Astral Projecting Into Dreamtime.

06.02.201930.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate. In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.

Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s. She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate. Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of. The energy between us was always simpatico. I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.

©Alex Grey

A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city. At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.

Astral Projected Self-Portrait.

Crayola on Paper

What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992. There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra. Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…

*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals. Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness. I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light. It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience.

At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning. All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space. Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded. Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.

Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience. This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken. END.

Dream one. I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here. Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space. I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me. It was most upsetting.

I could not quite figure out what was going on. It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment. By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment. Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake.

However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact. Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right. Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself. The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes.

This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor. Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor. This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex. I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death.

There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see. Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated. I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body. I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body.

At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up. Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body. Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body. Struggling, I pushed against my own body.

It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body. My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed. I simply could not get up. Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.”

It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him. “No, Arvin. I have simply got to get up. I will not suffer this.”

With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed. Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space. Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death. I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were.

Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body. When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there. There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head. This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.

It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed. What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body. It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground.

Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion. Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen. The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body. I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept.

Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment. Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen. It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room. Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge.

Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort. Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food. She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me. I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris.

However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages. It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state. Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking. Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing.

But then she turned and looking into my face said, from under furrowed brows. “Buh chile ah wha rang wid ounu face. Chile yu muss tekk kare ah yur face an ting no man.” At that, she drew closer, putting her hand over my face.

Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…” I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state.

*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state. There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits. Ick! I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache.

Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown. Charmant. This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin. END.

Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face. I was stunned by how realistic it all was. Jan was so protectively nurturing of me. Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances.

She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her. Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it. Thoroughly enjoyed her energy. Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen.

This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes. They were much like the tubes in the old radios. A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery. Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me.

Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.”

“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?”

“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.” Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed. Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system. So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came.

Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space. Very interesting. Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later. She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble.

i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house. Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora. It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before. More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state.

They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway. An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans. I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place. They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has.

A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame. I had been on it before. Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out. I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand.

We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits. The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques. Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space. We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space.

There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use. We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor. Some were even on the wooden bed frame. A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood.

Jan kicked away the shard with her right big toe. When I told her to be careful she boisterously chimed, “Me na kno say ma? Me knoe man, me knoe say ah so de sinting go. Yu ha fe wartch yur self too chile.”

Jan was so refreshingly good to be around. Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit. At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.”

She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.” As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon. I effortlessly moved through them as before.

Dream two. In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight. Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition. In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere. I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever.

The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next. What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door. In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction. It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls.

It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots. With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies. I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio. It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around.

Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper. Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is. Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated. White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red.

Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were. She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit. Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant. Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit.

A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s. Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall. Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style. Functional and comfortable, her criteria.

Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles. On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment. Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.” We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face.

On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek. He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me. Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word. Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller.

He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me. Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual. Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him. There was an obvious, loving bond between us.

This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state. But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul. It was very electric between us. So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating.

I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say. My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready. Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too. Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem.

“And a total embarrassment for this family. I just do not know how we can put up with this. Look, what am I doing here anyway?” Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!

“I’ll have none of this. I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am. I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.” With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were.

“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!” Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this. You own nothing here, nor are you running anything. You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment.

“That’s all you ever do. So shut the fuck up!” I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in. Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted

Dream three. Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there. This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°. Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next. Again, much was different here.

Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time. When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there. Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state. There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief. This was so stunningly incredible. Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body. This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore.

This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane. After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane. This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh. Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators.

We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off. It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism. Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm. Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom.

This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence. These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art. The art of pure creative expressionism. They then announced, “Okay, okay, okay.

“Here comes the other guys.” This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players. One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours. There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side.

The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white. She had apparently had a double mastectomy. Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent. Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear.

She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness. Her body was truly bizarre. It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike. When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned.

Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body. More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden. This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty. As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies.

There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu. It was hard to tell which sex the individual was. What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked. This is what had caused her such distress.

For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her. She was lost in her beliefs. The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences. Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body.

They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body. If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s. The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container. This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word.

Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus. Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies. They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule. They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte.

At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah. There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground. Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare. Not everyone was naked however.

Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman. On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left. Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat. The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates.

“Hi, how are you? You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win. You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing. Look, I’m really happy for you.”

She energetically thanked me. Kathy wore a brown large blouse. Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way. She was so refreshingly real and normal.

Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented. Good for her. The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration. Some were tight buds, buds breaking open.

Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime. Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left. A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod. There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime.

Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them. Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes. Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband. Energetically, she had him come up and join us.

He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus. He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition. The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach. At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah.

I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime. She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense. I was not upset by it, accepting her choice. Alas, it was not the end of the world.

Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy. He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies. He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach. They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around.

It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps. The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality. It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom. This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums.

Perfect teeth, on the four year old. His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead. He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes. God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods.

Spectacular! He was happy and a precocious, charmer. As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me. Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful.

“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his. He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter. It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me. What do you think?”

It was very direct and very connected. With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon. This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda. Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed.

Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life. Good for him. Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me. She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be.

There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground. Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house. The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree. It had been singed on one side, during the fire.

Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful. Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St. Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong. Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts. It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did.

Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink. It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place. Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road. As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street.

At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora. I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy. He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight. As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious.

As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites.

*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency. It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to. Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags. Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness.

Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it. Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority. Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior. A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect.

Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man. Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way. Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger. It came with a pair of briefs attached inside.

She instructed the young boy. She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win. She was her usual feisty self. Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits.

It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to. This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism. This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state. Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora.

“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.” Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other. Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left. Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes.

You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us. Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided. However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy. He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have.

Finally, we did not care for his arrogance. Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont. Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property. I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.

Dream four. Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all. Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground. Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings. Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact.

It was all very garish a sight. As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere. Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed. The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures.

In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground. Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there. My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well. Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign.

So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare. Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road. It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads. The road did incline downwards as we went along it.

This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood. It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden. Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily. But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned.

I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them. Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live. Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale. Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived.

We were able to peer inside the apartment. It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out. It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream. It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels.

No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space. A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids. Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids. We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime.

To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer. Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other. We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there. Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building.

Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park. There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road. The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did. We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by.

We’d originally turned right to get onto this street. We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park. When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park. There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back.

Here, it was very mellow. Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots. Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons. A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family.

She had two daughters and a son. One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model. She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version. She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out.

They were in our way but not obtrusively so. We continued along and happened on these very young-souled Americans. We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled. It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them.

Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm. As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff. Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her. She wore a white silk blouse.

When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me. A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided. The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun. So too was mine, for that matter.

As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection. It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours. Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us. Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders.

The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away. Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance. Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing. Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements.

Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels. She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away. Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in. Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more.

Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.

Dream five. We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons. We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship. It was a new version of it. It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world.

This was all very scary for us, as we read on. It spoke about after the history of things. Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense. So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings.

Here there were poems and historical accounts of events. There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication. The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise. It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel.

The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed. At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel. Twice in a row, I thought. Talk about lightning striking twice.

This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha. This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus. The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast. This was a very densely populous Asian city.

There were also a ton of whites here, as well. They also had very thick Australian accents. I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book. But almost everyone on the bus was.

These people were very young-souled and frenetic. Pandora and I were the only blacks here. Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts. He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book.

Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent. He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion. These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus. It just was not right.

I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right. Stop it!” The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin.

It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia. The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians. They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people. Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus.

When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand. An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s. He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne. They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating.

The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food. They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed. This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally. They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists.

One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents. I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit. Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!”

At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them. When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus. Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board. The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes.

He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans. On his thigh was the tattooed flag. The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks. He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt.

This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness. Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he. Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out. The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible.

He carried a baby of about six months old. Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him. At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan. They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter.

The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up. During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done. The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit. The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up.

And boy did the infant ever go on a binge. Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods. For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food. Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus.

Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down. My main target was the bespectacled zealot. Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you? Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!

“Get out!” Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight. Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour. I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from.

Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence. They were completely stunned by my energy. They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong. After all I was black, not an Australian.

Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness. Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience. Was going to have none of this shit. Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus.

Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too. They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board. You simply had to bail out, toute de suite. We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora.

I went outside in search of her, going up the road. Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it. The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not. Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus.

This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train. So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness. Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case. I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.

Dream six. I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees. There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all. She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her. She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone.

Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on. She was being accommodatingly amiable. I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank. As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off.

He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.” At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling. I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus. Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere.

It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most. Possibly not even young-souled as yet. I had always thought myself a much older soul than that. After all, look at the degree to which I dream.

On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled. For one, the dreaming suggested as much. Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve. Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face.

The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window. An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses. Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench.

*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ. The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar. It was clearly the Jewish calendar. However this was clearly a reference to Christ.

Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included. This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case. This was a king soul on his last life. As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.

All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex. Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast. How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples.

Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.

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To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise! Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.

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Nancy Wilson… & More.

19.01.201930.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Wilson, Nancy 20/2/1937<O>13/12/2018

Michael: This fragment was a third-level mature artisan – second life thereat. Nancy was in the passion mode with a goal of growth. An idealist, she was in the emotional part of intellectual centre.

Body type was Solar/Saturn.

Nancy’s primary chief feature was self-deprecation and the secondary stubbornness.

The fragment Nancy is fifth-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence five. Nancy’s entity is seven, cadre four, greater cadre 1, pod 129.

Nancy’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior.

Nancy’s primary needs were: expression, expansion and power.

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.

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What a truly great voice. Though over the years, I had attended many Nancy Wilson concerts, one in particular remains the most memorable. It was the late set at the Blue Note Jazz Club in New York City’s West Village. A Saturday night performance, it was at the end of the run and Ms. Wilson was in fine form. With me that evening was Milan Newcombe, the rather eccentric lover of mine who had the most magical residence in Toronto’s Kensington Market.

Milan and I met about a month before the 350th anniversary celebrations of Montréal in May 1992. The day of the anniversary, there was a parade through the city’s main artery at night time; quite a unique and spectacular sight. We stayed that weekend in a loft at the corner of Ontario and St. Laurent Streets and that night, I wore a pair of six-inch, black patent leather Bally talons hauts, a pair of extra short blue jeans that nicely sported the goods, a large, white pirate’s shirt, a confident smile whilst holding hands with the coolest motherfucker I had met since having met Merlin – Milan made a most pleasurable adventure of living.

Having just returned from a weekend in New York City with Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem, I was crawling the halls of the St. Mark’s bathhouse at Wellesley on Yonge, in a bid to get over decidedly banal sexual relations with Frans. A great human being to be sure but sex should not be as ennuiyant and tedious as needlepoint. Well into the late hours, after a few hookups, a long lean body caught my eye as it lay there, waiting to either prey or be preyed on.

An hour later we emerged into the gritty, callously unforgiving light of daybreak and hopped on our bikes. Together we rode west along Wellesley, cut through University of Toronto campus and onto Spadina, rode south on said avenue to the most magical lair imaginable. There above a series of Chinese shops, Milan owned the two storey apartment that was filled with an assortment of Bohemians – or at least trust fund types, bored out of their skulls whilst waiting to collect their inheritance.

Milan possessed the largest music library, I had yet or since seen. Moreover, within that library were the most extensive recordings of harpsichord music. If that were not specialised enough, Milan owned a harpsichord which, after we had riotously slapped, nipple-bitten, punched and me gourmandise his pygmy fin whale schlong: girth and length that makes your upper lip sweat and eyes roll back like Whitney Houston in full song, he would spend the next hour playing what proved the most captivating instrument. Always at such times, I would become sponge-like and expansive, feeling as though in between wakefulness and sleep with a plethora of the most lucid past-life dreams flooding and surfacing my conscious mind. Not surprisingly, that harpsichord proved a touchstone to our past-life connections and specifically to the life as court musicians in London, England during the reign of King George III and the Regency when Milan, Merlin and I plus a whole host of others whom I have known in this lifetime were greatly, creatively fulfilled.

