Going Live!

The second volume of Human Civilisation’s first Dream Memoirs are dropping.  Please do get your copies.  I will also be hosting a launch/art collection event with open bar at my place over the holidays.  Will keep you posted.

MAASDO II

This is Volume II; notice the clever roman numeral indicators in the different colour schemata of the title.

ASVMOA II

Appendix II of the six volume Michael Overleaves appendices.  In this appendix the Michael Overleaves for the following persons appear:  George Balanchine, Robert Bateman, Mikhail Baryshnikov, George Benson, Pierre Berton, Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, Liona Boyd, Dave Brubeck, William F. Buckley Jr., Fernando Bujones, Carlos Castaneda, Dick Cavett and lots more.

Tis the holiday season, these marvellous books would make great presents for the ones you love and especially the bibliophiles in your circle.

Do stand by as the podcast is slowly coming together.

As ever, sweet dreams and thanks so much for you ongoing support.

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

Do it!

Elvis Presley

The one… the only…  Elvis!  #yeahyeahyeah!

Thanks for having taken us higher!  Love is All!

Elvis 8/1/1935<O>16/8/1977

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Sweet dreams as ever! 

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

Coming Soon…

Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoirs:

Merlin & Arvin Cover 30042017

Soon, Volume I of the Six-Volume Memoirs of Merlin & me.  Quite remarkably, Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoirs will launch next month…  Stay tuned!

Coming soon in all media everywhere…. Thanks so much for your support these past years.  Love.  Light and as ever, Sweet Dreams!

Contact: arvindabrghainc@gmail

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved

Lily Cole

Lily Cole Print

Lily Cole

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

61.5 x 51.5 cm

Edition: 48

©2014 Jonathan Yeo

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

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

Being of Service… Fulfilled.

ulm-cathedral-germany

Ten days after that operatic flying dream – part of which I am now convinced were glimpses into a past-life passed at the courts of King George III and King George IV during the Regency years – which is herein entitled: Time-Travelling late-Georgian/Regency Dandy, https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/26/time-travelling-late-georgianregency-dandy/ I would dream these next three dreams.  They were beautiful dreams and there was also a tie-in to dreams dreamt years earlier whilst Merlin was then incarnate.  Those dreams were also shared herein and are entitled: Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans – https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/20/ensouled-proboscis-simian-humans/ .  These were rather ravishing dreams and as was the custom that time, there was also some sexual play engaged during the dreamquest. 

These dreams were lucidly lived on Wednesday, January 27, 1993.  At the time, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house.  Moreover, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty and are yet to be found in volume XIV of the dream opus.  Dream with the greatest of wonder and awe because regardless others perceptions of you, it is just that – another perception and has no basis in the truth of who you are at the fabulously beautiful core of your being. 

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hrh-diana-charles-soeul-korea-1992

In the cobblestoned square of an old city’s campus, it was heavily raining.  Also, I was part of a great entourage.  This place felt like England as it was moored under a flock of grey, rain-soaked, stationary, low-hanging clouds.

Indeed, it was depressingly sombre.  I was with HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.  HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales was about but they were in separate entourages.

We were to attend a church service but in separate entourages.  All of this was done on Princess Diana’s insistence.  She was very forceful and had quite the temper when she needed to have the final word.

There was going to be no compromises in her position.  She was, in fact, rather stubborn.  This gave the sense of her that she would not age very well.  We were in a courtyard before coming out to be seen by the press.

Firmly, she insisted that they do everything separately.  She was a vocal, strongly male-energied powerhouse.  As well, she refused to stand in back of him.  Moreover, she definitely was not going to be anywhere near him.

The staging was such that they would never be captured on film in the same shot.  Somehow, I was serving as a valet in HRH Prince Charles’ entourage.  We headed, it seemed, along Hoskins Avenue on the north side and eastwards to Toronto’s Queens Park Circle.

In the circle, stood an incredible Gothic cathedral made of red clay.  This was an architectural wonder, it was so massive.  Built of the same red stone as the Ontario legislative building is, the structure was rather impressive.

This building was so unique and extraordinary.  To experience this building was as exciting as experiencing a great work of art.  This was architecture that was rousingly uplifting.

Also, this structure was several times larger than the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, in New York City – the largest in the world.  There was a wonderful wooded area which encircled it.

From amongst the towering trees, the spectacular work of architectural art triumphantly soared.  The door to the cathedral was easily thrice as high as the doors to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

Moreover, the gargoyles here were supremely realistic.  A superb masterpiece of Gothic architecture this cathedral was.  Marvellous flying buttresses, which were even more impressive being in this tone of stone, girdered the magnificent Gothic structure.

Not unlike Notre Dame Cathedral, it sat in an island of sorts.  This place was easily four times larger than Notre Dame Cathedral.  Since it was still raining rather heavily, I held an umbrella for HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

We had had to go to the church on foot.  When we got to the traffic light, it took forever to change.  This soon made HRH Prince Charles irritable and he abruptly took off.  He did resent being publicly humiliated by HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales who had had them proceeded on foot – in the rain no less.

Her whole scene publicly was about emasculating him; she was intent on showing him as a man with no control or power.  Totally at the service of the women in his life, as it were, was he.

Obviously. from their interactions, these two did not like each other.  He suggested that we return to the residence where both entourages had started out.

The residence turned out to have been a very beautiful Gothic palace.  This palace was a long, dark-stoned mossy complex.  Soaked for eons in seasonal rains, the palace had a moss-blackened exterior.

The weather here was interesting because the rains never really let up.  Quite simply, the rains progressed from downpour to downpour and were sustained by ubiquitous drizzle.  Grey and autumnal, it was beautifully relaxing, humid air.

HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales wore a light grey, London Fog coat.  This was an exceptionally tailored coat.  Holding the umbrella, I was always on the prince’s left.

We then came back to the very stately furnished apartments at the Gothic palace.  HHR Prince Charles was not cohabiting, at this palace, with HRH Princess Diana.

Once we were alone, he asked if I would give him a back rub.  Seemingly, he suffered rheumatoid aches because of the rains.  He began absently talking and clearly was in a deep funk about his relationship with HRH Diana, Princess of Wales.

When he asked for the back rub, I thought it strange that he had said please.  He then let me know how much he appreciated me.  I was good for him, to have around, said he, and he wanted me to know how much he appreciated my being there.

What he really appreciated was my loyalty to him, said he.  Then he told me that I did have healing hands.  On coming inside, we had been properly soaked to the bones by all that rain.

His cheeks were red; a very ruddy complexion his, I noticed both when holding the umbrella for him.  I knew that when we got in, that we would both relish a glass of sherry, to warm us up.

I was really concerned for him that he would catch a cold.

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citroen-2cvb

In what proved the second dream, I got into this tiny cab; it was in the middle of the street and I got in on the driver’s side in back.  I had gotten in whilst traffic was dashing past.  I had trouble getting the door to close after me.

Once inside, it was much smaller a cab than even it had looked from the outside.  Black plush leather wonderfully complimented the deluxe look and feel of the cramped interior.

The driver was French and this clearly was in Paris.  We were caught in busy afternoon traffic.  In a bid to cross the street, lots of people kept getting off the sidewalk and stepping into traffic.

