These next dreams are a wonderful journey into the rarefied world of Black musical genius.  The dreams were had on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, also a time, when America was about to unleash its warring might on Iraq – a campaign which would span some two-plus decades. 

The dreams were some of the most lucidly awakened.  Most of all, the dream with Sarah Vaughan was one of the most glorious dream experiences imaginable. 

A bit of leap off here but after all these dreams shared herein, it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve not done something as natural as having shared the Michael Overleaves of persons herein.  Merlin and I were/are Task Companions and that was his sixth life at 7^th level mature, artisan-cast Scholar in acceptance (yeah!)  I am, of course, also 7^th level mature, bluntly combative sceptic third life thereat in 6^th position (hello the dreams!) of third cadence of third greater cadence, growth and passion. 

I became a Michael Student, on discovering the Quinn-Yabro Michael books, when Merlin was sick with full-blown AIDS in summer 1988 and it was the most arrestingly humbling experience to have met original group member SC 9 years later, herein referred to as Mathilde Duchenne – the pseudonym is a nod to a life in Barbados wherein she was a madam and I was her most prized worker – statuesque, stunning and entertained the seafarers, one of whom was a reincarnated king soul – who in an earlier famous incarnation was then sixth young, passion, dominance, idealism – Saladin, at whose court I danced with a cadence mate in fifth position (known in this life) and our respective Essence Twins whilst my then soldier TC (Merlin) whilst part of Richard Coeur de Lion’s crusading troops saw me dance and was blown away. 

This most recent get-together with my TC, then Merlin, was our 43^rd and seven glorious years they were which continued long after both, of course, indulging in moments of sublime essence contact and energy transference as betrayed in the very lucid astral plane dreams herein…  For me, having been brought up by a musically gifted mother – whose love was sadly not readily forthcoming, she was though innately stylish and possessed of inordinate intellect.  She was also for long decades the only West Indian to have had her hymns published in the hymnal of the American Wesleyan church’s West Indian branch the Pilgrim Church – all that young-souled religiosity did wonders to hone my scepticism.  Harella was fourth mature Scholar… I’ve an obvious soft spot for scholars and 33 years after her passing my opinions and love for her have matured favourably rather than not. 

In any event, Harella was always singing and I have always loved Sarah Vaughan because something about her always reminds me of Harella, the complexion, the look, the round shoulders, the almost non-extant neck but the voice: warm, nurturing, maternal and stellar.  Though I’ve always been fanatical about Betty Carter – weeee! – I grew to love Sarah Vaughan when Merlin and his mentor, John Hirsch, grew even closer for both being full-blown with AIDS and we having spent so much time together; just the four of us, Merlin and me, and John – fifth mature warrior and his artisan task companion, Montréalais artist, Bryan Trottier, who proved a vile piece of work on Merlin’s passing which was months after John’s…

Bryan was repression mode, cynic, moving part of emotional centre, rejection goal and slid tremendously into acceptance and the negative pole thereof thus making him rather ingratiating and proving himself one phuch-all lugubrious sycophant with secondary CF of self-destruction, hence the bottle as pacifier in later life.  Bryan was then in the thrall of über-shit disturber, cum lost village idiot clown – with no discernible talent save being able to scheme and con her way from one nanosecond to the next, Elektra Skanczchowicz – fifth young slave in power mode with penchant for leather and for interfering in others’ lives and wanting to phuch with someone… anyone…  I am so glad to be rid of that ludicrous no-talent clown!  What is it about slaves and me in this lifetime? If it is not an old slave, I am loathe to have to interact with such fragments overlong – they really do present my impatience with a thorough challenge what with being 6/3/3 on a third life – vituperatively and with the greatest panache, ‘Go take your $hit elsewhere!’ 

These are things that are good to know.  I think one validates being a serious Michael Student as when in that dream recently shared of the female First Nation’s artist’s daughter that I speculated to self that she was likely in dominance – A couple of exquisite, old-souled gems.  For me, this is good work because it is so good to transcend the obvious pitfalls of waking state Maya.  Trust you me, most people in the waking state simply project their labels automatically.  It is no end of tedium to have some somnambulant lost soul start aggressively projecting onto you their embarrassingly myopic views when encountering me for seeing someone Black and god forbid male.  Don’t you realise that I am you in a past and future life, get over your tunnelled little perspective? 