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Newcombe, Milan 08/02/56 Toronto <O> Toronto

This fragment was a third level mature sage – first incarnation at this level, likely to repeat the level – in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance. An idealist, he was in the intellectual centre, emotional part.

Milan’s body type was Saturn/Venus.

Milan’s primary chief feature was impatience and the secondary arrogance.

The essence twin is a sage, also discarnate. An artisan task companion he’s got, who is incarnate.

This fragment is second-cast, cadence sixth in the greater cadence, entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, node 414. Milan is in the same entity as Arvin and Merlin, sharing a strong connection through the arts.

The three primary needs for Milan were: freedom, power and communion.

Q: Past lives of note for Milan:

Michael: This fragment has had many lives in the theatre and in performing, as would be expected, due to his soul age, mature and role, sage.

He has been a well-known courtesan in nineteenth century France, to a second-in-command lieutenant to Napoleon Bonaparte and was involved in many secretive meetings to which she was privy, due to her ability to keep silent.

She, however, was found guilty of espionage, at a later date, and hanged, at the age of 24.

This sage has also performed with students of Hippocrates in the fifth century Common Era in Crete and also became interested in herbal medicine at that time.

Lives in the performing arts total 24 altogether and have been both notable, such as in China in the eighth century as a puppeteer or in the caves of Borneo when he was a painter of walls with what would be called ancient hieroglyphs.

This fragment was also present in the sixteenth century in Venice and was a student of a lesser artist, not sure about the name.

Q: Past lives with Arvin:

Michael: First of all, let us comment that these two fragments did have an agreement which had to do with the validation of personal expression.

Number of past incarnations total twenty and include:

These two fragments were present in the “George” life; King George III of England, when the sage was a fellow musician and trumpeter. The sage was competitive with the artisan and envious of the artisan’s natural talents.
They have been married once before officially in an area of the Middle East, eleventh century BCE, when they were in an arranged marriage having to do with land and money exchange. They did get along reasonably well due to the entity connection but did argue.
Makers of small ornamental objects in the first century Common Era, Crete. Both were female and cousins.
These two fragments completed a sequence having to do with abandonment/abandoner in the São Paulo incarnation. The female artisan seduced the sage and then subsequently refused to continue in the relationship which led to emotional turmoil for the sage.

This first part of this sequence took place in the 1300’s in Spain when the reverse occurred but the sexes were the same, artisan still female, seduced by the sage then abandoned.

Had this not been an agreement, there would have been mindfuck karma incurred.

(KB: this was an important set of incarnations)

Q: Past lives with Merlin and the ET:

This fragment was present in the life aforementioned in the fourth century in an area of Tibet and was the mother of the task companion, former-Merlin but separated when the scholar, former-Merlin, was quite young due to religious training.

There have been an additional four of note including one in the ninth century in China when these two fragments were enemies and came quite close to incurring karma; through combat, not agreed upon in advance, as well as one in the first century Common Era when they were married to the same male fragment; Common Law, Palestine area.

This sage has also shared three past associations with Arvin’s essence twin which have included living in a small village in western Canada in the 1400’s both male. They were childhood friends.

Additionally they have fought side-by-side “on stage” when members of a travelling theatrical group in northern Italy in the sixteenth century. The essence twin died of a fall which the sage tried to prevent but was unable to, happened when both were teens.

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Milan was magical; his home lit throughout by candelabras and the salon an exacting reproduction of an 18th century English salon. One of the most beautiful things about sleeping over with Milan at his magical lair, was that many were the nights when I would – whilst lying next to him in bed, pleasured and satiated – spontaneously astral project. During these marvellous OBEs (out-of-body experiences), I would get up out of my body, turn around to look at our smiling pleasured faces harmoniously lying in bed fast asleep, see the cord of silvery white light that attached my astral body to my physical body. This cord more so resembles a caravan of tiny balls of light that are unbreakable and which attach at the solar plexus of both bodies – astral and physical. Milan was the most sensual lover and the greatest kisser.

This song was Milan’s favourite tune and Nancy Wilson his favourite Jazz singer – just as Natalie Cole and Betty Carter mine and John Hirsch was Ella Fitzgerald’s undisputed biggest enthusiast. Until having met me, Milan had never listened to Jazz or explored the genre. However, like all persons in the positive pole of their goal of acceptance, he embraced, appreciated and explored the newfound treasure that for him Jazz would prove. With an intensity never before experienced, Milan insisted on venturing to every Jazz concert imaginable. To that end, we took several trips to Chicago, New Orleans and, of course, New York City to nurture our souls and forge to greater depths the bond we shared. Whenever the loving was good and god do I love a cock… especially his – hey, three billion women can’t be wrong, Milan would then play some Nancy Wilson. Our love faded on my relocation to Vancouver – he hated grey, dreary and rainy weather, I was come undone one early morning whilst meditating in the pyramid in Vancouver, Milan appeared to me and said so long. I knew that he had died that day – another lover passed of AIDS. I will ever experience the sweetest memories when listening to Nancy Wilson.

Sweet and very blissful dreams indeed be yours Nancy: griot, linguist, shaman and truly great performer.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, dream without giving a damn… cause you can and all the more reason to push off and start flying.

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Past-life Dream Set at Spencer House.

24.12.201830.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

These dreams are from the upcoming third volume of my dream memoirs. I share them here and now as within there is at least one dream which is set at Spencer House, which I finally visited in this lifetime on the occasion of the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing.

The dreams were recorded on audiocassettes over the course of a decade following Merlin’s passing as he had requested that I stay tuned on his passing as he intended however possible to get through to me from the other side. 250 audiocassette tapes later, at the end of that decade in among them were the most glorious dream encounters with Merlin on his passing. These dreams in their rich pandimensioality were dreamt in lucid astral plane realism in late October 1991.

As this is an excerpt from the as-yet published third volume all the dreams are in italics and everything else in normal script. Observations after the fact about dreams are not in italics and conclude with END at the end thereof. At the time, though I did not know it, the dream was set at Spencer House.

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Before ecstatically flying off in search of lives up ahead, it is oftentimes good to know where one has been. These next dreams occurred during the second or ‘B’ cycle of sleep and dreamtime that day. Prior to sleep, I had been meditating with crystals in the pyramid and was inordinately focussed in my intention. After having adequately fortified myself, I was clear in my intentions to dreamquest in search of past lives. Thus, I would vicariously revisit two past lives which were complementary. During the first life in question, I was male and Merlin was then present with me and female. We were musicians at the court of King George III where also present was the Prince Regent and future King George IV. The second life seemed to have been longer-lived and in that one I was female.

The dreams of both lives overlapped and it was good to have acquired the past-life information of those lives through Michael channeller, Sarah J. Chambers^‡. Of course, there was a dream of a third past life, it was that of my immediate past life.

This having been the first dream, it was an extremely involved odyssey. A dream it was in which I had gone off to a performance, at nighttime of course, but it was as though it had been onscreen. Before the performance had begun, there had been a comedian onstage. There had been many wings to this performance because it had been set in a house. In fact, it was a period piece. The people who had been watching this had been, as it were, very much so out of time. This was set in the late eighteenth century. There had been a very nasty racist, in fact, send-up of ‘the savages in the jungle’.

This was all in British accents and very eighteenth century language.

*As I had meditated before sleep, I had opened myself up to experiencing insights into past-life reincarnational monads. As it had turned out, I would end up gaining much insight to my reincarnational past. This was set in the parlour of a very affluent Georgian residence. There was a white comic onstage, not unlike Tom Kneebone^† — who was possibly one of the most loathsome pieces of bigoted shits that I have ever met. Otto Dix^† arsehole that he is; Tom was a vile, pinched, sphinctered nobody-arsed faggot. Whilst looking at the comic onstage, I realised that one of the reasons why I loathed Tom Kneebone — on meeting him — was because he bore such strong resonance to the past. The comic was uncannily like Tom Kneebone. By that I mean that my visceral connection to the very racist performer was because, he was me in a former life in Britain — lived at court as a white male performer.

Of course, it was not Tom Kneebone but he had the same racist, pinched, WASP lack of tolerance and awareness as the Otto Dix arsehole — such an ill-evolved piece of shit that one. END.

The comic was entertaining the guests in this salon. He was doing this whole thing about, ‘the Pickaninnies’, ‘the darkies’. Also, he had had to have an accompanist to show the ‘natives’ and their gargantuan, elephantine dicks. Clearly, from the way that he had been holding it, the cock had not even been yet erect. He was all bulging eyes that had rolled with wide-opened mouth. Everyone was just spellbindingly charmed by his wicked witticism. I, however, had not been in the least entertained by it. In fact, I had felt greatly embarrassed to have seen him.

This was like having to have faced embarrassing skeletons in one’s reincarnational closet. After his routine, it then led into this performance that they had been putting on. In point of fact, the performance actually was quite funny. Everyone would leave the salon and then come back in but they would all have on Regency dress and wore makeup specific to that era. At one point, all the women had come back in. From where I had seen the performance, through an open door, there were people off to the left in a smaller room who were not performing. They were crowded around on divans. There was a large open space on the floor where the exquisite rug sat.

There was one woman there who had had a bad sniffle; she had kept on sniffling and was near consumptive. Why does she not just get up and get lost? I was quite impatient with her. At the time, I was closer to the main players. These were people who had been sitting in the salon in front of me. There was a whole cluster of them immediately before me and to the immediate right of the large white doors that led you from room to room. Exiting that particular room into which I had looked, where the performance was taking place, were more doors. The door half, which was close to us, was open and served as the wings to the stage.

Up in front of the mantelpiece was where the performers had come on to perform their scenes. They were quite funny. There were parapluies that had wonderful little floral designs on them. The performers were made-up in such a way that their faces looked like bouquets that resembled large English white and faded yellow roses — very oversized roses. The faces of the persons were very much in keeping with the zeitgeist of the late-Georgian era. This was the look that was proper in that time. As a result, the souls that had been incarnate at that time, were wearing those faces. At two separate occasions, everybody seated in the salons had had to get up and leave then come back in.

The last time that they had come back in, all the women were dressed in long, flowing tangerine-coloured dresses that had dragged on the floor. All the dresses had little flowers on them. The tangerine colour was muted by a sheer fabric of white silk overtop the tangerine bodice. The silk had left it a seemingly faded colour. All along the grid patchwork were these tiny roses that were the colour of the fabric underneath the tangerine-coloured material. The look was very beautiful. As they had spoken, there was wonderful repartee going around the room. This one woman was croaking away, saying, “Oh why don’t they go to church, anymore?

“Doesn’t anybody go to church anymore?” She had gotten up, going around the room, to make the point. She had then come back and sat down on the arm of the chair. Her husband was very stout and he had remained seated there in an armchair. One chap, who was on one of the chaise longues where some of the other spectators were seated, was bantering away. He was very dynamic, in a sage-souled sort of way. The costume changes between sets went on almost forever; at such times, the salon would become abuzz with lively discussions about whatever socially or politically was au courrant. Of course, that had meant anything that was superficial and that they, at their level of society, had found très amusant.

This particular costume change was quite long and some of the players, who were going to have been participating in the next piece, were seated on that particular chaise longue. They were talking, amongst themselves, when this one man had said, “Well, I certainly hope that you don’t go, looking like that…” His was a very cutting double entendre because, though the dowager was quite the frump, it was really a comment on her horrid-looking face; this, in an age, long before plastic surgery could have come to the assistance of women of her class. The woman’s face was very puffy and dowdy and, also, full of makeup.

She, so without a clue, had replied, “Well, what’s wrong with me going like this?”

