 1, pod 404.

This artisan chose overleaves that would allow him to be more fluid in terms of personal expression whilst at the same time work effectively with the goal of discrimination, specifically in terms of not adhering social and cultural stereotypes and, as a result, he became an icon in his own right to other fragments who preferred not to follow the cookie-cutter rules and instead sought their own personalised self-expressive nature.

Of course, David was not the only fragment to break the barriers in this regard as others including but not limited to Andy Warhol, for example, who were also at the fifth or expansive level of the mature cycle and these fragments served as inspiration to others both in their own culture and across the pond.

It is not unusual for expression polarity fragments to seek visibility in this regard, though, we will say that this artisan, David Bowie, was in fact shy to some degree and was not as adventurous in his personal life as he might have been perceived to have been.  In other words, his stage personae were not in complete alignment with the true personality.  We do think, however, that he was well aware of himself as a spirited human being and did validate reincarnation as a personal truth as did his family by the way.

Too, this fragment was well aware of impending decline and death and did seek to express himself through his music and subsequently his fans.

*These overleaves were not exclusively requested by me but they were channelled by an authentic Michael Channeller and, in fact, the reliable channeller whom I always use.  END.

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

Concrete Cabin.

Concrete Cabin  Oil on Canvas 198 x 275 cm 1994 Peter Doig

Oil on Canvas

198 x 275 cm

1994 Peter Doig

One of my favourite Peter Doig paintings.  I rather love it for being so quintessentially Canadian.  I am more readily reminded of Vancouver, rather than Toronto, as the Sitka-like evergreens – which are the soul of Stanley Park – are so not Toronto.

Happy New Year to every last one of you.  Thank you so very much for being focussed herein; your support is immensely encouraging.  Here’s to life, health, happiness and, of course, sweet dreams!  Nothing but the very best in 2016!  I love you more…

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

White Canoe.

White Canoe Peter Doig

Oil on Canvas

200.5 x 243.0 cm

©1990-1991 Peter Doig

Gosh but I love this artist’s works.

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

Long May You Continue To Reign!

queen-elizabeth-ii-7

Here’s to the most remarkably accomplished Mature-souled Slave in the modern era.  Brava!  Well done indeed…  I remember long ago during childhood, all of St. Kitts was scrubbed and excited.  There was bunting everywhere and it seemed almost like Christmas time which would, after Boxing Day, bleed into Carnival – a time of laughter, dancing, fun and excitement.

Elizabeth by Freud

There in the shadow of Brimstone Hill Fortress, on another beautiful, sunny West Indian day, HM Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh drove past headed north through the lone street of Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I was on the east side of the road, across from the playing field down which only two days earlier, I had the honour of slipping and falling into the large open sewer drain from Pogson Hospital where caterpillars were a welcome sight on its old growth of magnolia trees.  My mother, Harella, a teacher in the school that I attended, promptly had me take off my favourite pair of shorts and had them hung out to dry.

Elizabeth sergei pavlenko

Never mind that I had been wearing no such thing as underwear; thus, I had to endure an eternity of two days with every little girl in the school chasing after me because there was I with my bits hanging out whilst wearing a shirt that could hardly make it down to my sexy belly button.  I got a good glimpse of HM Queen Elizabeth II as she drove past, waving and looking out and to my side of the road no less.

Rupert Alexander's portrait of HM The Queen (sml).jpg
Rupert Alexander’s portrait of HM The Queen (sml).jpg

The moment was brief, as little union jacks excitedly waved and everyone boisterously cheered.  Just like that… she was gone.  I was so grateful for the queen having visited to mark the independence of St. Kitts, Nevis and Anguilla as they entered statehood.  Her visit had stealthily eclipsed my shame at  having been chased about the Sandy Point recreation grounds being teased by every girl… to say nothing of boy.

ER

After her majesty drove past, as the excitement of the moment wore on, the gaggle of similar-aged boys (6-8 years old) with whom I stood waving and cheering made our move.  This was a good enough excuse to dash up the lane and into the sugar cane fields where more long, hot and passionate moments of intercrural play was accompanied by whispered quickened breaths and proclamations of love – after all among us seven boys there was one who, though dumb as all fuck, proved my initiation into that most obsessive of fraternities – size queendom.  Older souls are not born innocent…

Elizabeth Regina

Here’s to Elizabeth Regina… Indeed, it has been good to be incarnate in this the second Elizabethan Age and a glorious one it has been.  Like Nelson Mandela, this remarkable human being inspires ready admiration, respect and her centred nobility of spirit in truly inspiring…

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Credit: HM, Queen Elizabeth II,

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Lucian Freud

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Sergei Pavlenko

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Rupert Alexander

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Andy Warhol

HM Queen Elizabeth II, Ralph Heimans

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