Obviously, names were changed but I would be damned if I was not going to have some delicious fun assigning appropriate pseudonyms in the process – this incidentally was something at which Merlin excelled…  Although, since I have a fondness for Dravidian names, there are times when such names are used rather than cutting pseudonyms like Elektra’s, for example Mathilde Duchenne’s adept, V, is known where herein encountered as, Kritika Bhatt. 

To date, I’ve charted some 200 plus Michael Overleaves and it would well have been more, were it not for my protracted slow dance with starving artistdom. 

Whilst the Moon transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house, on Wednesday, August 1, 1990, I would awaken into these most luscious of dreams. 

<O>

Very intense and very involved these dreams and again there was a great deal of travel here.  I was in a city which was very moisture-heavy.

It was dark out; it seemed as though the light, though at daytime, was blocked out because there was a mist or there were a lot of moisture-heavy clouds which left the place really grey out.

It was a very ancient city and very much so like London, England.  In parts, it also seemed like Paris.  However, it was a mélange of London, England and, too, Bangkok.

It was at night-time and I was in a place where I saw the river.  This river was very much like the River Thames.

It was just as wide as the River Thames is and the river was very black and swollen.  It was fast-flowing and very ripe with a great sense of moisture.

As I was standing in this area, it was like standing in a circus.  It was a place much like Trafalgar Square.  This place, however, was not as large.  There was a central monument that had steps going up to it.

I was on the steps and looking off over the embankment.  The predominant stone of the architecture here was the same tone of limestone as was used in the Pont Neuf, as well as many buildings in Paris and in certain parts of London, England.

I was trying to look over the embankment because Arne Naess, who is Diana Ross’s husband, was talking.  I could see him and he had his back turned to me.

He was giving a tour and talking about how much he really does like his two sons and how happy he is to be a father again.

The first son, he said, was like Michael and I suppose that he meant like Michael Jackson.  Perhaps, he does have another son named Michael.  If not it would, I suppose, mean that Ross was quite a performer.

“Ross is very much so like his mother…” he was saying, “…and very much so a night creature.”

“An exhibitionist, there is no way that he’s not going to be a performer,” Arne was saying with resignation.

“Then Evan Ross” (Naess) he said, laughing at the mention of his last son’s name, “Evan is so much like me.

“If I turn in at eight o’clock or ten o’clock, whenever I turn in, Evan does too.  We’re very close and he always sleeps right through.

“He’s not a problem; a very silent and very, very contented child.  Not a problem at all.  I’m very, very pleased that I’m close with him.”

He then pointed out the bridge which had a terrace, like the terrace Tuileries along the banks of the Rive Seine, where you could walk by the water’s edge.  He said that he had bought this bridge for Diana Ross, as a result, it was now private property.

It was part of his vast real estate holdings in London, England.  It was, he shared, a present for Diana Ross.  As he said that, I then saw Diana Ross walking – her left profile and back visible from my vantage point.

She wore a London Fog or Burberry coat that went down to just below her knees with her bare legs visible.  It was beige, creamish-coloured as were the matching high heels that she wore.

Her hair was pulled back off her face and gathered in a loose curly puff in the back.  It was shoulder length hair.  I noticed as she walked that the belt around her waist was tied very tightly.

As if to protect herself from the chill of the dank air, Ms. Ross had her arms wrapped around her waist.  She was walking along the bridge alone and there was no traffic at all on this now private bridge.

He had said that he had bought it because,

“She has always loved walking on this bridge.  It means a lot to her and where she’d always go to when she returned to London… to think and meditate.

“It was one of the few places where she could really escape, not just in London but the world.”

Apparently, when he bought it for her, she was in Paris and called to let her know.

“She immediately got on her plane, dropping all her engagements, and flew here.  She was so ecstatic, screaming with delight.

“She was genuinely happy,” he said.

“It’s her own little retreat and she can walk on it whenever she desires,” he said.

It was very nice to watch her walk whilst totally self-absorbed.

I was trying to think of which bridge it was because it very much so reminded me of the Pont Neuf.  However, I know that it wasn’t that bridge because I got a strong sense that it was in London and not Paris.

It was on the St. James Park side of the Mall and going towards the Admiralty Arch.  On your left, you were actually able to see Admiralty Arch.

It was very, very black with age but also because of the ton of moisture-soaked moss.  It was covered here with a ton of ivy.