For my tastes, it was far too chaotic with the traffic a gridlocked and bottled-in mess.  For that reason, pedestrians would simply step off the sidewalk and into traffic without looking for advancing vehicles at their rear.

At the time, it was summertime out with lots of bare-armed, floral-printed dresses wafting by.  Open-toed and heeled shoes busily paraded the crowded wide sidewalks.

If only to protect against Sun damage, several persons wore hats.  The ladies were very conservative and proper.  Rather than the 1990s, one had the sense that this was Paris of the 1920s to 1930s.

From the textures, styles, even to the hairstyles, it was definitely not contemporary times.  Even the ambiance was more so 1930s Paris.  On a cobblestoned road, we began going around a circle but not the Place de L’Étoile.

Then the cab driver stopped without having gotten me to my destination.  Soon, we both got out with me being understandably pissed off at him.  We then abandoned the cab and proceeded walking through the traffic-choked street.

This was when I saw a dashingly handsome Black man walking with a White woman.  He was on her left, his moustache a distinctive, well-groomed signature.  He wore a white shirt and these wonderful khaki slacks.

He was simply handsome… extraordinarily so.  The Sun simply loved this man’s face.  His skin, bone structure, eyes and teeth simply made the light glow that much more beautifully.

Goodness, this man was dizzyingly good-looking.  Smooth, jet-black skin, it looked as though it had been pounded by some shamanic West African tanner/sculptor.

This man had all the elevated sophistication of Duke Ellington but was, of course, considerably darker than the Jazz genius.  The moment that I saw him, I knew instinctively that he was the man whose faded photograph I had seen in that unoccupied house back on February 16, 1989.

Perhaps, this was myself or Essence Twin, living a very urbane life in 1930s Paris.  Nonetheless, I totally connected with him; he was as familiar and connected as James Tramble or, for that matter, Merlin.

On seeing him, I became at once thrilled and uplifted.  Soon, it was obvious that they could not see me.  I was as if travelling back in Time and getting a glimpse into that past life.  Just as now that organic bungalow was also seemingly last occupied in the 1930s.

The driver then slapped me from my euphoric daze when demanding that I pay him 160 FF.  More to the point, the bum had not even gotten me to my destination!

Then again, in terms of having served as an astral guide, he had handsomely performed done his task.  After all, had we stayed in the cab and driven on, I would never have seen that man whom, at the level of soul, I so intimately knew.

“What?!  Are you dreaming?  I’m not going to give you no more than 60 FF.  Even that is too much, you still haven’t left me anywhere near rue de Grenelle in the sixth arrondissement.”

He was short, dark-haired and moustachioed.  A swarthy, provincial Frenchman he proved.  I most certainly did not give him a cent – let alone the rest of my time.

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dream-lover

In what proved the third dream, several trunks were standing about the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house; several of them were standing on end.  A little lapdog busied its short-legged self by scurrying about the house.

Everywhere, there were trunks packed and in the centre of the rooms.  In the study, there were candles; so, I went there and began closing the windows.

As I went about closing the windows, I wondered how one could have gotten so lapsed as to have not kept the place closed and more secured.  For fear that it could start raining at any time, I then began closing the doors.

Besides which, it was coming on to nighttime.  The study was filled with innumerable volumes; the books were bound in rich leathers and cluttered everywhere.  I really enjoyed being in the room when drinking the vista of its wealth of knowledge.

As I had closed the window, I saw Yvette Morehead’s sizeable brood outside on the steps of her house playing.  Max Worsthorne was up in his house whilst looking down at me.  He was very stout and handsome.

When I went to close the rest of the doors, I noticed that the papaya tree – which I had planted in childhood – had grown quite large.  I came out to admire the fruit tree that I had planted and, on stepping onto the steps, saw Gowan Dalrymple outside in the yard.

He went into the old kitchen and was wearing an overall.  He was so handsome and alluring-eyed.  I was really warmed to have seen him.  Soon, I decided to seduce him because he was one of the warmest sensualists that I met during my teenage years.

We were quite hidden from view; thus, I went into the kitchen after him and closed the bottom door after me.  Whilst I was in the old kitchen with Gowan Dalrymple, Max Worsthorne could not see us.

I did, though, recall those memories of seeing him naked when a child and what an oversized cock he had.  Stooping to my knees, I began giving Gowan Dalrymple a blowjob.

He had been standing there waiting; his readily tumescent cock disturbed the draping of his overalls.  Opening up the blue denim overalls, I got out his cock.  Before going down on him, we made very long, intense, soulful eye contact.

His were such warm, smiling penetrating eyes – they certainly are in the waking state.  The thing about this experience was how awakened it was.  I could smell his breath as he yearningly breathed past parted lips.

Everything about the encounter was real; the encounter was astral planed.  Going down on him, I could taste the slight briny sting of his precum.  His balls smelt really loud – like a man ought to.

Even whilst on my knees, I spent most of the time whilst performing fellatio, looking equally unflinchingly into his eyes.  During our awakened astral plane encounter, we had hardly said a word to each other.

Gowan Dalrymple shuddered throughout as I gave him the slowest, most nerve-wracking blowjob.  The sexual play truly was a sensual massage that transcended the physical bounds of his senses.

Whilst performing fellatio, I was simultaneously massaging myself to an orgasm.  This, though, occurred without him or me masturbating my cock.  This was a purely spiritual experience.

What we shared was essence contact… in the true sense of the word.  The massage of his warm, moist, throbbing cock against my lips and into my mouth was sensually overwhelming.

This was a peak experience; it easily transcended that blowjob that I performed on the actor Mel Gibson in the dream of June 21, 1992 – the summer solstice.  The feel of this motion was sublime; it was akin to the arousal of spirit one feels for watching Evelyn Hart pour her soul into an emotive port de bras.

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Photo Credits: Ulm Cathedral, Germany

Diana, HRH Princess of Wales & HRH Charles, Prince of Wales.  Soeul, Korea 1992

1940s Citroen CVB

Model by © Francisco Martins Photography.

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

In Celebration of Merlin!

79ssk7

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.  

nov-15-2016 __________

nov-16-2016

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. 

spa-ovarium

 I went there for two reasons, firstly to fortify my body, spirit and mind at the glorious Spa Ovarium: www.ovarium.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. 

musee-d-ba-montreal

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 20th and 21st 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. 

paloma-picasso

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. 

Robert Mapplethorpe

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. 

louise-nevelson

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. 

gong-96

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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header-london-piccadilly-circus

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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london-plane-trees-paris

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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oleta-adams

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 unsuaul 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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black-cat

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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sareed-headscarf 

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 22nd to early 23rd 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 domesticated short hair

Headscarf and sareed Indian beauty.

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

Prosecuting the Past whilst at the Deathscape.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis3

Since having shared these dreams two years ago, I have been corrected by an authentic Michael Channeller as to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’ true role in essence; she is a young soul sage rather than young soul king – her first husband, John F. Kennedy was a young soul king and he was reborn to an aristocratic family in France and I do believe reborn male.  Contrary to the word on the faux-Michael ether, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis – whom I encountered one glorious summer afternoon in 1983 after ballet class at Harkness House with David Peregrine and his lovely sweetheart and former classmate, Jackie Sloane – who both perished in the Canadian Rockies when he piloted some years later in 1989, Ms. Kennedy Onassis vibrationally seemed every bit the king soul.  Alas, that may well have been her well-fortified social persona and false personality then experienced.  Of course, it was at Harkness House where Rebekah Harkness’ cremains perpetually rotated in a golden urn designed by master surrealist himself, Salvador Dali.  