“In a dress, there is certainly something wrong going like that.” This was very, very witty racy banter and much filled with double entendres.

The poor frump was daft and had not quite gotten it. She was wonderfully being sent up by everyone. “Oh dear me, I never quite seem to know what to wear. The fashions changing all the time, I can hardly ever keep up…”

This had only made for more cutting, though hushed, laughter. I do not even know but it was at this point, as she had spoken, that I had seen her in close-up. I had wondered if, perhaps, she were not Francesca — the name of a past-life of mine lived in Georgian England. Just as in that last dream encounter with Francesca, during the onset of menopause, I experienced the same visceral connection with the subject. Then, as now, I was seeing her face in keen close-up. Now, I was experiencing her at a much later stage in her life. She was a late septuagenarian. Still, though, she was very much so into the heavy makeup but at this point, she had suffered from senility and was pronouncedly neurotic.

Afterwards, everybody had looked out at me and asked me if I had ever seen the performance presented like this before. One of the things that they were talking about was an expedition that had just returned from, ‘Deepest, darkest, Africa, in the Jungles.’ This was, in fact, a production of Romeo and Juliet that had been set in colonial Africa. They had openly wondered, specifically of me, if I had ever seen so racy a production. All these people were very sophisticated, sagely persons, of whom it was safe to say, they were all very much so artisan-like — in essence, they were the glitterati. More to the point, they possessed goals of discrimination and predominantly were in repression mode.

“Well actually, I had seen the original classic production.”

“Yes but have you seen any modern updates of it?” she had asked, by which she meant a production from the Georgian era.

“Well, no. Well I did but it was when I was at school, in Sandy Point.”

Of course, they did not get it at all and found my accent far too queer for words. Besides, it was all very post-modern as far as they were concerned. At that point, the lights in the salon went down, in this beautiful, large high-ceilinged place. A movie screen then appeared and Diana Ross was going to be the mother to Juliet and the Juliet was a beautiful, beautiful, long-haired High-Yellow heroine. She had seemed East Indian but was not. She had gotten up and gone running to the window because Romeo was calling her. Clearly, it was a filmed version. She was wearing a black and white checkered dress that had no sleeves.

The dress really was more like a jumper — an A-line dress. She was so gorgeous; the young actress was stupendously radiant. Presently, she was praying and the camera was a slow, sweeping crane shot that had kept on rising up and away from her left profile. Filled with so much earnestness in her face, she was quite beautiful. A teenager, she was quite the stunning little actor. The actress was not Diana Ross‘s daughter, Tracee Ellis Ross but someone who had a stunning High-Yellow resemblance to Diana Ross with those stunning eyes and with very, very gorgeous long, long wavy hair. To just above her arse, her hair was thick and beautifully cascaded down. She was very gorgeous.

When she had run to the window, she was as if a ballerina by the way that she had held out that beautiful, delicate tiny face. An exquisitely beautiful face it was that sat on that long neck of hers. Looking out the window, she had dreamily called down, “Oh Romeo. Romeo. Romeo.” Truly, it was sheer spellbinding magic.

In this the second dream, I had gone off and was walking in Crab Hill, Sandy Point. Whilst there, I had seen these unfamiliar persons. One of them had had one of the most interesting faces. She had a very unusually large face and very beautiful teeth that were somewhat compacted. She was very lovingly dark-skinned. She was unusual-bodied; her head was very, very large and her body, in comparison, very squat – unusually so. To be precise, her body was like a dwarf’s. Her legs were very stubby and bulky.

My goodness, this woman could run. She had had a great deal of physical power. A lot of Earth planets that were fixed, to be sure, were part of her makeup. I found it very, very interesting to have watched her. On having passed her, I had said hello and noticed that she had shut her eyes. That was when I had realised that this woman had almost never looked at anyone. Then, finally, I had commanded her attention and directly looked into her eyes. To have looked into her eyes was tantamount to looking into her soul.

Her eyes were so large. Hers were as if seeing, up close, the eyes of a giant cetacean. Yet, these stellar eyes were on a human face. These eyes were extremely large with the lids half-collapsed over them. The brown of the eyes was dappled and mixed in with some blues with little streaks in the blues. Talk about beauty. Nonetheless, they were very, very old-souled and very, very powerful eyes. At the time, I had thought of how much they reminded me of the eyes on the totemic cranes that I have seen throughout my life.

She had just laughed and turned her head away. She was a woman of substance and great grace; not unlike Jessye Norman°, in that sense, was she. I had specifically focussed on her right eye. Hers were not unlike the dappled blue-green colour that Owen Hawksmoor°‘s eyes take on, of course, when he is wearing his coloured contact lenses. However, her eyes were quite gorgeous. Predominantly brown but there were lots of brown and red streaks in the white of the eyes. These were from very large bulbous blood vessels. The whites of them were very white, almost caramel-coloured on closer inspection, from the timeworn passage of their agedness.

Boy, this woman had a lot of strength of character in that body. Hers was a solid, solid body. Following after this guy, I had then come back over this little barbwire fence. We clearly, I realised, cannot go getting ourselves scraped. As we had been passing, there had been a window to our right that had looked into a house. Whilst looking at the screen, on which Romeo and Julie was supposed to have been playing, we had gone and sat down. Protesting, I had said that this could not have been the case because it would only have meant that I had missed so much of the performance. In all this time, of having gone and wandered off, one would have missed too much of the production.

At that point, there had been someone on the screen performing a Shakespearean soliloquy. This clearly was an updated version of the text. I had started watching it and got back into the film. The one thing that I had not liked about it, was that there had been lots of flies on the set. After having been made uneasy by the bugs, I had gotten up and walked about for a while. When I had gotten back into looking at the production again, it was as if looking at it from the Georgian salon again. However, now it was slightly different. To myself, I had remarked that it had seemed so much like Toronto.

That was because this production, like Toronto does in summertime, had all these damn flies. All the people around me in the Georgian salon had not gotten what Toronto had meant at all. As well they understandably would not have, they had looked at me very strangely. There were flies in the air which I had kept on swatting out of the air. There was a whole scene in progress, when I had decided that I would just have to have seen the production again or, perhaps, get it on videocassette. At that point, I had simply missed too much of the production. I had realised, too, that I could easily have seen it when it made it to the Revue second-run cinemas about Toronto. At that point, I had turned and left.

*This heavy-lidded young girl could well have been me, Theresa, in my immediate past life. That life was lived in Brazil and I had a goal of dominance. Of course, on Tuesday, September 17, 1991⁽³⁹⁾, I would dream of Theresa in her adult years. Similarly, she also could have been Merlin reincarnated. In December 2006, Merlin was reborn female in the Netherlands; however, at the time of the channelled session, the female reborn Merlin’s ethnicity was not shared. Thus, this could well be Merlin reborn in early 21^st century Netherlands about whom I was dreaming. END.

I had next, in this the third dream, been up on this rise with Isha where she and I had been doing something. We had discussed the fact that I had needed more money. I had told her that my PIN number, for some bank card that I had had, was 8411. She had called up the bank and was being pushy with them. Isha was telling them that she had been very ill and incapacitated. For being bedridden, they would therefore have to let her have the money in cash with me acting on her behalf. She had assured them that I would be right over and to let me have the funds. As she had spoken on the phone, this black woman and her white husband had come by.

The man wore glasses and they were, very much so in love, embracing each other. There was a little girl with them to whom I had meltingly said, “Come here sweetheart. My goodness! You have American money and you have a 10.00$ Canadian note there, I see and a 20.00$ too. Why don’t you let me have an American bill? And some of those Canadian bills because you’re not going to need the Canadian bill.”

“Why? It’s my money.”

“Okay then, fine. Come on over here and give me some sugar,” I tried charming her as she had been off to my left. On having wrapped my left arm around her, I had kissed her on the cheek saying, “Return the kiss, please.” We had kissed and had done so, on both cheeks, in the French style. I had looked down at her parents and they were quite sweet and in love. At the time, I had been thinking of Pandora. I could not, though, have made out the mother’s face all that well from the table; I had been seated there with Isha. A square, black metallic affair with a glass top the table proved.

As a result, the table was covering the face of the woman and I could not make out who she was. At the time, I had thought of Pandora and her present beau. This child had then appeared but it was like a doll; she was so tiny and was, in fact, as if a pygmy. She proved to be Barry Thomas‘ younger sister. Every time that she had bawled, her neck had extended and craned up into the air and was pinkish-coloured like a white doll. She, though, was actually a black baby — you could tell from her facial features. She was very much so alive but she was in this rubbery body that was like a doll’s. I had put her up on a mantelpiece to sit because she had been so damn noisy and obstreperous.

Penina had come and disputatiously confronted me about what I had done to the poor little girl. Whilst Isha had been on the phone, I had gotten up and gone to take a pee. On entering into the bathroom, I had been shocked and horrified. On looking in the mirror, I had noticed that Isha had cut my hair. I had let out the most enraged scream, “Isha! How could you do this to me?” What had happened, was because of the way that I had been lying on my back, she had managed to cut off all the hair on the side of my head up to the top and on the other side as well. This was the most ludicrous haircut.

In the back, leaving the length in place, my hair was still long. “I don’t want my hair looking like some bloody Mohawk warrior’s,” I shrieked. To have seen the roots of my hair, which were unpermed, I was truly pissed off. Having my hair chopped off, was not something that I had wanted and I definitely did not want this frigging fascistic cunt fucking with me. I had been truly incensed at her. Truly enraged, I returned to confront her and found her lying down in bed. Immediately, she went on the blind defensive, “I don’t see anything wrong with it. Besides it’s already done and you might as well cut off the rest,” she had laughingly dismissed me.

“Isha how could you do this? This is exactly like when you destroyed my writings.”

Impatient with her indifference, I had launched through the air at her and begun beating the living shit out of her: hitting, slapping and kicking her. Grabbing anything that I could find, I had beaten her with it. All the rage that I had felt at her, for destroying my writings back in the mid-eighties, had come flooding out.

*Back then, when she had been confronted, she had launched into a clawing defensive attack on me as we rode home in a blinding rainstorm from Solomon King‘s wedding in Rochester, New York. END.

Earlier, I had gone to get my brush, to brush my hair and, on not having found it, had borrowed hers. On brushing my hair, I had noticed that the brush was really scraping my scalp. On having looked at things in the bathroom mirror, I had been left horror-struck. On seeing what she had done, I had sucked my teeth and decided then and there to kick her arse. I had known then and there that this would not have happened had I taken her to task, blow-for-blow, back in 1985. Also, I had seen this brown bag, a large, black canvas bag and a shoulder bag — they were all mine. In the travelling bag were these two tickets because I was going to be travelling. I had really been upset and pissed off at Isha as she had laid there under green sheets.

Penina had come into the room and tried intervening on Isha‘s behalf. Penina had tried to get me to accept the fact that what had been done, was final and to just get on with things. That had only more infuriated me. Turning on her, I had screamed, “Oh Penina, why don’t you shut up? You’re so damn stupid! Of course, you would agree anyway.”

This woman had then shown up who was Jewish and it had turned out to have been, Ariel Gothberg. She had worn this dark purple turtleneck bodysuit — over that, she had worn a brown very, very thick, woollen jacket. The jacket had lots of gold zippers that showed down the front and the length of it. The jacket had no collar. On either side of the sleeves, there were gold zippers that went midway up the arm. There were two on the breast, one zipper each, over each breast for pockets. They had little golden tassels that held the zipper. The outfit was quite nice and was in brown and black.