This was interesting because when I had dreamt of Francesca, for the first time, there was a great deal of the same large-leafed ivy on the building.  It was a very small circus – pedestrian and not for traffic.

I thought that it felt a great deal like London so decided to take a little walk and went up to cross the mall and go up towards Admiralty Arch.

I wanted to go in that direction, to check to see if I would happen on Trafalgar Square, thereby validating that it was London.

I headed off and soon noticed that there were many people in the city and a bustling city it was too.  Everybody was very quietly introspective.

Not too much noise and confusion or clutter.  I was zinging with energy for being in this very august city walking very rapidly.

As I was going, I saw a very modern complex.  It sat way across, like on the distant side of Trafalgar Square, to the north.

It was very large, very modern and of a very unusual design.  A lot of glass, steel and green chrome and very polished brass and not gold.

*Incidentally, in time, London, England would know just such a building.  It is the egg-shaped London City Hall.  However, here in the dream as it laid incubating in the architect’s creative imagination, it was lots of dark, soulful, green chrome and brass.  The latter is, however, not part of the actualised schema.  END.

**The building is actually the Swiss Re or Gherkin Tower not the London City Hall.  END.

When I was leaving the pedestrian place, I had turned around and looked in the direction of Buckingham Palace.  There, I saw a perfect, perfect, tiny chapel like Sainte Chapelle in Paris.  However, this one was even smaller.

As was like Sainte Chapelle, it was as if for the exclusive use of royalty.  It was in the Gothic style and with a very tall spire.  It was so squat to the ground that it almost seemed like it was a hut more than a cathedral.  Nonetheless, it was very Gothic.

In fact, it more so resembled those gold-spired Buddhist temples in Bangkok that are very dome-shaped with very, very tall spires.  This chapel’s spire was way taller than the chapel was.  This chapel was also white limestone – more appropriately, it was white marble.

I was going along the street and looking up at the buildings to try and make them out as I went.  Sometimes I would even have to step off the curb, briefly going into the street, to get a good look at the buildings.

It was so cluttered here that it reminded me of the crowdedness of the environs of the Hippodrome.  As I was going along, I noticed up ahead a tall, modern building that was blue.

It was as tall as the post office tower in London but bluer, even skinnier and easily taller.  Behind that in the distance, in all that fog, I could then make out what seemed the CN tower.

I thought then and there,

‘What city is this anyway, London?  Bangkok?  Toronto?  After all Toronto can’t be that close to London.’

I knew that it clearly couldn’t have been London, England.  It was so very modern on the other side of the road and looked very North American.

As I had earlier, I then looked off to the left.  This time I was way on the other side of the Mall, well beyond heading into Soho and past Trafalgar Square, heading as if up towards Piccadilly Circus.

There, I saw a very interesting sight.  What I now saw was a duplicate cathedral of the Gothic spired shrine that lorded where Buckingham Palace ought to have been.  This one was made of white gold and was glimmering in the light even though it was foggy.

It was therefore not a blinding reflection of the Sun.  It was zinging with a life all its own.  It was absolutely magnetic.  I thought,

‘Well, darlings, you’re definitely not in Kansas.’

I then decided that I would go off.  I really wanted to go explore the other side of the river.  I wanted to be able to see Diana Ross.  If not, I thought that I could go into the mall close by to try and find out what city this was.

I just wanted to explore the place.  Even more, what place was this where the predominant signature here architecturally was deco?  However, all was very modern with very deco lines to everything.

I went off and when I went into the mall, there was a restaurant that I went into.  It was green on the inside with depictions of plants everywhere and a lot of white.  There were as well waiters in green and white uniforms.

It was like a fast-food joint.  I recalled this man saying that he was a vegetarian and he wanted to know if they did not have anything that he could have.  He was stout and White.

There were these doors that led out into a beautiful, little, enclosed garden which was too Zen for words.  I decided to go out to drink up its beauty.

I also wanted to know if I couldn’t use it as a shortcut to wherever the bridge was.  I wanted to get to Diana Ross’s private bridge.  Finally, it was all that I wanted to see.  I was, however, having problems getting the door to open.

Finally, when someone was coming in, I went out the door.  I had not made an effort to buy anything.  It was a burger joint and a very posh upscale one at that.