Since these dreams were shared, I have elected to have channelled the overleaves of the following persons: Salvador Dali and Maria Callas.  Too, I am adding here, Frederick Hinneault’s overleaves, though, they have been previously shared in this blog.  Frederick was a the most glorious Cree feather dancer who introduced me to the world of powwows in June 1994.  I met Frederick after having had the most lucidly awakened flying dream to a past-life whereat I witnessed a young shaman coming of age during initiation ceremonies.  Well, you can just bet that after so high a spiritual dream experience, I chose to do no such thing as time-waste in the presence of dense-energied, somnambulant and decidedly spiritually unsophisticated coworkers.  So off I went to Club Vancouver bathhouse on West Pender Street where there I met the genuine article, Frederick.  After having made a sweat lodge of his tiny room, we spent the rest of the summer holding hands and travelling about B.C. Alberta and Washington.  Firstly, though, he took me to a lookout point high above the Cypress Bowl lookout where in a bath of cloud-untrammelled sunlight, we laid naked side by side in the long grass, holding hands and he got out his whistle that called a majestic eagle; this was one of the most magical experiences of this incarnation.  

Frederick, at the time, was full blown with AIDS.  What was most revolutionary was being in the company of two-spirits.  This was the first time being in the company of Gays who were not possessed of racially predatory animus.  That first weekend, just past 1994’s summer solstice was my true arrival and connection with Canada and what she represents.  I finally felt no longer as an outsider.  I will always have the greatest respect for all First Nations peoples from Baffin Island to Patagonia.  

These were truly operatic dreams, drink anew of my chalice and may you, satiated and inspired, slip into lucidly awakened dreamquests of your own.  You’ve a wealth of knowledge and beauty which passively lie awaiting your inner focus deep within the aqueous folds of self.  

Sweet dreams you… ever, we will be kindred spirits – you and me – sharing this magical quest of self-discovery, self-actualisation and self-empowerment.  I am honoured by your continued support and for that, I love you more!  (August 2016)

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These next dreams occurred two days apart and dealt with the same individual.  I have recently written of her and shared a dream of her, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  At the time of these dreams, which are currently being chronologically transcribed, Mrs. Kennedy Onassis was a recent astral plane habituée. 

As such, these dreams – and the last in particular – vicariously gave insights to her deathscape on becoming an arrivée astral plane habituée.  I dream it, I share it and pass no judgment on either self or the subject(s) of any dream ever had. 

As with all astral plane-focussed dreams, these were rather intense experiences.  Especially so was the fourth and final dream of the second day of dreams shared herein. 

The first dream was the only dream that day and it sets the mood for the nature of the second dream to come of Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis.  That dream occurred two days later and was more thorough and insightful.  At the time of the first dream, it was Saturday, July 9, 1994 and the Moon then transited both Cancer and my second house. 

Two days later, Monday, July 11, 1994, there were four dreams and as on the July 9, 1994, the fourth and final dream that day focussed on the deathscape for the arrivée astral plane habituée, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  As is her wont, Luna had beguilingly slipped from Cancer to Leo and correspondingly from my second to third houses. 

The final was an intensely volatile dream that was all about emotionality and karmic dross.  Having passed near two months earlier, though I was not much-focussed on her life in the waking state, it is not surprising that one would vicariously tune in to the deathscape goings-on of one the century’s most iconic figures, Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. 

Sweet dreams as ever.  Rather than the standard one photograph per dream entry to this blog, the break between both days’ dreams will be a second photograph. 

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I was, in this the first dream, in a park like New York City’s Central Park with Pandora da Braga on my right.  From across the vast plain came a large steed from a low, heavy mist atop a knoll.

Here the light was rather diffused and potent.  The horse was a possessed powerful creature.  Rapt in focussed canter, it barrelled across the green grass towards us.

Atop it rode a large-boned woman who was a fierce warrior-spirited individual.  She turned out, no less, to have been Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

She rode in traditional riding gear: black cap, white riding breeches and black riding boots, all of which was topped off by a red riding jacket.  Her gloves were short and made of thick black leather.

This woman was arrestingly powerful.

Pandora and I were stunned into silence.  All the shrubs wore various-sized beautiful white blooms that simply zinged with life.

All was ordered and serene here and it clearly was a reflection of this woman’s afterlife passage – the deathscape.  The Earth simply quaked beneath the power and grandeur of both she and the steed.

I mentioned to Pandora, after she had ridden past, that I had seen her, back in the early 1980s, on two occasions in the Manhattan.  She was, to be sure, a very robust, dominance-goaled kind of person.

Hers was a very powerful warrior-energied complex.

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Diva - Maria Callas

Whilst speaking with a man, in this the first dream, I assured him that I could never bed Aaron Wookay because of his pheromones – body odour.

I do believe that it was, in fact, Aaron Wookay with whom I had been speaking at the time and made the slip of saying what I had.  There was certainly a glaringly pregnant pause at the end of it all.

As we spoke, in the middle of the late-afternoon street, a very tall warrior-spirited Karl Weller walked past with a guy on his left.  He was dressed all in black clothes and as I sped up after him, I said aloud to my companion,

“Now there is a man that I could bed…”

I intimated that I had already had an encounter with him in the waking state.  This was in fact true.  I then got him into a black limousine and together we headed for my place.

En route there, at nighttime, we stopped outside a Dairy Queen.  The store was tiny and right at the corner of one of the city’s intersections.  Getting out, on the left side of the car, I went inside where I ordered large slices of a white cheesecake with soft ice cream.

When I returned to the limousine, he was immediately in bed lying on his back on some blankets.  He took a bite of the food and, at that point, I began groaning.

His entire body then lapsed into an adrenalin quake as he had his first all-out experience.  He was full of nerves and caution.  Wanting to leave, Karl Weller then hurriedly got up; I was quite disappointed.

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In this the second dream, Isha da Braga insisted that I deposit some cash – 10$ or 12$ – into her account because I had owed her as much.  I was really pissed off because I knew that I had already paid her whatever monies that I had owed her.

En route to the bank, I stopped off at her condo to which I had a pair of keys.  Slowly, I stirred the pot of stew that she had started before heading to work.  The stew simmered on a low fire.

Soon, I encountered Pandora da Braga who also needed cash.  I then became an issue of how to move around cash, via cheques, from one or more of my little-funded accounts to get to float until the next payday.

With that, I headed off to the bank to begin my unscrupulous activity.

*This is something that I have never attempted and would never think to attempt in the waking state.  Why?

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Soon, in this the third dream, I got sidetracked.  I went off and had a hot encounter with a guy whom I now think was Frederick Hinneault.  We were, in an old building, writhing away on a table.

Splayed and utterly contorted, we were going at each other like there was no tomorrow.  Too, it was also hard to tell just who was fucking whom.

A tall Black security guard, whilst on duty, happened on us.  Pretty soon, he interrupted us and joined in when he oughtn’t to have done so.  He took off his thick, brown leather belt and began beating me with it.

I was truly incensed and let him know that I could damn well file suit against him for having struck me.  After all, it was not a part of his duties to have done so.