Ariel Gothberg had looked quite smart. I had asked her what she had thought of my hair looking like that. “Well it’s your hair and it’s natural. I think the natural version looks kind of nice, anyway. Well, you’ll decide what you have to do with it,” she had then gone off, up these stairs. Yeah, right; fuck you, you bitch, I rudely dismissed the thought of her. Whilst there, she had joined two or three other smartly dressed persons. I had come around and begun leaving then went out into the outdoors. There, I had stood by a shed whilst talking with somebody about things in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands. Just then, a large plane had gone by directly overhead.

At the time, I had thought this plane too unusually close to the ground. We also were close to the ocean. The building was a long white shed, like a greenhouse, beyond a sandy slope. Generous clumps of long grass held the sand from drifting too much. We were standing just beyond a stand of palm and sea dates trees. The ocean was rather tranquil and gently breaking. The ambiance here was rather beautiful. I had then seen a large plane come by that was like an American Airlines plane; except, on the back of it, it had had this large caboose.

This was a large unusual extension that had flared out. To say the least, this was most unusual and there seemed to have been no exhaust. The bottom of the craft was very silver. Also, there were the red and blue stripes along the sides like an American Airlines carrier would bear. However, nowhere were there any demarcations, indicating that it was an American Airlines craft. Unusually so, the craft was very long. Long and sleek, like a Boeing 727, except that it had had no mid-fuselage wings; way at the back of the plane, there were some smaller wings. As it effortlessly sailed through the air, I figured, oh dear no, it is going to crash.

As it had flown by, it had bizarrely veered off to the left and head first. Next, it had shot up into the air and then come down. I had screamed aloud, horrified for the passengers aboard. Immediately, of curiosity, people had begun running towards its obvious crash site. To check things out, I had gone running around the corner of the building. There was smoke in the air but it was general pollution from the community; also, there had been no smoky fireball as with an obvious crash.

“Oh dear. I think it crashed…” I had helplessly said to a man who had reminded me much of my uncle Michel King, rather than his brother Marcel King°.

“No, it didn’t,” he had confidently said. Another plane had then come in and that was when I had suddenly remembered that I had had a flight to catch. At that, I had gone running, hurrying out of there, and gone around the building. This was a wonderful large hangar-like building. In this building, there were many persons. I had seen several travellers there. Once outside, I had had to go up an immensely long flight of stairs to have gotten up to where the plane was. On the outside, it was a pure white aircraft with two propeller engines on each its wing; the propeller engines were running at the time that I had arrived.

The wings were extended; they were actually quite long. I had demanded that they cut out the engines so that I could safely make my way to the man who had been at the gate. He was an older, dark-skinned man in uniform. He could have been Egyptian, Hispanic, East Indian or Arabic. I had had to pay him to get aboard the plane and it had come to 14.00$ for the flight. Incidentally, as he told me that, I had recalled that the PIN number was 8411, which coincidentally does add up to 14. I had given him a 20.00$ bill. He had told me not to worry, that it was already running late, and assured me that I could get my change on board the flight. I had boarded the plane which, oddly enough, was unusually low to the ground. On having entered inside the plane, it was as though you were outside again and had to go up a further flight of stairs — just like the ones that had earlier gotten me to the tarmac.

A truly dream surreal moment this proved. Penina had been concerned because, on this flight that had just come in, there was supposed to have been a little boy that we were supposed to have met. He had been coming from Nevis. I had told her that I still was really frigging pissed off — at having had my hair cut off by Isha — and could not have cared less about any little boy. So we had gotten into the plane and it was again unusually interiored. There was a wide enough single aisle with all the passengers in seats that had faced each other. This had immediately reminded me of when I was a child, prior to having taken my first flight, I had always envisioned the seating arrangement on board an aircraft to be like this. There are, of course, no such seating arrangements in conventional aircraft.

As we had moved down the aisle, we had passed a number of little boys. There was a little boy on the right of the aisle and I had thought that, perhaps, that was him. However, we had gone down with Penina having followed after me. There were, incidentally, lots of potted plants here on board the highly unconventional aircraft. The aircraft was white-interiored, as outside, and there was a lot of sunlight coming through the top of the aircraft which was completely glass-topped. The ceiling was really like a long trough in a greenhouse because there was a drain in the ceiling that had run the length of the aisle. Lord knows, we were definitely well beyond the Kansas City city limits. Also, it had been very humid inside the craft.

Many, many potted hibiscuses were present and some of them were in bloom. Just where the stem had exited from the pot, one plant had fallen over and broken. On righting the pot, I had felt for it. The plant had sadly kept on dangling over. I had called the boy’s name which was something like, ‘Orello’, to which he had immediately answered an alert yes. He had been way in the back. I had pointed him out to Penina and told her to go and take care of him. Furthermore, I had told her to get off the plane with him because she was not supposed to have been travelling anyway.

I had then gone up to the front of the craft and there I noticed that there was a large opening. Here at the front of the craft, it was as though one was in a hangar or large indoor room. Whilst other people were lost in reading, what had clearly been scripts, there was a girl doing some homework. The studious girl was very stout and wore a school uniform. Early teenaged and definitely black, she was very light-complected. A tall, gangly white male had come in; this man was very much so old. He was incredibly gentle and soul-soothingly so. He was as if a gardener or caretaker.

He had sat next to me and warmed me further when he asked, “Do you have piece of paper, please? Just something to write on.”

“Well, I don’t even know…” I had really wanted to help him out and been of service to him. He was so sweet-spirited like Catherine Angelica (‘Lica) or as Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon°, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother seems — that kind of evolved grace of spirit. I could not immediately find anything and, in the meantime, the girl had not been prepared to part with any of her school paper. There, I had told him, pointing in front of me to a little desk on which were some clothes and my bag. I had gotten out my bag and started talking to him. He was very, very wonderful and very old-souled in feel. He was very healing to have been around. He had reminded me of James Tramble or Merlin’s guide as I had seen in those dreams — the tall shaman.

He had commenced writing on this piece of paper and he had asked me my name to which I had replied, “Arvin da Braga.”

“Oh really?” he good-naturedly replied.

I had then given him my statistics. Continuing on, told him that I was born on August second, nineteen sixty. We had talked on some more and then he had asked, “And what about your friend?”

“Oh Merlin? Merlin Ben-Daniel. Merlin B.” When he had asked me my name, I had initially said, “Arvin M. M, as in Merlin, spelt ‘lin’ not ‘lyn’ and which, incidentally, was my lover’s name. Merlin; spelt the same as my middle name.” As we had spoken, I had grown more and more intensely lucid and light-headed; it was as though I was channelling. “Merlin B. B, as in Bechbache, which is his mother’s family name.” We were talking about Merlin and he was doing this write-up about Merlin and me.

He had then turned to me and said, “Well anyway, I’m leaving you now and I want you to write this down.”

“Is it a number you’re giving me?”

“Just some important information. But you must remember it and you must never forget it.” What he had said was, “Proper posture leads to purpose and prosperity in time.” He had said it with the greatest enunciation and slowness.

There was a woman who had stood out in my mind as he had spoken. She was very much so like Francesca who was down below and outside an opening in the airplane. She was inside the building at a window, looking up at me and saying, “I will be with you, don’t worry. And I’ve remembered it. I’ve recorded it. And I’ll keep reciting it to you if you need me to.”

The gracious gentleman had then left. His was not unlike the yogic centred serenity of Yehudi Menuhin. At that, I had had a sense of motion and that we had travelled. The sensation was not for very long but you just knew that we had covered massive distances in what had seemed a mere breath. As I had watched him write with the greatest of care, he was right-handed. At one point, he had stopped and disruptively said as I had spoken of Merlin and me, “You’ve a very distinctive accent and it’s so layered. You can see so many languages in it.”

“Well, yes that’s because I’ve lived all over the place, actually. My upbringing was very middle class in the West Indies with maids, in fact. I like speaking this way because it’s who I am. It’s about intellect.”

“Right you are,” he had said whilst warmly smiling.

We had then gotten to where we were going but he was no longer with us. We had deplaned and come down the flight of stairs. Everybody had gathered about this courtyard and was walking around. Most people who had deplaned had been white. All the kids were in the rear and we were separated — the kids and I. I had then left everybody and started walking ahead because I had wanted to go and get Penina. She had shown up and was running to go and get Orello now that he had arrived. She had on this long, floral-printed dress that had proven to be a jumpsuit that had turned into culottes.

Her outfit was brown, yellow and green which were all one-inch slats of colour. The jumpsuit was a predominantly off-white, faded yellow number that had these yellow, brown and green horizontal slats that were crammed together and haphazardly spaced. They had created a wonderful motif on the fabric. Somehow, it seemed that I was supposed to have been deplaning. Seemingly, I had to get aboard a larger plane and continue on with my flight. For having interacted with Penina, I had missed the connecting flight. This had mightily upset me. Initially, when she had come aboard the first flight with me, I had turned to her as we had progressed down the aisle and asked if she had remembered to get all my bags.

A second flight, not unlike an American Airlines carrier, had come in through the air and landed. This had proven my signal, to have started moving and get aboard the initial flight. When I had deplaned, I was supposed to have gone to another flight. For some strange reason, everybody was marching in a circuitous route. They had gone down this street and turned off to the right; they then had gone down this wide boulevard into another courtyard. That courtyard had contained another plane which one had to board. A sareed, East Indian woman had looked back at me and energetically said, “Hurry, hurry, hurry because the engine has already started.”

“Don’t worry…” I had evenly replied. She was a really sweet gracious soul.

You could have seen the engine and when it had started, the wing that had been turned horizontally then swivelled and turned to the vertical position. This was set in a compound that was surrounded by a large white fence. Going up to the courtyard, the steps were white and the interior of the building and all the low-lying buildings around were all pure white. The look was that of permanent whitewash paint.

“…I’m coming. I’m supposed to be on this flight,” I had called out.

When I was making my way there, there was a large wooden gate that had a glass in it. One of the things that had kept me distracted, was that I had gone into this room, where Penina had been and wanted to look at the Romeo and Juliet drama again. Instead of having been able to get it on television again, there was a video music station on. The music video was set in a large room. Irene Cara was singing a song in said music video. Natalie Cole° was there, as well, as some other black entertainers. She was in a living room in that segment of the video, which was for a love song. Natalie Cole was participating in the video but not singing. Irene Cara had worn a black tunic overtop black narrow-legged pants.

Natalie Cole had worn black and white; they were very much so enjoying themselves. Soon, I had caught myself when being distracted and had gone running out of the place. I suddenly remembered the petite, beauteous East Indian woman; she had a striking resemblance to the author and socialite, Geeta Mehta. She had been telling me that I was supposed to, in fact, have been getting onto the other flight. So off I had gone, running down the road; it was a narrow stretch of earthen road. Even though it had long been closed, I had opened the door to the craft. The stewardess was slowly closing the door when I had leapt through the air and pulled it forcefully open. At the time, the engines were already running — all of them.

They had had to stop the engines so that I could make my way past them and safely get aboard the flight. I had shown her my ticket and very cleverly said, “Here’s my ticket. I’m supposed to be on board this flight; thank you very much.” Again, the interior was much like a waiting area and a greenhouse at that. There was a sense, once again, of light coming through the glass-topped ceiling of the craft. The craft’s interior was all whitewashed. There were lots of persons, mostly guys, standing about. The first thing that I had noticed, was that they were all dressed in white and were dressed in clothing from another age.

They were dressed as in the latter half of the eighteenth century — the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart^§. I had passed the flight attendants; they were off to my left and up towards the cockpit. There was the familiar large open area, as well, off to the right of the skylight. There was a narrow door that had gotten you back to the main cabin of the plane. The 18^th century persons were in the open, which had an earthen floor. Here, it was very humid and damp. These were all young and white males, who wore white clinging tunic that went down to just below the knees. They wore tight breeches, really tight, with white stockings that came up to above the knees.