When you left the eatery, by going through the back, it was in a park that was off from the street.  It was very, very beautiful here.  I wandered my way through it enjoying its large sycamores and other trees.

There were lots of heavy, old-wooded trees.  It was very expansive and healthy here.  I went around and came upon this very huge building.  It was a very, very exclusive and expensive hotel.

There was another tiny, little private street.  It was one which celebrities used to access the hotel when staying there.  The entrance was for celebrities and, of course, royalty.

This was so that they could not be bothered out front, on the busy thoroughfare, and have to deal with the nuisance of the paparazzi.

It was a white hotel of the same stone and looked as the buildings in Whitehall, London.  A very, very big and colossal building it was.

I went around and all you saw were well-healed people coming and going from the hotel.  They were all Black and very, very wealthy.

They looked very much so like Black Americans rather than Black Africans or Black Europeans or West Indians.  They were also in the entertainment business.  They were very much so musicians in the Jazz genre.

There was a very tall, High-Yellow woman.  She looked a lot like Stephanie Dabney – former prima ballerina with the Dance Theatre of Harlem.  She was older and had an entourage with her.

She had a whole load of suitcases and equipment as she awaited her ride.  There was a beautiful, black, convertible Porsche that was seated there.

Diana Ross’s son was in a yellow shirt and shorts.  The shirt was very bright yellow with a little floral design on it.  He was standing there looking much older than he is in real life.

He was looking at the car admiringly smiling at it and you knew that he wanted one.  You could tell that he just wanted to get into it and drive it.  It was Ross and you could see the definite resemblance to both her and him – his parents – in his face.

There were tons of security people as well as porters in navy-blue uniforms.  The porters’ was almost like a cadet’s uniform with gold stripes around the sleeves and gold buttons.  They wore hats; it was all very soigné and posh.

The musicians were very soulful, well-travelled, Black American, Jazz musicians.  They were very tall with distinctive features.  Theirs were faces that looked more iconically like African masks than anything else.

I then got going along not wanting to be seen gawking at anyone.  That was when I noticed another woman who turned out, in fact, to have been a much younger version of Betty Carter.

It was her and she also had an entourage of her own though one not as big as the other woman’s.  I saw her with a man.  Studying her right profile as she was talking, I intently looked at her.

However, I declined going over and interacting with her.  She was very well-fortified spiritually and did not want to be a celebrity.  She wanted to be left alone.  That much was obvious.

I went along and you could hear the river which was off to the right and the hotel was on the left of the tiny, little, private road.  To the right were all these heavy, big trees on this private road.

It basically was on the embankment of the river where there was a terrace with steps that led down to the River Thames with these huge, colossal trees that lined the top of the cliff.

You had to meander down the old, stone staircase which was, of course, dank and mossy.  There were different, little landings on the way down to the dark, fast-flowing and swollen river far below.

The further down you went, the greater the vista as more of the overhanging trees were out of distracting view and gave a better view of the very, very wide and commanding river.  It was noisy but very soothingly so.

When I got down to the first landing who should I see, off to the left in a corner, but Tina Turner.  She wore high heels, a skirt and a suit.

It was supposedly an Azzadine Alaïa.  It was a powder-grey, pinstriped suit and so powder-grey, in fact, that it was almost silver.  She was, indeed, looking fine.

It matched the exact colour of her hair which here was grey.  She had it pulled back off her face and wore a blue band from ear-to-ear that kept her mane back in place.

It was a beautiful, soothing, blue colour with tons of jewels throughout it.  It was not a mandarin collar.  Rather, it was a small-lapelled suit which was buttoned high up almost to the neck.

She was searching through her bag and was with a couple of men.  These men were a part of her entourage.

She was standing there having just left the hotel where she had been received, along with the other luminaries, by Diana Ross who was holding court.

This beautiful place was where Diana Ross was staying now.  She had had Tina Turner and the others by for tea – very formal.  Tina Turner had come out to wait for her ride but had slipped down onto the landing on the terrace to talk with these men.

When I saw her my spirits soared and I graciously said,

“Hello Tina…”

I clasped my hands in the Buddhist prayer manner and added,

“…How are you?  Kuon Ganjo…” at that I bowed to her as I walked by.

She was on my left and I did not want to stop and interrupt her.  By not stopping, I wanted her to be at ease and not feel her space being invaded by a proprietary fan.