He was surprised at my response.  Seemingly, he was a novice in his crisp, brand new khaki uniform and hat.  He was rather handsome a fellow.  Nonetheless, I was still upset with him.

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I would, whilst focussed in this the fourth dream, have an encounter with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  At the time, I was going along a corridor in a palatial residence.  Seemingly, this was an eighteenth century château.

Whilst she was dressed in clothing that was late 1950s-60s, A-line conservative and nothing flashy, I walked after Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis.  There were several other persons about.  Impatient, she was not at all in a very good mood.

Rushing back, I went to the off-white blue hallways to the other wing.  We were two to three storeys aboveground.  There, I saw a dark-haired, strong-featured woman and intuitively knew her to be Maria Callas.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Maria Callas were in the midst of a nasty feud.  Conversely, it turned out that to get her attention I would have to quickly act.

Pulling out a shotgun, I shot into the ceiling in order to wrestle her attention.  The gunfire stunned Maria Callas; at that point, I then bolted and went back to be with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Coming to her aid, I held Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis by the forearms as she was slumped in a chair.  She had been truly traumatised by the gunshot going off so close to her.

In light of what she had endured on November 22, 1963, in Dallas, Texas, her reaction was not surprising.  This soon served as a glimpse into who had really killed whom.

From what I learnt here, it turned out that not only did Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis get rid of Christina Onassis and Marilyn Monroe, she also used occult means to get rid of Maria Callas by way of literally bewitching Aristotle Onassis.

I was being told this by a voice which I heard speaking to me.  Interestingly enough, the voice sounded like a gruffer version of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s famous breathy register.

This insight was all being telepathically shared with me.  However, this house was definitely on the astral plane in which Maria Callas was confronting Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  As it were, both astral plane habitués were prosecuting their relations in their respective immediate past lives.

There was no getting around the fact that Maria Callas had the upper hand here.  There was a sense that, try as she might, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis simply could not get out of this confrontational drama; it was, as it were, fated based on who owed whom karma.

Maria Callas was truly operatic.  Not the kind of person that one would want to have as a foe was she.  For having predeceased Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis as well as Aristotle Onassis, there seemingly was much that she knew of what really happened whilst she was alive.

This woman, Maria Callas, was truly operatic.  Her rage was such that she seemed to create an emotional tornado.  Even when she spoke, her voice operatically boomed.

This was drama that was supra-Wagnerian.  The palatial, soothing blue-interiored dwelling’s walls violently quaked as Maria Callas fumed and berated Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis from her wing of the château.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis looked extremely spent, haggard and aged; she had been completely vanquished by Maria Callas’ rage.  If these karmic debts had really been incurred by Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, it then stands to reason that on reflecting on her just-concluded life, there would be some degree of remorse and inner pain as part of her deathscape on becoming an arrivée astral plane habituée.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was deeply troubled here.  Though she was every bit the lady in her own right, for having been wronged, there was a great impactful power that Maria Callas exhibited for having been wronged.

The whole affair had karmically left her completely in a funk.  All of these done-in women were strong-willed individuals who had, in some way, posed a threat to her sense of self.

Not only did she not suffer fools gladly but from the evidence here, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis did not suffer threats to her power in any way.  Once so threatened, her only response was shrewd and calculating.

They were simply removed from the environment – struck down.  For Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, with a Scorpio rising, it was all too possible that this sort of tactic would have been deemed a viable and appropriate response to such a threat.

Here in the dreamtime, for being alone with her, I came to understand what would have motivated her to have taken such actions.  This was the only way to stake her claim on history and not just near history but millennial history.

At all costs, a statuesque stalwart of power and regal dignity, she had to survive to the end.  To have been respectively displaced or denied by Marilyn Monroe or Maria Callas would have eclipsed her and made her but a footnote in history.

This is how she saw it.  Christina Onassis did nothing but try to have her displaced and dishonoured by way of a divorce; this, too, could not be suffered.  She won.  In all things, she won.

As that dream on July 9, 1994 attested, she was the born warrior-spirited leader who was never felled in battle.  Victorious to the end was ever her approach.

Indeed, coming through the mist of time, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis will transcend Time for several millennial as one of the most pre-eminent leaders of the 20th century and not merely just an iconic woman.

Into the future and legend she will forever ride a valiant steed, though a dark one, a figure of power, strength and dignity.  Indeed, a bloody-talonned warrior this one.

Leaving her, I went running back through the halls saying that I had to get to the ministerial offices.  I wanted to get there at once, in order that the records may historically be set straight.

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Photo credits: Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis fox hunting in Virginia.

Opera diva, Maria Callas.

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© 2014-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Revisit West Indian colonial past-life, flight and lovemaking (Redux).

Florence Welch Annie Leibovitz Vogue

*As ever, thanks for your continued patronage; it does mean a great deal to me.  Sweet dreams as ever and the very best to you!  

On the cusp of my birthday, I share these nine dreams had near 21 years ago.  They were beautiful dreams and, of course, there were flying dreams amongst them. 

With wonder, and at times regrettably with trepidation, I lucidly slipped fecund, open and oceanic in sleep’s warm wet folds and into astral consciousness aligning with soul.  There, on Sunday, October 17, 1993, I would whilst the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house live these nine dreams. 

They were beautiful dancerly movements in spirit which culminated with the most sensual of pas de deux whilst lovemaking with the most beautiful woman.  Sweet dreams be yours. 

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In this the first dream, a female TV reporter was speaking about who was the most hard, as in well-hung, in TV.  Peter Mansbridge was cited as such.  She looked like Wendy Mesley but wasn’t.  As this was said, it proved quite the revelation.

Thought about it and realised that it could indeed be true; after all, he is rather beefy, mesomorphic and broad-shouldered a man.  I could, in fact, see him having a large-headed, thick dick.

Soon, they announced on television that starting in two days’ time, Peter Mansbridge would be hosting a new follow-up program after ABC television’s Nightline which was normally hosted by Ted Koppel.

As I didn’t know whether this meant that he had gone to work in the U.S. or if Ted Koppel had died, I found it all very strange.  As he was about to leave Toronto, for work down in New York City, there was then a send-off party of television executives for Peter Mansbridge.

Myself, I was just outside the main ballroom where the guests were standing and sitting about holding drinks and noisily laughing aloud.  On the inside, there was lots of dark wooden panelling similar to a private club like at 21 McGill Street.

The place was dimly lit and for being dark-wooded, this only made it appear even more soft-lighted inside.  I would then go jogging with Peter Mansbridge in a very rich neighbourhood.  Off to our left and down the road a bit, were these large, beautiful rolling plains.

The street would eventually veer off in two directions.  Here it was at nighttime and the night sky was rather beautiful.  Soon, I would decline jogging for very much longer because of the rigours on the heart from jogging.

He was not however fazed by my dropping out.  As we no longer jogged but walked along, I would see the Moon appear from back of these heavy-looking clouds.  There it sailed atop a stand of palm trees off in the distance.

The Moon was high in the eight house, as it were, in the west moving towards the horizon.  Found it strange to find that it was a full Moon.  After all, it was not supposed to be a full Moon at present in the waking state.

Nonetheless, it was such a larger-than-usual awesome sight that I was greatly moved by its impressive beauty.

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Next, in the second dream, I found myself in the environs of a wooden schoolhouse.  The structure was unpainted thus exposing a clear-wooded exterior.  Can’t recall having gone inside but I know that I had been there to do some work.