They wore white shoes; large ones with white buckles. Large-sleeved white shirts, most of them, although some wore shirts whose sleeves were those of the conventional style of the waking state. They were, all of them, very young and very dark-haired. These persons had the faces that were exactly peculiar to their age. The hairstyles, the makeup and the expressionism; it exactly was what the aristocrats of late eighteenth century Vienna looked like. On having entered this craft, I had immediately noticed that there were little rooms as in a salon in eighteenth century Vienna. There were these white doors with glass panes for two-thirds of them. There were little concert hall boxes that were set up; all this occurred inside the cabin of the plane no less.

I could distinctly have heard the engines whirring away, outside the craft, whilst drinking in this most unconventional of plane interiors. We were going to take this flight and whilst in flight, there would be a performance. Everybody was an actor and like that man on the chaise longue, with the wicked tongue, also very much so sage-souled. I then went and took my place. There was a box where the performers would sit, as in an opera house, but it was on the ground. This was not a Boeing 747 series type airliner. The opera house-interiored craft had been lined with red carpeting and red velvet. The seats were all one embankment and quite plush.

There was a doorway there with a man who had been crouched down. He was dark-haired and had a mole just below his left eye. He was most handsome and looked like the soulfully august aristocrats, of the court of King Joseph II of Hapsburg-Lorraine, in the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart. His face was very, very unusually large. He had worn a ponytail that was tied back with a black ribbon. Just inside the door to my right, he had been crouched down. I had looked off and on having seen him, had smiled. He had looked up at me and was quite smitten by me.

I realised that I had found my place and had come in to the box to sit. We were obviously about to witness a drama that was clearly Romeo and Juliet that was set, in the Mozartean era, in the city of Vienna, Austria. I had gotten so energised for having been in the company of these people, whom clearly I had known at the level of soul, and thus had squealed and laughed aloud. Also, my response was in anticipation of the great fun that we shortly would share. At that, I awoke in bed.

*I was not chagrined to have awakened at that point. Already, I had been refamiliarised with all these persons. There was something very much so familiar about the handsome-moled man. We did look at each other as I took my seat and I was passingly reminded of Merlin. Beyond the eighteenth century energetics that he wore in that life, he was familiar, intimate and a companion. That was all I had needed of the very layered, very enriching and very, indeed, pandimensional aspects of this dreamquesting odyssey into a past life. This was very real and I was very much so in my element. That dream initially was definitely set in the Georgian era and the people there were all familiar.

They were all white and very much so alive. I guess that this was an astral plane projection in time, to experiencing aspects of past lives. I was able to have used the astral plane, to have transited the spiral arms of time and enter two different time frames in which I was clearly incarnate. Also, it was very much so the eighteenth century and the height of the colonial era. Here was someone who had just returned from an expedition to deepest, darkest Africa. Down to the accent and the language as it existed then, they were very much so British. The most important insight that I learned, for having revisited that lifetime, was the lasting effects of racism to which I was exposed, engaged in and was much informed by. To say the least, in this life, I am truly repulsed by racism’s ubiquity and its effects.

This explains why I am so passionately impatient with and can see and understand, so clearly, my hypersensitivity to racism. I see it for what it is and where it comes from. The second flight’s exposé into Mozartean Austria was, I am certain, more about getting insights to a past life of either Merlin’s or someone with whom I share as strong a soul connection. Perhaps, it was someone on the order of my essence twin. I am not convinced that this was Merlin, in a past life, even though I did not see the eyes in close-up. I knew them not to be his eyes. The eyes are always the dead giveaway in these instances. Though packaging changes from life to life, the eyes do not; except to change colour and grow older and softer with the reincarnational maturation of the soul, the eyes are always recognisable as self’s in past life dreams.

**Further insights that I would like to add at this time, I do believe that the latter dream of the Mozartean era, harkened back to when Merlin and I were incarnate together, again lovers, and were court musicians. This, however, was during the court of one of the English rather than Austrian monarchs. During the reign of George Hanover, King George III, which was during the 1700s to early 1800s, Merlin and I were then incarnate. Also, the Prince Regent and later King George IV was also familiar to both of us. The latter monarch would have been instrumental in the flourishing of the arts, which is why Merlin and I had creatively blossomed in that life. King George IV, when the Prince Regent and during his brief reign, had been a great patron of the arts — life at court would have been artistically fulfilling and that it clearly was. In any event, I also sang during that life. Usually, my performances were to smaller audiences of aristocrats; Merlin, then female, played the harpsichord and was my accompanist.

I guess that the Francesca lifetime could have been a complement to that lived at court during King George III’s reign — whose father was rather German and caught up in the Austrian succession intrigues during the early 18^th century. There was a late Georgian to early Victorian sensibility to the first dream; it featured a septuagenarian Francesca who rather than me in a past life, was Merlin when a harpsichordist and my then lover. These are insights gleaned from Michael Overleaves by Sarah J. Chambers who, prior to passing in 1999, channelled the Michael. What’s more, at that time, also present and likely participant in this dream was the Duke of Bronté. Of course, said duke was also the 1^st Viscount Nelson, none other than Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson^†. Naturally, in the late 18^th century, Horatio Nelson had spent much time at court whilst trying to get himself positioned after the American war of independence, which left the admiral and many others out of work. At the time that he spent at court, both Merlin and I, knew and socialised with the young, dashing admiral – the 2^nd Earl Spencer was the Lord of the Admiralty, which would have made him an invaluable contact to Earl Spencer and a frequent guest to Spencer House. No doubt, it was his tales of his adventures and especially his time spent in Nevis that served as a source of wonderment for me.

As Merlin and I were then cohabiting as lovers and professional associates, it is likely that I then expressed some interest in going off to an exotic isle like Nevis. Indeed, perhaps, the reference to deepest darkest Africa was really to the West Indies. Either way, it is obvious that the fascinating Duke of Bronté, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson planted a seed, which would lead to my choice to reincarnate three lifetimes later in Nevis.

***I should also think that the man with the extra-large head and the striking, large mole below his left eye, should have been more readily discerned. Merlin’s dear friend, the actor, Joe Morton°, is the one who would fit this bill. Indeed, Joe does have just such a large mole below his left eye. The only difference between these two — Joe Morton and the moled actor in the dream — was their disparate races. The white male’s in the dream was the exact same large mole at the exact same position as is Joe Morton’s. Further, this Caucasian male’s teeth exactly were like Joe’s as they are in this lifetime. Again, apart from their disparate races, there was one other difference between Joe Morton and his past-life counterpart. Joe’s mouth and lips are bigger and fuller respectively and Joe’s comparably was, to say the least, a more elastic and expressive face.

To say the least, that was rather insightful a past-life dreamquest. Joe, of course, is in the fifth/sage position in his cadence which not surprisingly would leave him inclined to being so sage-like and regal in essence. Naturally, this regal energy is due to the power mode energy, which innately infuses all fifth-cast fragments, especially in cadences 1, 5 and 7. Joe, of course, is in the first cadence in his greater cadence.

****I should also like to add here that the large-moled gentleman may well have been in London; at that the time of mid-to-late 18^th century, there was a large Austro-German community in London. King George III was, of course, German. At that time that Merlin and I were then incarnate, we were rather familiar with one such German patron who happens also to be an entity mate, Arianna von Reinhard^†. Wealthy, the German patron of the arts very likely could have funded a trip to Austria and German, during which time Merlin and I could have been on a concert tour to royal courts of those countries. Who knows, perhaps, at that time, we even met and attended concerts for stellar creative genius, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart^§. END.

At the conclusion of audiocassette-recording these dreamquests to past lives, in late October, 1991, I got about the business of choosing an appropriate musical complement. Naturally, I would end up playing some Joseph Haydn° symphonies. Back in 1987, whilst being a muse to Olaf Gamst, I was introduced to Joseph Haydn in great detail as he was a composer whom Olaf favoured. When sitting for the artist, often were the times, when he would play selections from his formidable Haydn collection. Without doubt, I would come to favour Haydn’s London Symphonies. That is why, I had crawled through a couple of secondhand record shops in a bid to build my own Haydn collection. To that end, I got out an old recording from 1977; it was still in fairly good condition. Released on the Philips label, Neville Marriner conducted the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

For the rest of the day, I repeatedly listened to Symphony No. 104 in D Major Op. 21 ‘Londoner’. This symphony truly made my spirit soar and allowed me to remain resonant with the past-life to which I had so lucidly dreamquested.

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

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The Remains of Armistice Day.

28.11.201831.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Strangely, though the major part of Armistice Day celebrations were long concluded, there were still more persons moving westward towards the Cenotaph than easterly towards Trafalgar Square. My companion, a spectacled, freckled guy in his early 30s, was keen on having me come back to his flat in South Bank – We were headed towards Charing Cross Station to take the Bakerloo Line towards his place.

Stalling for time, as I really was not feeling him, I firmly suggested that we go tour Banqueting House as I had never been, which was the truth. Of course, it did not help that the only thing at Banqueting House was the great ceiling art and the throne; the rest of it was just as empty as clearly, James, my “Mate” was dense. Long years ago, a channeller of dubious skills stated rather imperiously that I would meet someone named James, who would prove rather loyal and a long-term affair.

Somehow, this nebulous bit of arcana seemed to be the only sane reason why I was suffering this oaf overlong. His constant bitching about “Nutmeg,” as he referred to the Duchess of Sussex, was not winning him any favours in my books. I had hoped to have found much more archival fare associated with the spot where HM King Charles I was executed. Alas, there was nothing save a throne and an impressive ceiling.

With the toilets at Banqueting House fully occupied and alarmingly foul-smelling, back outside we dashed in hopes of finding a toilet. A pub, whose name I did not even catch a few door towards Trafalgar Square, proved the right spot. He ordered a couple of lagers – I never drink beer, and off I went to the toilet to relieve myself. I waited overlong, waiting for him to possibly come in then use the stalls so that I could make a mad dash for it. No such luck. However, on rejoining him, he lustily talked about what he wanted me to do to him. Never one to miss an opportunity, I suggested he go unclog his plumbing so that I could give it to him good, long and hard when we got back his place.

Naively quick to take the bait, out I dashed into the larger-than-usual crowds when he eagerly bolted to the toilet; once outside, I then caught the tail end of the latest regiment to go moving from the roundabout as they made their way from the Strand and onto Whitehall. With that, I swiftly made it across Pall Mall, crossed Canada House and made my way to the new entrances to the National Gallery – this James clearly was not the one.

Taking the time to avail myself of the museum’s free wi-fi, I sipped on a boost of Pret A Manger’s little magic, yellow potion, Hot Shot. I then decided against the Bellini show – Italian art is way too religious for my liking and it strangely enough has never once addressed the fact that the Church of Rome has, in its role as civiliser, proven the most disruptive terror group this planet has thus far known. For me, there is something alarmingly dangerous about a culture, which would completely and utterly eclipse this rather crucial aspect that has decided their place in the world – but enough about that for now.

Having dodged James, I decided to do the Courtauld exhibition as it would beat having to attend the museum on this trip. Whilst standing in one of two long queues, along came Ms. Thang, who simply looked at us and grandly walked up to the next sales rep as though she had exited St. George’s Chapel on Ginger’s arm on the gloriously sunny early afternoon of May 19, 2018.

As I was next in line, I just as imperiously declared to her and the rep, “Take you, the weave and that blasted fake channel handbag to the back of the line; there are not two lines of invisible persons waiting to buy tickets.” Before she could turn nasty with me, the lovely Dravidian lady informed her that I was next in line and, more importantly, she intended to serve me next. Fake boobs that looked like flotation devices and feet that were too big to fit any glass slippers and, of course, there was a bulky turtleneck to hide the Adam’s apple.

Though “she” was prepared to do drama, I came to do me and look at art and that I did. I was really wowed by some of these works, which I previously had not seen.