She was in conversation, however, warmly smiled at me being very polite and appreciative.  I was pleased that here was another celebrity and she was not being rude.

She was being reverential in return and appreciative by way of the reference that I made to our both being Buddhists.  She smiled acknowledging me, to which I awkwardly added, as I was so stunned that she would acknowledge me let alone be so warm,

“And god bless…”

She thanked me.

I then went and looked over the edge.  The view from the terrace was so breathtakingly gorgeous.

Listening to the music of the ripened river was like the same resonant rapture I experienced when, on the embankment in London, England, I saw the River Thames for the first time in this life.  It was quite incredible.

I decided to proceed down and came down to another landing.  There were two of the musicians who are presently in Betty Carter’s band – the piano player and the bassist.  They were alone together.

I suppose that the man, to whom Betty Carter was talking upstairs on the private road, was the drummer.  I thought that it made perfect sense because here were the other two members of the quartet.

They were talking of Tina Turner saying,

“And did you notice that her blouse is a definite Ruth or Louise Browne of Los Angeles.”

This was obviously a very au courrant, very expensive designer.  They were very impressed with it.  I thought it funny because here were these wonderful, elevated musicians yet they were quite impressed by celebrities.

Then again, they were very young and were just starting out in their very august careers in the business.  So, of course, it made a great deal of sense that they should be star-struck.

I admiringly stood there and shyly said hello to them.  They warmly, gentlemanly responded.

I then moved off and went to stand facing the mighty river.  I was being made high, by all this beauty, having seen all these stellar musicians – these icons of Black culture.

Diana Ross.  I saw Betty Carter in this dream.  I saw Tina Turner in this dream.  These are three very elevated, Jazz singers in their own spheres with all these Jazz musicians.

It was quite a dream indeed and very, very, soulful.  It was very definitely on the astral plane because of the feel of it and the nature of it.

The intensity of the dream and the way in which I was so at peace with both nature and persons encountered, for being in this high-astral plane place which was possessed of such harmony, spoke to this being a dream of high moment for me.

When I stood there on the terrace, drinking in the thunderous roar and the healingly soothing, symphony of the River Thames rushing by below, I felt that sense of home and oneness.

It proved to be the end of that particular and very, very intense, involved and most multilayered of dreams.

<O>

It was night time, in the second dream this day.  I was in the streets of a place which I did not recognise.  There was a woman who was trying to park a very light blue, beautiful, beautiful car.  It was more like a station wagon in design.

It turned out to have been Sarah Vaughan – driving the station wagon – who, of course, is now passed on.

It was in a locale that I did not quite recognise at all.  Again, the feel here was of being still on the astral plane – not surprising, considering that Sarah Vaughan is now an astral plane habituée.

There were some other cars parked, as well, along that side of the street.  It was a very fine car, very heavy-looking.  It was almost like a Sherman tank and not a flimsy, little, computer-turned out car.  A very sturdy automobile it was.

She was quite meticulously trying to parallel-park the car.  She was quite obviously not accustomed to driving herself nor, for that matter, was she particularly comfortable driving.

However, all this was secondary to what was going on because she was singing.  She was warming up and by doing so, what she was doing, was singing an aria.

She was singing a male – tenor’s aria from an opera.  She was singing away.  She had such an incredible voice.  Ms. Vaughan’s voice proved a superbly stellar instrument.

I was astounded because here I was standing off to the side watching her try to park the car.  I was intently looking at her left profile studying her face, her round shoulders and almost nonexistent neck.

In that sense, she was so much like Harella.

She would sing very heavy-sounding bass and sounded just like a man.  Then she would do her vocalesing and slip into a very high-pitched and very complex dimension.

She was hitting high Cs that were just the warm up for where she would take you.  I really was transported by her singing.  It would be just this wonderful, wonderful vista onto which she would soar taking me along.

Such beautiful, beautiful feats musically that you can’t possibly share here in the waking state – it could only be experienced or articulated in the dreamtime’s pandimensionality.  It simply made me soar within.  It was quite incredible.

After she had parked the car, it opened.  Yvette Morehead came out and went and sat down.  She went and sat on a park bench and seemed as if a bag lady or confused.

I never did see Sarah Vaughan come out of the car.

I then moved on… it was just time to move on.  I don’t recall, in the least, having interacted with Yvette.

<O>

Art: Africa on her mind.

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© 2013 Orlando J. Black

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