I had also been playing in the yard and enjoying myself.  In addition, I had gotten paid for the work that I did there.  I was always in the backyard.  Meanwhile, there was some discovery taking place.

There was a large scaffolding that was very tall and multilevelled.  Lots of steel pylons in different sections were placed on the planks; they awaited to be used in the renovation and construction underway.  The scaffold was only on the back of the schoolhouse.

All around were these incredibly large trees; one of them was definitely a breadfruit tree.  Meanwhile, after having made my way up onto the scaffolding, I became suddenly afraid of the heights.  This was because I had seen that there were these persons who had had to jump from the level that I was on.

Here everyone was very mercurial-bodied – slight and wiry.  One had had to jump some five feet down and across the way by more than two feet.  This was something that they had been doing over time; naturally, they had become quite familiar with the whole process.

Their technique involved throwing their body forwards then with the legs out in second position.  The legs were at a twenty-five degree angle; this would enable you to land properly in plié.  On leaping down, there was very little to hold on to; besides, there was also very little foot space on landing on any of the levels.

For whatever reasons, I became suddenly fearful as to whether or not I could actually sustain myself at these heights.  Furthermore, I questioned whether I could successfully cross from one level to the next.  Instead of leaping across, I clambered back down the scaffolding.

From there, I made my way into the building which proved on entering to be an incredibly large recreation room.  The room had a lot of clear and blue plastic covering the floors.  A very high-ceilinged place it was.  One section, to one side of the complex, was very damp.

Entering the complex at the back, I would soon get to the main corridor which ran from left to right.  On the opposite side of the corridor, to the back where I had made my entrance, were several strange-looking compartments.

They were made of three walls of white tiles with large blue plastic which fell down from the ceiling to cover each compartment.  On entering, one had to stand on a large marble slab where it was very damp.

Incidentally, the whole thing looked like the opening of a car wash.  One had to step down to enter the small three-sided compartment.  In back of you as you entered, the length of the room remained opened up.

Unlike anything that I had ever experienced before, this place was incredibly humid.  In that sense, the place was not unlike a steam room.  As I saw some persons leaning against the blue plastics, I went to lean against them as well.

There were two other persons, to the left, leaning against the tubing which accompanied the plastics.  Made little sense to me what they were up to but they did look decidedly lethargic and out of it.

Truth be told, it was almost as if they were asleep or even anesthetised.  An unusual gestalt considering that this was the realms of the dreamtime, I thought.  Figuring that the old adage, ‘When in Rome do as the Romans…’, I went off and tried to put myself in the state that they were in.

However, the plastic snapped, broke and caused me to almost fall face first into the tiled wall ahead of me.  Steadying myself, I decided to not pursue this riddle of a queer experience further and thus took my leave.

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Going out onto the veranda, in this the third dream, I saw Augustus Akins off in the distance.  He was with someone on the landing as well.  Standing there, I was amazed at just how much they had both grown.

Going over to them, I said to Augustus how surprised I was that he had grown so much.  One of them wore a jean jacket which was opened up to reveal a lovely, dark-skinned complexion.

Don’t have any idea who the other fellow was but he was not a relation of Augustus’s.  I was truly amazed that Augustus had grown so tall and looked so self-possessed and aristocratic.

Returning inside to the room where earlier I had been, I thought about both men as they had been leaning against these upright trunks that were out on the veranda.

I had the distinct impression that they were not saying anything to me because they had the distinct impression that my being enthralled with them would lead me back into the room.

Right away, I intuited that this was all a mere trap which was designed to lure me there at which point they could then come in and capture me.  Straight away, I took my leave of them.

The room, though made out to be as if a bedroom, turned out to have been – though dimly lit – a prison cell.  With that, I went rushing from this room in the schoolhouse by way of another door.

This posited me into another room where beyond which was yet another room.  Coming out, I saw that the innards of the room were now dissolved.  Indeed, the whole thing had been a holographic projection.

All that was left was a large Plexiglas cage of a room.  The people who were left in the room, whom I had not initially noticed as being there, were the same comatose-looking persons as those at the plastic tubing.

Instantaneously, for being encased in the trap, they were gassed as the place filled up with a misty gas.  Pretty soon, they were asphyxiated.  The whole thing was very macabre as their screams were drowned out by the airtight-sealed thick Plexiglas encasing, as it were, in which they were entombed.

Truly gruesome a sight was it.  To think that people could be annihilated just like that was truly horrific a spectre.  Next door, in the room that I had rushed into, there was a guard; he was a tall, quiet dignified-looking man.

He decided not to kill the others.  Nothing interested me more than getting the devil out of there toute de suite.  From there, I went rushing down the staircase close by; I made it out into the grounds of the wonderfully treed schoolhouse.

Making it up to the wide road, I intuitively knew that I was being chased.  Obviously, they would do everything in their power to try and capture me.  I do recall seeing Duane Searles down; he was two landings from me as I had fled from the room.

Duane was keeping tabs on the fact that these persons were trying to entrap others.  Duane was also keenly aware that one of the persons that they were attempting to entrap, by way of intimidation or scandal, was me.

I knew that his sense of justice was such that he intended to take them to task – to deal with them.  He was waiting below for the perpetrators of this barbaric crime.  Without a doubt, it was obvious that he had every intention of apprehending them.

These people were up to no good whatsoever.  They knew that they could pull their little vindictive stunts and get away with it because no one had ever threatened their unfair behaviour.

Pretty soon, the relatives of the gassed persons showed up and were intent on avenging their family’s death by gassing.  They pulled guns and soon the senior members of the families were caught cursing and pistol-whipping each other.

They were so despondent that they began attacking anyone in sight.  For that reason, I sought to keep a low profile and went about sneaking from one place to the next whilst trying to stay out of harm’s way.

As they made for each other, I made it outdoors where it was nighttime.  Of all people, Gabriela Denmann was there.  Augustus said at the time that he hated her guts; this whilst I was waiting for a bus to show up.

I thought it weird that he should have said such a thing.  Down the road from off to the left, down an incline, was what proved a truly mobile automaton.  The transport was not operated by humans and could carry a few persons at a time.  If you like, it was a taxi.

Driving past, it was empty and did not stop for us.  Somehow, I had assumed that it would have sensed us and therefore would have stopped.  All that I wanted was to get myself out of this freakish place.  The vibrations in this place were way too negative.

When the family relations who were in hot pursuit of me began coming from the building, I decided to flee from the bus stop.  I made it out to the woods, which were dense, and to the right when looking at the schoolhouse.

The Moon was brightly shining.  Drinking in the light, I simply flew away.  I had not even had to think of willing myself to fly, it had simply happened.  I simply couldn’t afford to be in the line of their gunfire.  Nor did I want to be seeing any bloodshed.

The trees were all very lushly tropical with lots of palm trees among them.  Flying to the right of the paved road, I was also not above the treetops.  Rather, I hung in amongst their crowns and snaked my way in and out of the network of branches as I flew by.

Here, it was effortless to have flown through the trees.  There were even times when I would simply fly through the branches unobstructed by their being there.  As though they were made of a different molecular structure, as their waking state counterparts, thus they did not prove impassable.

I was, of course, simply shifting my vibration so as to allow me to become momentarily one with their vibration and thereby allow me to pass through them unencumbered.