Naturally, this Degas masterpiece only warmed my soul. Straight away, I was left humming the music from the grand pas de deux in Act II of La Bayadère, which I could not wait to see at week’s end.

Shades of Canada’s Group of Seven, to be sure. I like the fact that the artist did not include the entire tree in the portrait.

Ah yes, and who doesn’t love the sublime soulfulness of a Gauguin tableau.

Trees, trees and even more trees. What’s not to love!

After having been greatly inspired by the Courtauld Impressionist show – well worth the price – I bailed outside; there were too many parents using the free admission to the museum as a place to come in out of the elements and babysit their way too young children. Once outside, I hailed a cab, though, not the above – wrong day and time of day. This cab proved one of the most memorable journeys. As The Mall was closed, we took the roundabout from in front of Trafalgar Square and headed along Pall Mall. I wanted just then to get to The Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace but did not want to use the underground; it was way too glorious a day out.

Finally, I laid down the law to the driver, who was a burly soul and looked like the quintessential slave soul. Soon enough, we got into a conversation when we began chatting about Canada, which I shared that I would give anything to flee in hopes of living in London. Soon, the topic turned to sex and whatever one would have to do to get by. Ha! Said he, he would give up this gig of 22 years and counting by marrying a fat, ugly rich broad to which, without so much as missing beat, I chimed in, “Don’t stop there, if you can find rich, fat, ugly and toothless, now you’ve got it made. To paraphrase Frank Sinatra from The Best Is Yet To Come, you ain’t been blown until you’ve had a gum job!” Never in long ages had I heard a grown man laugh so hard and for so long – a fellow cab driver going in the opposite direction even honked at him and asked what was so funny.

After having sat in traffic for far too long, though the metre read 12£, he asked for a 10£ note and thank me, saying he ought to have paid me for the company and humour. With that, I dashed past St. James Palace en route for The Mall which, of course, was closed. Finally, I made it up to the Queen’s Gallery and took in the Russia: Royalty & the Romanovs exhibition, which did offer some truly inspired gems from the Royal Collection.

Well, of course, he ruled something.

I was reminded in this portrait of Tsar Nicholas I of the 1970s when the goods were readily on display; however, along came AIDS and all that display and ogling readily evaporated. Instead, men were morphed into true peacocks with long blow-dry locks, which really did become tiresome after a season or two. Now, of course, it is the great and truly civilised age of the Internet, which lest you forget, is saturated with more than 80% pornography.

The Vladimir Tiara which is not dissimilar to the Cambridge Lover’s Knot Tiara, which always looked truly handsome when worn by the ravishing, Diana, Princess of Wales.

Set in the green drawing room at Windsor Castle, where on May 19, 2018, Alexi Lubomirski took the official photographs of the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, you cannot possibly begin to imagine the overwhelming scope and grandeur of this tableau. Truly, one is left in awe of the fact that HM Queen Victoria was a tiny acorn who matured into a mighty oak who, through her womb, extended her empire far and wide across the continent. This was a ravishing exhibition and one of the most stunning paintings that I have ever seen from the Royal Collection.

After all that inspiring art, I needed to ground anew; thus, I opted to take a brisk walk, cutting through Green Park where the light fast shifted and danced below the horizon… never to be experienced again. With that, I hopped onto the Piccadilly Line at Green Park Station and made my way back to Russell Square Station; there, I resorted to my hotel room and took a lucidly awakened, dream-sodden nap before getting on with the final celebrations of this poignant Armistice Day.

Before making it to Barbican Station on the Circle Line, I had had the most awakened flying dream, which had me spirited across the spiral arms of Time to a past life in London.

To reflect, celebrate and give thanks, how could I not indulge in an evening of music and song with the London Symphony Orchestra.

Nice, plush comfortable seats with a troika of gay Jewish dancer/actors seated ahead of me. The evening was beautiful, the singing stellar.

As there was an empty seat on either side of me, I offered to move to the left and afforded the lovely young couple from Paris to sit together – she had been sat a row ahead and away from her spectacled, fey lover – he had more than a passing resemblance to Merlin. Leaning in, I whispered to him, “The universe always conspires to accommodate lovers…” he blushed, they both blushed sweetly and were pleasant company that added a certain magic to the evening. Here’s to lovers… indeed.

En route back to the hotel… a little late night smoothie snack was in order.

As ever, sweet dreams, don’t forget to push off and start flying and as always, thanks for your ongoing support.

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The Dream Chamber

16.01.201801.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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.

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Always, I Will Remember & Celebrate!

18.11.201701.01.2026 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Merlin 21/7/1947<O>18/11/1989

Always I will remember and celebrate the greatest explosion of light, love, joy and intellect encountered in many lifetimes. The One. The Man. The Shaman. The Lover.

Merlin, I love you… and of this there can never be any doubt.

These memoirs are the story of Merlin and I as mandated by Merlin within days of his passing 28 years ago, this day. The first two of six volumes are now available, along with their accompanying Michael Overleaves Appendices. Available everywhere books are online.. get yours and as ever, thanks so much for your support!

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Three Sketches of Fraggle Rock

09.09.201701.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Back in late 1982, a couple of evenings after rehearsals, I made it home to the Trockadero loft which Merlin had sublet in Chelsea — across the street was a massive green-painted block long edifice at 645 Sixth Avenue — there would be Merlin and Jim Henson at the rustic kitchen table, hammering out ideas for what would become Fraggle Rock.

Both artists would be feverishly sketching away at design ideas that they kicked around. Of course, after having briefly been an actor, Merlin did work as a set designer at one point whilst at Tarragon Theatre where many got their start in the theatre, including playwright David Tipe. David, of course, was instrumental in getting Merlin and I together.

These three sketches are details from the final sketches for Fraggle Rock which went into production back in Toronto at CBC studios. Whilst Merlin, Jim Henson and other directors worked on the inaugural season of that show, I remained in New York City working: classes, rehearsals — very rarely auditions — and working with choreographers who favoured my Vaganova-based technique.

Great it was to have recently come across these gems. They will feature heavily in my renovated home which is chaotically being whipped into shape. Later this fall, I will be hosting a book launch here and, of course, it will serve to feature some of my art collection. I will keep you posted as I begin work on starting a podcast to feature dreams, anecdotes, interviews and critiques of art exhibitions and musings on travels. I will then be launching volume two of what is human civilisation’s first dream memoirs.

If already you have not, I implore you to get your copy of book one which launched June 2017. Each memoir comes with an accompanying appendix of Michael overleaves which were channelled by an authentic Michael channel. Sadly, the Michael Teaching has become overrun, like a weed-infested abandoned garden, by charlatans aplenty claiming to be channelling Michael when indeed they are merely transparent third-tier failed actors/Madoffs preying on others.

I have every intention of scouring the internet and removing all signs of these frauds as they pass-on. This is the only sane thing to do, to rid the Michael Teachings of the current blight of hoodwinking charlatans that abound.

As ever, Sweet Dreams dreamers, I thank you for your ongoing support and more than ever, I appreciate the support you afford me by purchasing the published and upcoming books which are filled with dreams and Michael overleaves aplenty.

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Here’s to Life! A celebration of the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth.

21.07.201701.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

On this the eve of the July 21, 2017, 70^th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I am still over the moon and greatly inspired for having travelled to London, England, Paris and Versailles France and Amsterdam, the Netherlands in June. I wanted to take in the pomp and pageantry of trooping the colour, revisit the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, Tate Britain, Tate Modern… and did! I really loved my visit to the new wing of the Tate Modern and the beautiful panoramic views that it affords of the north bank across River Thames.

Staying in the beautiful SW10, I had a great place to stay and had a marvellous time. Great it was to revisit Westminster Abbey, feeling the sense of history and the grandeur of the abbey. Every moment of being in London was sheer magic. This city, more than any other, readily evokes a sense of home –- somehow, in its magical agedness, there vibrationally is something perfectly harmonised about London with aspects of the West Indies into which I chose to reincarnate and where my sense of ‘home’ is grounded.

The LGBT exhibition at Tate Britain was a bit underwhelming; however, I enjoyed being exposed to the many female artists and their Lesbian-themed art, which heretofore I was not cognisant of. Naturally, the male perspective has always been prominent in homoerotic art. Without doubt, the best exhibition was at the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace and the Crown’s exhibition of aspects of the Canaletto collection. Naturally, I did have to return to the National Gallery to take in my favourite Sir Anthony van Dycks in their collection; among them, that ode to sage essence grandeur, King Charles I’s Equestrian Portrait of Charles I. The Rotunda at Ranelagh remains my favourite and most moving Canaletto; of course, it did prominently feature at the end of a flying dream, during early pubescence, that had me dreamquest to a past life in London, England.

That past-life was shared with Merlin when we were musicians at court in late 18^th century London. During that lifetime, we knew 1^st Duke of Brontë, Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson. Apparently, Viscount Nelson was a great raconteur and it was likely his tales of his love of Nevis which proved the seed that eventually led to my choice at the level of soul to have reincarnated into Nevis –- which incidentally Canadians are wont to mispronounce as Knévis… Sorry, the third world natives are not wrong; besides no one in London would ever think to say, Knévis. The correct pronunciation is Kneevis… Knévis is no more correct than is Kanarda the correct pronunciation of Canada. Enough about the risible ignorance of elitist petit bourgeois Canadians and their need to forever condescend.

So, there was I arrived in London with umbrella, pea coat, raincoat and it was all hotter-than-hell climes for the two weeks! After trooping the colour, I decided to escape the heat of London and decamp à Paris… what was I thinking; goodness, it was at least 5 degrees hotter there! Alas, Paris has become an armed camp -– I suppose this is what Paris during the Nazi occupation in WWII was like. Either way, I could not wait to hightail it out of there. Firstly, though, I had to head off to Versailles where previously I had not been. Goodness, what grandeur -– the scales are truly phenomenal. If I had ever had a dream set on the grounds of Versailles, it is highly likely that I would have awakened and assumed that I had just dreamquested to a marvellous world where the architectural scales surpass anything witnessed here on Earth.

In all that heat, I was told it was just a stroll away from the entry gates of Versailles to Grand Trianon to take in the Pierre Le Grand exhibition celebrating the 300^th anniversary of Peter the Great’s trip to Paris. Finally, after 50 minutes in my brand-new Crockett & Jones wellingtons, I arrived to what was not an especially impressive show. However, the last piece — a beautiful bust of the Tsar — made my sweaty and blistered foot ordeal worthwhile.

After having been quite underwhelmed by Paris –- save of course my visit to Père Lachaise cemetery where I left pine cone tributes to Marcel Proust, Chopin, Oscar Wilde and Honoré de Balzac –- it was off to Amsterdam. Finally, I had escaped hellish climes! Amsterdam proved the most gloriously idyllic experience. With a cool welcome breeze off the North Sea, the temps were in the low 20s and, of course, everywhere just about everyone rode a bike. As I made the pilgrimage to the Rijksmuseum to be richly inspired, I was warmed as passing cyclists called out to me in my white panama hat that I purchased at Chateau de Versailles to beat the heat, “Hello!” “Hi there!” “Hi ya!” This excursion to Amsterdam was truly soul-warming. Nothing was more glorious than entering that salon and seeing Night Watch and the Meager Company.

Whilst browsing, I thought of George Hawken and wondered if ever he had made it to Amsterdam. Just like that, on coming around the corner, the first painting I noticed in the salon which contains Jan Vermeer’s The Milkmaid, was an exquisite, stunning still-life of white asparagus. The one legume that George considered the perfect signature to a fine meal -– cooked by himself -– was asparagus. His most memorable meals ever featured asparagus coated in the most sublime sauces made from scratch. I was truly warmed on seeing the still-life seconds after nostalgically thinking of him. Yet another moment of synchronicity.