On one occasion, I moved through the most beautiful mango tree; this had filled me with pleasurable memories of the mango tree that I had planted during childhood in St. Kitts.  The memory-filled experience was truly grounding.

As I flew on, I caught sight of the full Moon which was up ahead against the blackened sky.  The Moon here was very yellow-tangerine-coloured.  There were hues too of eggshell-white to it.

This was the most glorious soulful sight imaginable.  If already I had not been in flight, by now, I would have done so.  The Moon was now close to the horizon which made it take on those orange-going-fast-into-harvest-reds tones.

What was truly bizarre, though, was the fact that Penina da Braga began pleading with Harella da Braga to let her have some stocks.  Harella refused saying that Penina was way too irresponsible and had no one to blame for her financial woes.

At that point, as I listened to their banter, the Moon began shifting shape and became truly like a Salvador Dali creation.  As it got closer to the horizon, the Moon appeared to be melting away and became as if a limp piece of paper that was flying in the air.

As would a piece of paper, falling to the ground, the transformed Moon appeared to be flying back and forth in a rocking manner.  A truly displacing state of affairs this would prove.  If intended, it thankfully did not though have a hypnotic effect.

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Next, in this the fourth dream, I was flying in this large salon and just below the ceiling.  The walls were the same colour as the setting Moon had been just recently in the prior dream; at least, before it began shapeshifting and causing me to understandably feel some degree of displacement.

Yellow-orange, it was a beautiful tranquil tone of paint.  Exceptionally high-ceilinged, the ceiling was white.  Though not stucco, it had relief on it; patterns were set in the very thick layer of stonework.  The workmanship in the ceiling was quite beautiful.

Flying on, I could see that up ahead was a door which stood a bit to the left.  I knew that this door was one through which I could fly into the next room.  That room appeared fairly dark.  As I flew, I kept on rising higher in the room.

My progression here, unlike in the prior dream, was truly slow and leviathan.  As I progressed with my back to the ceiling, my head was held at seventy degrees to my toes.  Not quite fully upright, I was though still up vertically rather than progressing horizontally.

A truly beautiful feeling it was.  At the time, I wondered to myself why not simply fly through the ceiling which really seemed to be a dense layer of clouds.  The look was reminiscent of wintry clouds through which one passes, on descending, to land in a plane.

Though there were definite patterns in it, like the aforementioned wintry clouds, the ceiling had a cottony look to it.  For being so close to the ceiling, I couldn’t get a good overview of their design and so was kept ignorant of what exactly the overall look was.  Courageously, I decided to fly through the ceiling.

With that, down to the third eye chakra, my head slowly began penetrating the ceiling.  Here again, I was actively willing my molecular integrity to shift; thus I could vibrationally become one with the ceiling’s frequency and thereby pass through it unhindered.

There was no escaping the fact that the ceiling was a solid entity.  The ceiling was, in fact, quite dense a medium.  I felt as though my head were a diamond-bladed saw cutting through a dense slab of granite.  My focus here was quite intense…

At the point of penetrating to the third eye, I became cautious wondering as to what exactly I would end up seeing once on the other side of the ceiling.

Should I be so bold as to hazard the transition to the other side?  What, indeed, if I didn’t quite like what I encountered there?  Would I be trapped for being there and grow fearful in a potentially hostile situation?  How would I know to get back out of there, once caught in a vortex of fear, if the adventure were to prove hostile in anyway?

With that, my thoughts became so dense, I was simply dropped back down from the ceiling.  My focus had become diverted by negative thoughts; thus, this prevented me from being able to complete my vibrational shift.  The whole thing, to say the least, was interesting.

So again, I collected my energies and attempted to move through the density of the ceiling again.  Alas this time, I did not pull it off.  Sensing that I was only going to strike my head against the ceiling, I righted myself into a more horizontal position and flew off.

I was still fairly high up from the floor.  Somewhat disappointed that I had not broken through to the other side, I flew on making for the door that led to the darkened room.

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Can’t say that I had flown through the door into the darkened room but next, in this the fifth dream, I found myself outside whilst still in flight.  I was going along this wonderful wide road which had these colossal tropical trees that completely overhung the wide boulevard.

There were flamboyas and banyan trees, even Ficus Benjamina trees that were truly stellar in stature and beauty.  All had immensely thick trunks on them.  Arboreal masters all they were.  I was being energised and my thoughts cleansed for being in the sphere of their pure loving energies.

As I flew along, there was an embankment to the left which was three feet from the road.  The trees were next to the road with houses up on the embankments.  The houses were set way back from the edge of the embankments and on large lots that were truly estate-like.  Here too, it was also nighttime.

This was a very astral-planed experience – all these dreams.  Rather than above their crowns, I flew within the crowns of the massive trees.  I had been directly flying above the centre of the wide road; yet, the sprawling branches had splayed out enmeshing me in their friendly embrace with one another.

In this way, as I would have preferred, I could remain unobserved from the ground.  My flight here was measured, deliberately slowed down, so as to allow me to drink of the beauty of these arboreal giants’ energies.

Stopping on one of the branches, I rested reclining in the same horizontal position as when in flight.  At that point, an old Black man came out whilst I had been looking ahead of me at a Black woman.

As if she was a witch, she wore nothing but black garments.  Soon, she was joined by a woman who came from my rear.  The latter was White; both of them very stout women, though, they were not in the manner of the subjects of a Fernando Botero creation.

She wore a silver outfit which was again a long gown; again, it was the same design as the Black woman’s.  They were clearly familiar with one another.  Both had these twigs in their hands that were unusually crooked.

They were shaped as if a frozen, now fossilised, bolt of lightning.  On meeting, they embraced each other and laughed a very full-breathed earthy laugh – think Whoopi Goldberg here of the nature of their laughter.  They were so real and raucous.

Talking, they began dancing around and doing these gestures and movements that were all quite ritualised and seemingly of an occult nature.  Whilst they danced, the old Black man had appeared from off to my left and up on the embankment.

Neither women had been up on the embankment; they met on the road and stayed there.  The man was dressed in a pair of easy slacks, a short-sleeved loose shirt and a hat.  He was a very West Indian-looking chap and he looked every bit the Nevisian.

A real countryman as the old folks in St. Kitts-Nevis would say.  Ancient beyond belief, he was genuinely the real article.  He was an old soul and immediately reminded me of Jacques Blanc.  His demeanour was so gloriously at peace.

He had a sweet easy smile that made him look the most gloriously vulnerable.  I found it was hard to believe that any human being could be born into the waking state and progress to such an old age and remain uncorrupted as that smile of his indicated.

The greatest of energies were his.  On seeing them, he soon grew fearful of them.  He became concerned – assuming, I suppose, that they were witches and could do him much harm.

Things only got worse because he had actually seen me before, as I flew down the street, in amongst the treetops.  Looking up off to his right, as he walked past, he noticed me again.

On seeing me, he became startled so I began flying away; I did not care to disturb this mellow soul.  Though I must say, I did so think it strange that he should find my being in flight an oddity – especially for being here in the dreamtime.

Slowly, I began flying away towards and above the two women up ahead who still remained below on the street.  Seeing me in flight only made him upset because this, to his way of thinking, only validated his fears that this was something sinister.

Clearly, I had to fast rethink my assessment of this one being an old soul.  Basically, things were rapidly changing about him and for someone so ancient it was all a bit too displacing for him to absorb.  He was, sadly enough, left disturbed and fearful.

I was convinced that I was not sporting two or more heads here!

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After having flown ahead of the two women who seemed to be female archetypes of the magi, in this the sixth dream, I arrived at my next dream experience where here it was daytime out.

To the left of the same road, along which I had been flying, I saw an estate just prior to a fort on a high hill.  At this juncture, there were no longer any tall, majestic tropical trees looming over the same road.

Though I was fairly certain that it wasn’t, the fort reminded me much of Brimstone Hill in St. Kitts.  The estate was not unlike one of the ones, from the days of slavery, from which plantations were operated.

Going up past the embankment from the road, I went into the grounds of the estate.  The main house was a conical-roofed château, not unlike the château at Vallière, but it was not particularly French.

The building had such smooth gorgeous curves to its lines; an architectural gem, to be sure, it was.  Though slightly Bavarian in look, it was however very much so a French château.  However, the roof was made of stone and green and not painted blue in the French tradition like at Vallière or Chenonceau.

Centuries old, it was green because of a dense growth of moss covering the copper roofing.  Low lying, it was nonetheless a very heavy-looking imposing building.

Walking up from the main road, I had alighted by this point, there were some steps that took you up to the next level beyond the embankment.  There, one encountered another road and this one not as wide; this road was the one along which I went and it took one into the grounds of the estate.

Facing out to the right, the house was to the left.  Beyond that, there was a low fence and after which was a large road.  There were uniformed Black men who stood about talking whilst guarding the house.  They wore fur-covered hats which were like those of the British honour guardsmen’s.

I knew that this was the residence of the Lieutenant-Governor, the monarch’s representative.  Their uniforms were a grey-brown colour and rather beautiful material which was styled in a splendid design.

Colourful, they were rather original.  The scene here was distinctively tropical and sunny as all hell.  There was movement about the grounds as the score of gardeners and labourers worked the land.

The lowness of the structure did remind me of those low thatched-roofed houses in England which were current during Elizabethan times.  This, however, was extremely large.

Then, I noticed an old White male who was speaking to the others and giving them directions.  He seemed, perhaps, the lord of the manner.  On closer inspection, and without moving, I was able to zoom his face in to a tight close-up at will.

Seeing his right profile, in amongst his long, white flowing hair, he was liver-spotted and had a large broad-nostrilled nose.  There and then, I realised that he was a mix of all the races of this planet.

This was obviously a composite of all the lives that he had lived to date being borne out in his facial structure.  He was however predominantly Black and, at that, an exceptionally fair-skinned Black man.

Definitely, it was not a case of his being a White male with a deep permanent tan after having lived in the tropics for decades.  With that, I took to the air again and flew over the low level stone wall which was white stonewash; this was exactly the same schemata as the house’s walls.

In order to clear the wall, I had had to fly off to the right and went away from the mansion and the estate’s driveway.  I saw there another road along which came William Herbert, the Kittisian politician, in a Hummer jeep.

He looked older as he does at present.  He drove alone in the vehicle.  His spirits were boisterous; a grin on his ruggedly handsome face as dust flew when he made a hard left turn.  With that, he disappeared up a winding road which went up into the fort.

The road was about fifty feet away from the end of the road, which bleeds into the main road, along which I had initially flown up to the estate.  Going along the road, I kept aloft and surveyed the strange but eerily beautiful terrain.  Here, I was flying uncharacteristically low to the ground.

Eventually, I alighted yet again and joined the local teenagers who were all very West Indian-sensibilitied.  They were thankfully not the least bit fazed by my flying.

Here, there were a few old-souled-looking sprawling trees.  There were banyans and flamboyas here too.  This was such an august-spirited place whose energies were truly intense.

Meanwhile, persons were looking on at me. The children here were so august-souled with eyes that were so dynamically grounded, potent and lived in; their eyes were truly ensouled.  A very astral plane experience this was.

I would then leave with Fitzrene Wellington-Banks, Pia Banks-Abella’s mother, in an open vehicle.  I had wanted to go further up the road but the kids being in the middle of the street were as if a telepathic directive to me to not advance any further.

One had the sense that their opinion was that to have ventured any further would be on the order of prying.  So very good it was to see Fitzrene Wellington-Banks who was so incredibly solid and grounded.  Her manner was open, friendly and thoroughly genuine.

So utterly refreshing a state of affairs to be relating to persons without there being any façade or maya.  Fitzrene made very intent, direct and lingering eye contact.  I could actually feel her soul each time that she looked at me.  Truly, it was breathtakingly intimate and arrestingly sublime a beautiful experience.

As we were coming on to the village, we were stopped by road work that seemed not to have been construction-related.  Perhaps, there had been an accident or some such; I couldn’t though quite figure out what was up.  The disturbance was considerably up ahead of us at the time which left us slowed to a crawl.

To the right of the road, as we inched by, I noticed two low-lying, yellow clinic buildings; they were much like the ones at Sandy Point, St. Kitts next to Fitzrene’s apartments at Lara Wellington’s compound.  These clinics, however, had wide ramps in front of them which enabled wheelchair access.

The yellow was a dark rich tone and were not unlike the yellows of the Salvador Dali-like Moon and the walls of the salon through whose ceiling I had attempted to pass.

At that, we saw William Herbert’s very stout son leave the fort; he was in the vehicle that his father had recently been driving.  This young man was energetic, sexually dynamic and light-complected.  His hair was thick, black and curly.

His stoutness reminded me of the local, White Kittisian playboy, Ian Kelsick who was so fond of red motorcycles and who it would seem does have nine lives. A lot of Martial energies here infused this man’s body.

Now, I was returned to the other village from which I had come; earlier, of course, I had been up the tree looking on at the two women enjoying themselves.  Though considerably further along by now, I was on the same side of the road as the château-like mansion.

Beyond the clinics, William Herbert’s daughter was working and wore a light green smock.  Young, she was unbelievably pretty.  She worked with a blond who was very tiny and slight a man.

They were putting sulfur on the globs of blood which had trailed from the street to the clinic.  Apparently, a woman had gone into labour, her water having broken, and left a bit of a mess en route to the clinic.

The blond guy wore a very pointy helmet that looked very Thai.  He looked strange for being covered, as was she, with a lot of loose sulfurous dust.  Next to his blondness, it made him look most strange.

His lashes were already incredibly blond.  This gave him a decidedly extra-human quality.  This man did so have a cool, murderous edge to him.  What with the fine dust of sulfur covering his skin, he didn’t seem human in the slightest.

He had an abundance of Saturn close to his ascendant.  He couldn’t have been any more than 15 or 16 years of age, yet, he was already a right proper stern man of great fixity.

This man’s energies were truly unsettling.  They were bristly for me and reminded me much of the blondness of those kids with whom I would have a very traumatic experience, in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, in the summer of 1969.

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Next, in this the seventh dream, I saw the performer, Tony Orlando onstage looking very stout to the point of being unhealthy.  At the time, he was introduced by fellow performer and the very sexy, Lionel Richie – a man whom Merlin found so devastatingly sexy.

Tony Orlando wore a wonderful white suit standing way upstage whilst waiting to do a duet with Lionel Richie.  There was a cheesy-looking, shimmering green-looking, festive curtain in back of the performer.