On preparing for the video to celebrate the 70^th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I decided last week to head off the costumer, Malabar on McCaul Street where George lived in the late 80s to early 90s. Inspired by the first dream of Merlin had 39 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 last Saturday, July 15, 2017 in my cowl and the panama hat purchased at Versailles to escape the heat. I thought it fitting as Merlin always loved wearing panama hats.

My trusty friend, J.J. who happens to be an artisan entity mate whom I have known in 20 past lives –- which is a high incidence of contact -– was the director. Initially, I had hoped to throw a white party on the lawn to the southwest of the chapel at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and have a drone film the event where a gathering of friends would raise a glass to Merlin on the anniversary of his ennobled birth. Merlin always threw a white party each year for his birthday at his parents stunning backyard in north Toronto’s Servington Crescent.

The plan was not approved by the cemetery and thus, one had to improvise. I got my panama hat and my cowl and together, we proceeded with a dozen long-stem white roses to visit Merlin’s resting place. I had a pretty good idea what I was after. With the matching white cowl, I wanted to evoke the magic of meeting Merlin in that initial dream which is shared in volume one of the dream memoirs which is already published: Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey.

Get your copy! Thanks as ever for your support!

In the hardcover edition of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs, the initial dream encounter with Merlin is shared. The dream begins on page 110 in the hardcover edition. I wanted the same sense of wonderment and magic that I felt for having met Merlin in that first dream four years prior to having met reflected in the video. In that dream, Merlin’s appearance was preceded by a white totemic creature which seemed, in its astral plane outréness, to be part Russian wolfhound, part alpaca, part dog.

So, moving to the lawn, having descended the steps of the chapel, I began walking across the open lawn towards the statuesque lion festooned mausoleum with the five remaining white long-stem white roses. Seven roses, of course, were left at Merlin’s grave -– one rose for each of our seven glorious years together. As I stepped onto the lawn, it seemed magical… timeless even. Slowly, confidently as I approached the filmmaker at the other end of the lawn, I thought of Merlin and that initial dream.

Just then, I very distinctly thought of Merlin greeting me by purring, “Hello Lambs.” As if right on cue, from off stage left, an adult deer came from behind the bushes and tombstones that line the far edges of the open lawn. Never before had I seen a deer at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Indeed, the good burghers of Forest Hill who clearly regularly jogged in the park-like setting stopped and were overheard remarking that they had never seen a deer in the cemetery before. All that I could do was tear up and continue walking as the deer then bolted and ran from stage left to right as I continued my stride uninterrupted –- unfazed by the appearance of an adult deer on the grounds of the cemetery. What is more astounding, is that J.J. at the time was filming my walk; at the last minute, I decided against a run-through as I was concerned about the natural light possibly changing if we were to rehearse the shot.

Unbeknownst to me, the deer after having made it to stage right, then returned to the centre of the lawn and stood there perfectly still whilst observing my progression across the lawn. J.J. who was astounded by the occurrence remarked that he had just witnessed a miracle. There is no doubt in my mind as I tried to recapture the magic of that initial dream encounter that there was a subtle validation of that dream from the magical shaman himself on the other side by having had Merlin’s spirit step in as director emeritus and had the deer enter the shot as validation and a token of his appreciation of the love that we shared and my steadfast loyalty to him. After crossing the lawn and turning to watch the deer stand there, looking down the lawn at me, I felt such utter peacefulness and abandonment of spirit — just as when alone and intimate in the dark with Merlin.

Yes, I believe in magic as did Merlin and as though an appreciation of having stridently done everything to fulfil his mandate to me, Merlin’s astral body conjure up the same magic here and now as he had in July 1978 –- four years before slipping inside a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up and readily winning me over with his sexy elfin charm, magic and sex that proved the most grounding shamanic passion… every time.

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 evoking 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!

In coming weeks, there will also be other tokens of this celebration of Merlin and his mandate to me:

“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

Do please be patient and stay tuned as there will be a site where one can purchase merchandise that’ll greatly assist with the costs of having overleaves channelled that will yet appear in the five volumes of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs to come. Also, there will be a podcast link.

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For now, here’s to life, here’s to you and thanks so much for your ongoing support all these years!

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Lily Cole

16.01.201701.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Lily Cole

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

61.5 x 51.5 cm

Edition: 48

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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In Celebration of Merlin!

19.11.201602.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Earlier this week, in celebration of the anniversary today of Merlin’s passing, I attended two performances of the Berliner Philharmoniker at Toronto’s Roy Thomson Hall. On Tuesday evening, the mixed programme concluded with Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 7, E Minor – a truly glorious experience. Moreover, it was good to have experienced Sir Simon Rattle at the helm of an orchestral performance.

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The following night, this past Wednesday, November 16, 2016, I returned to Roy Thomson Hall for night two of the Berliner Philharmoniker’s tour of performances. Always a favourite, the mixed programme concluded with Johannes Brahms’ Symphony No. 2. D Major, Op 73. In no way was Brahms’ symphony comparable to Mahler’s symphony of the night before, nonetheless, it was a rousing way to have finished off the week of celebration which began at the weekend prior with a quick trip to Montréal.

I went there for two reasons, firstly to fortify my body, spirit and mind at the glorious Spa Ovarium: www.ovariumspa.com – as ever the experience was transcendent. Previously, I had spent the morning into afternoon at the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal on rue Sherbrooke to take in the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition. The show was spectacular.

Back in early 1983 whilst Merlin was in Toronto working with Jim Henson on Fraggle Rock, I was staying at the Trocadero Loft which Merlin had sublet whilst the dynamic duo who headed Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo were on tour. Most evenings, Attila Isaksen would drop by and we would hang out, have great sex, watch TV or crawl about Chelsea and get up to no end of trouble. Merlin had sublet the loft which sat across the street from the block long grand building at 684 Sixth Avenue between 20^th and 21^st Streets West. The floor above was owned by a Gay professional couple who were heavily into S&M. One evening after we had been out crawling the clubs – Attila who had transitioned from a life as a dancer was now painting and showing in galleries in Soho and elsewhere – we came home with someone that he had picked up.

That someone turned out to have been Robert Mapplethorpe who proved a very intense bottom and a very memorable fuck. He was intense and as equally ravenous a bottom as was Attila. Attila was acquainted with him through the art world and picked him up at the bar we were hanging out in a couple of blocks south of my place at the Trockadero loft late one Thursday evening. We came back to the loft and they smoked ganja, a cigar, did a ton of poppers which I never found remotely appealing, then cigarettes after our wild fuck. I do though recall Robert’s arse being a rather loose affair. I might also add as both he and Attila took turns bottoming for me that he was an especially good kisser.

I quite enjoyed the show and Montréal was a great blast. Wonderful it was to have been there and seen so many Blacks as here in Toronto Blacks seem to have been eradicated, marginalised, replaced by the White tribe’s buffer races – those who did so nicely for themselves and saw nothing remotely wrong with Apartheid whilst it profited them – who in this town are now the darlings of obsessive Canadians with Black culture as their latest agendum is pushing that most absurd notion, Indo-Jazz. You know if you are never going to respect Blacks, you certainly can’t be hogging the culture as you so hideously do.

This brings me to the matter of the recent American elections; I am so glad that Donald Trump was elected because he will be the shot of adrenalin that Black Americans have so sorely needed. I would not be the least bit surprised if President Trump does not turn around and have President Obama arrested and imprisoned for being an alien, not an American but of foreign birth and a Muslim to boot.

Regardless what happens, the election of President Barack H. Obama has deftly illustrated that we Blacks are not paranoid, not sensitive; racism is real and the White tribal obsession with hating Blacks is at feverish mass extinction levels. Truly phenomenal it has been to watch these past 8 years evolve. Amazingly, it is uncanny how some Whites can fabricate lies and for hatefully perpetuating lies as they did with President Obama, these lies soon become accepted as gospel truth.

Alas, people always get what they deserve and Trump with his wall, I rather suspect, will prove more of a monster than far too many Whites and non-Blacks perceived President Obama to have been. Racially predatory grudge of Blacks is truly the biggest cancer on human civilisation as it is not exclusively the obsession of Whites. The entire election boiled down to the perpetuation of the five deadly isms being allow to riotously flower: lookism, ageism, classism, racism and sexism.

Speaking of racially predatory behaviour, one of the dreams herein involved Damita Soud with whom I worked in the early 90s. She was the most vile and hideous displacement of the human spirit; frankly, I knew her then because coming off my relationship with Merlin many were the persons like Damita whom I had encountered in the showbiz crowd.

I do believe that Damita served to have reminded me and to have prompted me to have put persons like this well behind me where they damn well belong. Also, as it is the anniversary of Merlin’s passing, there was a beautiful dream with a delightful Eurasian boy in London, England whom I assumed was my task companion Merlin reincarnated. Of course, since this dream which was dreamt in early-August, 1991, Merlin has reincarnated in December, 2006 and is female in Holland.

Also since that dream, my essence twin, whom I never met during this lifetime, was reborn in the mid-to-late 1990s into Germany is of Japanese/German ethnicity and will likely be a writer in this lifetime. The Eurasian in the dream was likely an astral plane encounter with my essence twin as my reincarnated essence twin is not only Eurasian but is also male in this lifetime.

Thanks so much for your continued patronage and ever, I implore you, always remember to push off and start flying because you’ve earned it. Sweet dreams as ever.

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Whilst focussed in this the first dream, I got aboard a bus and intuitively knew that I was in London, England. I headed somewhere of which I am not certain. Racily, I had jumped onto the bus whilst it was travelling and it was quite fun. The double-decker London bus was painted violet. I went to one of the circuses. Getting there, I got off and began walking behind a teenaged punk rocker. She had her hairdo done with it sticking out in clumps that were pointy. She was blonde but it had spots on it like a leopard’s and it was definitely not a wig.

Her hair stuck out like a porcupine’s quills and was very long like about eight inches each. The spikes of hair conically came in to a fine point. She wore a black mini, black stockings and black Bull Dog boots. She had fat, flat non-extant calves. She wore a cream-coloured merino which had no sleeves. She was quite long-limbed; both her legs and arms were beautifully proportioned. I admiringly walked after her as she had a very strong forceful stride. People were conservatively looking at her; they were being judgmental of her.

I quite enjoyed her energies as I walked after her. She was a true Demolition Man. The bus that I was on was getting ready to take off again. There was one girl who had come out of a building with some long pieces of wood and steel rods. The building from whence she came clearly was being repaired. I thought to hustle back to get aboard the bus; as I did so, other people were doing the same thing but through the rear doors. We were soon enough travelling again. As we went past, I noticed an Oriental man outside the bus who was asking me how to get somewhere.

He was tall, very handsome and very erudite. He had two children one on either side of him. The boy on his left was Oriental but he was mixed; he was Eurasian with freckles and had natural brown hues to his hair. I assumed that his White parent was the mother from the fairness of his complexion. Goodness, was this boy incredibly handsome? I never did see his eyes because I was on the bus as it was passing them on the street. Afterwards, when I had gotten off the bus, I had seen them again. However, once again, he had never made eye contact with me.

His lids were deliberately inclined downwards because he knew that I knew who he was and wanted to verify it by seeing his eyes. I can bet you anything that these would have been Merlin’s, if he had once looked up at mine. Regardless, his little shy act, I knew those energies; they were more familiar than any energies that I had ever reincarnationally encountered. The other boy to the man’s right was purely Oriental and older than the reincarnated Merlin. Goodness, it was so very wonderful to have encountered their energies. As they walked on a female Londoner had given them directions and had long black hair. She was a very, very handsome woman with a very spiritually noble quality to her; this woman could even have been the Eurasian son’s mother. She had directed them to this museum to which they were trying to get.

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Antinous Brilman and I were alone, in what proved the third dream, intimate and talking. We were talking about all these trees that were around us. For some strange reason, there were all these London Plane trees which were diseased. They were all dying out as a genus. I was stunned really and could not think of any disease that they could possibly have. “They were quite healthy and alive in both Paris and London, when I visited,” that had been a comment that I made. I could not quite conceive of them going extinct; this, though, certainly seemed to have been the case here in this dream. At the time, it was quite sunny out and the trees that were healthy were quite nice; those trees zinged with great vitality.

They beautifully reflected the light off their leaves. Being in their presence was rather nice and uplifting.

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Here, in the sixth dream, there was a Black woman singing and boy she had a voice on her. She had a beautiful, beautiful voice; hers was a very soulful voice. She was an up and coming singer, like Oleta Adams^†, but it was not Oleta. She came and stood by a microphone that was from the 1930s; the mic was very Deco. In particular, the mic is that one that is called a zephyr or a zeppelin – zephyr is correct. She sang away with her beautiful African head tied up in a turban. When she sang, she was in a medium that was bluish and slow-moving; in point of fact, the medium was not unlike water. When she swayed her arms about her, the aqueous medium visibly also swirled about her.

This woman opened her mouth and hit some high notes that were electrifyingly astral. I shouted, “You go girl. Go ‘head! Sing it!” I truly was ecstatic. What she could do with this otherworldly music quite simply was incredible. In that sense, it was not unlike a music video; except, it was as if holographic to the extent that one was inside the experience. In the true sense, it was a virtual reality that I was experienced.

How she appeared was interesting because it was as though simultaneously otherworldly. I had been singing and there had been these Whites about; naturally, they began throwing shade, “Yeah, yeah, great voice but not the look.” “Oh shut up and sit down,” these were the sorts of crass remarks that they were making.

*It is always amazing to me how, for being so racially obsessed with Blacks, Whites will feel themselves possessed of some absurd right – which certainly does not exist – to go opening their fucking hideous-spirited mouths and spewing their venomous hatefulness in Blacks’ direction. END.

I was totally impervious of their bullshit because it was nothing more than small-minded jealousy. I saw these people who were coming and going. As well, there were these young Whites who were as if models or model wannabes. There was a very young-souled approach to their energies. In any event, there was a party going on across the street and goodness, it was jumping. There were a ton of people queued to get in. I was there singing whilst playing a piano when my voice started carrying to the party across the street. I was technically soaring very high.

Then everyone began clapping in unison. Antinous was with me and getting ready to go across the street to check out the party. Though, he had no invitation that did not deter him. We were going to go crash it but it seemed very much so to be a wedding party. The party was quite nice and the energies were riotously on. Here, the atmosphere was great; it was wonderful. This was the point that the young Black singer had appeared. She was short and stouter than Oleta Adams.

She was very dark-skinned with very rich teeth. She had very large teeth that were compacted just like Oleta Adams’. Perhaps, it was Ms. Adams. I do not, though, suspect that it was her. When she sang, she could hold a note whilst adding cadence and timbre to it that was not humanly possible; at least this was only possible on this side of the waking state. She quite moved me because as she sang, the water appeared and as if created and exuded by her. Pretty much, it was as though one were seeing her aura as it gushed outwards. One was being tuned into her vibration; except, this was an aura that was clearly aqueous and simultaneously filled with light.

Her unusual aura was heavy gelatinous water. As she made the notes go higher, the water kept on changing. Initially, the aqueous aura started out being light blue but it then shifted to a Kelly green. Also, as the notes got higher, it became a yellowish-orange whilst transforming into red. Below her at her feet, the water was still swirling with rich bubbles of varying sizes that rose up and above her head. She slowly turned around on herself; this was so that she could have affected even greater acoustic depth. My goodness, it is hard to relate here how incredibly elevated this music was. I was greatly inspired by it.

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I was upstairs in the kitchen, in what proved the eight dream, of an apartment with Damita Soud. We were preparing a meal and washing some dishes. In any event, she was talking and I just did not like her energies and did not want to be with her at all. I then heard Whoopi cry out and I went running to look out the second floor window. She was on her back and being gnawed in her neck area by another cat that reminded of Damita’s cat Spooky; Spooky, of course, is a little black cat which for being Damita’s would have a name like that. This so mirrored the kind of unhealthy relationship that knowing this woman has developed into. This dream interlude so reflected the constant non-too-veiled negativity from Damita towards me; it is an approach that I do not in any way appreciate. I shrieked out the window at them whilst calling out to Whoopi truly horrified, “Whoopi use your hind legs and beat her up… beat her off you.

“Fight back, fight back!” I could not get down because, somehow, I had this tether which was an orange-coloured coil. The coil was wrapped around my waist. More to the point, this coil was coming away from my umbilical area. Furthermore, it was so hard to break the bonds to and from this thing. Such an incredible graphic metaphor this dream’s every symbol. I was most upset really. I decided that this just could not go on for very much longer.

Somehow, Whoopi had gotten up and ran away towards an opening in the backyard’s fence; nonetheless, the cat was still on her. I kept on yelling at Whoopi to fight back. If only there was something that I could pick up at hand and throw out the window to strike Spooky. Needless to say, throughout all this Damita remained perfectly mute. Clearly, the animals, our animas, were engaged thanks to Damita’s decidedly negative focussed will.

*Damita is the perfect White female racial predator. She is a so hideously perpetually racist; she is perpetually uttering some sotto voce racist remark. These White racial predators forever live their every day consumed with racially predatory thoughts on which they do not fail to act, truth be told, towards and on Blacks. END.

I got this heavy thing but did not want to use it. Obviously, it was quite likely to end up striking Whoopi in the process. As it was, she was in enough shock. Then and there, I decided that the time had long passed for me to put an end to knowing Damita. Moreover, it personally was too callous a reminder of knowing Elektra Munk-Ejoohoè’s dysfunctional pernicious energies. This was just not a healthy relationship and I did not want to know this person at all. Indeed, it was high time that I put an end to knowing her.

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I was in this place, whilst focussed in the ninth dream, where there was an airplane on an airfield. I reminded me of the Recreations Grounds in Sandy Point, St. Kitts for being focussed in this dream. The plane was parked in front of the pavilion. These planes could come in and land on a field as small as the Recreation Grounds without having to do much taxiing. Much like a Harrier jet, they had the ability to vertically land and take off. However, this was a passenger jetliner. Its colour schemata were like that presently of Canadian Airlines international: silver and blue. However, it could just as easily have been a British airways jetliner.

The bodies of the jets were sleek and black and this airplane was one of the new Boeing 737-300 series. Then again, it may not have been because I was looking at the single engine on the tail like a DC-10 or a Boeing 727. Much like a Concorde, the jet was also unusually elevated off the ground. Unusually, it had large windows like a Greyhound coach bus does; its windows were not the standard singular oval-shaped ones. So, on looking inside each window, you would see three, sometimes four window seats at a time. This jet had only two such windows and then you got to the tail of the craft. There was a door by the tail and one just back of the cockpit. So, it was a very small plane which had six to eight rows of seats.

There was a small window that did cover two seats in between the two larger windows. A much wider-bodied plane than a Boeing 757, it also was elevated off the ground much like the Boeing 757. I could not, though, quite figure out what was going down. I wondered what exactly could this all mean? Soon enough, I saw airplanes passing in the sky whilst coming into land. They descended very slowly, away from the terminal, then on landing slowly taxied up to their designated gate. There were persons on the plane waiting who had not gotten off because this stop was not their destination. Some had, of course, gotten off.

I then noticed that there was a large road; this road was close to where the sea is in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. There were all these beautiful Mercedes-Benzes which were coming into the airport. One of them was very large, heavy-looking and black and in it rode a woman. There was so much window space to the car that it seemed more like a rather stately Bentley. She was East Indian and wore shades and much reminded me of Benazir Bhutto^†. She was very proud, sitting very straight-backed and had a strong, prominent nose. Her head was covered in a fine scarf which, of course, was part of her saree. A white saree it had horizontal blue stripes.

She was immensely regal-looking. As she got from the car, I kept looking at her from the area in which I waited; I was being very observant of her actions. There were tons of East Indians about. This locale was close to a shoreline. The persons here were as if the untouchables – the lower caste people. They were just lying there and many were coupled off. There was a lone man lying there who was wrapped in his sleeping gear which presently covered his head. He was close to the plane on the tarmac.

Up approached the woman to the man and bent down to him. She was very animated greeting him, “Oh I’m so happy to see you.” They were kissing and she was very genuinely affectionate towards him. He was a wise old creature. I could not, though, figure out why she was with such a lower caste person; it just did not make sense. She was, definitely, the cardinal member of their relationship. He was very soft-spoken. The couple next to them began making love because this was their life; they had no home and privacy was not a luxury they even fantasised about.

They were kissing very deeply then he took out his cock and pushed it inside her wet and hungry pussy. Quite rapidly they made love; it was a very hungry, rushed affair. They were on their sides and quite tightly embraced. Then when it was his turn to enter this woman, who was a great deal like Benazir Bhutto and still wore her shades throughout their tryst, he kept on masturbating before entering her. She was quite hungry for his cock which was very unusually long and soft-looking though hard. Interestingly enough, his cock had tapered to a pencil-like head. There were about six or eight couples and all these men had the same classical Dravidian long slender schlong. All of them on awakening got right down to the business of making love.

He entered her but was not going in all the way. She was getting impatient with him because of his delaying tactics. This then triggered what was an obvious recurrent argument between them. Seems that he had studied to be a doctor but was not practicing. He did not want to; he wanted only to live next to nature. He was quite disenfranchised with civilisation. He said that he had no desire to get caught up in Maya… with materialism. She fervently argued nonetheless, saying, “But you have to be strong.

“If you are going to be my partner and be in my life, you’ll just have to do better than this.” They were having this sort of argument. Basically, he could not participate in the game because he was frankly too old a soul; he just did not find the rat race remotely interesting. Materialism had no appeal for him. Though it was clear that the ardent sensualist and lover did so love her, and passionately too, he had no desire to play at the game. So, at that, I decided to move along and leave them there on the shore. Here in this place, it was very futuristic. Even though it seemed in parts the Indian Subcontinent and there was still the abject poverty of the caste system, it was as if set in the late 22^nd to early 23^rd centuries.

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In early-August, 1991, I awoke from these dreams at my Queen Street East, Beaches apartment and was rather inspired. After having audiocassette-recorded the dreams with a loudly purring Whoopi next to me in bed, I got about the task of letting her outside to play. I then got about the business of flowering my life with music to begin in earnest the waking state part of my life. Thus it was that I began playing Oleta Adams’ 1990 studio album, Circle of One. Naturally, the choice song that day was her hit single, Get Here, which was an especial favourite of Penina da Braga’s. Standing in the middle of my living room, I kept my lids shut and swirled my arms about reminiscent of Ms. Adams’ shamanic turn as she weaved her beautiful magic in the dreams just had.

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Photo Credit: Merlin 1970s in Montréal

Programmes Nov 15 & 16 2016 Berliner Philharmoniker at Roy Thomson Hall

Spa Ovarium at Beaubien & St. Denis in Montréal

Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal

Paloma Picasso Gelatin Silver Print 1980 Robert Mapplethorpe

Ken Moody & Robert Sherman 1984 Robert Mapplethorpe

Louise Nevelson Gelatin Silver Print 1990 Robert Mapplethorpe

Gong 96 Acrylic on Canvas 1966 Claude Tousignant

Piccadilly Circus, London, England

London Plane Trees in Paris, France

Oleta Adams – singer

Black cat domestic short hair

Headscarf and sareed Indian beauty.