Lionel Richie came onstage from upstage left.  Tony Orlando gingerly bantered whilst waiting for the star to come on.  Lionel Richie came on looking very haggard, fatigued and indeed very grim-looking.

One was made to feel terribly uneasy to look at him.  Lionel was very ill, looking very ill, as though in the later stages of AIDS.  I was acutely uncomfortable.

This was made even more obvious when he stood next to the very plump Tony Orlando who was all shellacked, pulled back and looking as though he had been oozed into his skin; he was all body fat which gave him that smooth flawless-skinned look.

This was simply bad theatre and you just know I had no time for the macabre.  With that, I got to my feet and took my leave of the experience altogether.

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I got home, in this the eighth dream, to find Isha da Braga cleaning up the apartment.  She was being very confrontational fast getting on my every which nerve.

Meanwhile, I went to the fridge to get something on which to snack.  There, I saw lots of soups and meals that I had made that were stored; they were for consumption later in the week.

Isha was so disputatious and her energies so unevolved that I said to myself that I no longer wanted to be around this woman and her bullshit.  I didn’t in the least want to be there.

So with that, I went outside to call Pandora da Braga about whom I have been concerned of

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I rode an elevator up to a twentieth storey apartment, in this the ninth dream, where I was joined by a giggly, young flight attendant.  He wore blue and hailed from the West Indies.

I had been there because I was quite attracted to this woman and wanted to get it on with her.  We then went off to the balcony where I fondled her.

Soon, she laid down on her right side whilst curled up in a near-foetal position.  She shivered growing moist and would eventually cum several times.  As she came, she called out my name and left me very much so excited.

Due to her position, I was able to crouch down and slip into her wet warm pussy and made it all mine.  I loved the strong sweet smell of her.  Excitedly, I began fucking her at which point the dream became lucid and phenomenally real.

I could even hear my heart cantering away as I intensely hammered away at her.  She wore a light blue fabric which I had shoved up over her shoulders – to get a good look at her gorgeous body.

The passion was strong; the silken slipperiness of her so real that, as she came calling out my name, I exploded uncontrollably cumming simultaneously with her.

This was so intense and real that I found myself fully awake and sporting a very moist hard-on.

*To say the least, on awakening, after having audio-cassette-recorded the dreams, I got about the business of auto-erotically celebrating being a phenomenally alive and beautiful incarnate soul.  She was a stunning redhead who proved very alive and passionate.  END.

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Photo: Singer, Florence Welch

© 2014 Annie Leibovitz for American Vogue.

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

Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

A masked ball

These rather lucid astral-projected dreams occurred whilst Merlin was still then incarnate in summer of 1989. 

I have come to realise that many of the dreams that have to do with being astral-projected to past or future lives often occur when the Moon transits cancer.  For whatever reasons, this seems to be a strong likelihood in my experience. 

I really don’t think that it matters much over which house my Cancer rules.  Rather, it seems more telling that ruler of Cancer, the Moon, is in my case found in the seventh house. 

Too, it should be noted that though much of my second house is dominated by Cancerian energies, Gemini sits on the second house cusp with the cusp of my third house being 20º of Cancer. 

Truth be told, they were rather insightful dreams to have experienced.  As such, these dreams occurred on Sunday, June 4, 1989 whilst Merlin was then incarnate. 

Too, at the time, the Moon magically transited both Gemini and my first house wherein my Mars sits nicely conjunct the ascendant.  This placement of Mars – along with its grand mutable square associations to Luna, Pluto and Chiron, tends to have me attract persons of less evolved spirituality who are ever ready to project their base emotions my way. 

Of course, it goes without saying that I am always unwavering in deflecting that dense energy with lightning shamanic speed.  Keep your dreck away from my aura! 

More than that, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on audio tapes nine through ten and are to be found in the as-yet published Volume II of the dream opus.  Sweet dreams as ever and as has been recently observed – nothing says wretched existence like bipedal canines who fixate on their quadripedal kin. 

One can only hope that most of these otiose overbred castoff humans do not eventually breed.  What do they know of either art or dreams the lot?  

*I am reposting these dreams as subsequent to having shared them in July 2015, I have since had the Michael Overleaves charted for two of the persons featured in these dreams.  To that end, at each dream’s conclusion the Michael Overleaves for the applicable person will be shared.  As ever, I am most grateful for your ongoing and burgeoning support.  Sweet dreams and don’t forget to indulge your shamanic skills: shapeshifting, manifesting one’s aura, rendering oneself invisible, walking through walls and, of course, pushing off and starting to fly!    

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A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

In this the first dream, I saw Nicole McHugh.  She was cooking with a White man in a kitchen.

He was standing around and was quite friendly so offered to help out, that sort of thing, out of the goodness of his heart.  She had these large trays of food.

She was cooking a great deal of food for a great many people.  The flame was an open blue-white one and, somehow, he put his hand over the flame to pull out a tray – yet it did not burn him at all.

He did not react to it.  I thought that he must have been cooking for quite some time, and been accustomed to these flames, to have had the flames not burn him at all.

He did go off and he had a glass of water – some of which he drank.  I went over and I thought of saying to her and did, “Would you like a spritzer or something?”

She did, in fact, say, “Yeah, that would be nice.”  She had sweat on her brow because she had been working very hard.

I then went outside to look in my locker because I did, in fact, have a locker there.  In an earlier scene, I had put some stuff in said locker.

There were some washing machines – tiny, tiny washing machines.  This place resembled a dormitory in the basement area of a co-op or building where people lived.

I was somewhat upset because my locker had, somehow, been displaced and replaced by washing machines.  They were tiny, little brownish washing machines.

I had opened the lockers just to see if maybe my lunch was inside them where, in fact, it should have been – inside the fridge.  There was, however, nothing inside the lockers.

There were one or two other lockers at the end but mine was more or less in the left of centre.  There, in place of my locker, was where the washing machines now were.

Nothing was removed except the one locker.  I did open it and it wasn’t mine.

Inside were the contents of somebody who reminded me of that Black guy who worked part time at Nature’s Own.  Tall, handsome; his mother had nicely positioned him into the company.

I then went off to get the stuff when I saw a man who seemed to be Bert Jacques but it wasn’t him.  He was walking a little girl who was one of Madella Jacques, rather, Maryse Jacques’s daughter.

She was a sweet little girl who was wearing a blue dress.  She was quite light-skinned and sunny.

He was walking her outside and coming across the bridge past our yard in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I was in the yard and where the orange tree was under the genip tree, in the waking state, I was putting monies into a slot.

I remember taking money out of my pocket to put in – 50¢, I had had two quarters.  I noticed that there was a token as I took the money from my right pocket.

When I saw the token mixed with the money I thought, ‘Oh I must be aware not to do this.’  I then got the dime and I was trying to put it into the slot but it was having problems going in.

As a result, I moved away the metal part of the slot.  Interestingly enough, you could then see the tree.

I then put in the coin but you still did not hear it fall inside with the rest of the money.  I then peeped up because the slot was higher than my field of view – higher than eye level.

As a result, I had had to poke the money in; it was a dime.  However, it was sort of flat on its side; it was standing up so that the face of the coin was looking out at you.

I was poking it in to help it to fall in.  At this point, whilst I was on the veranda of the house, I was aware that Nicole McHugh was coming down the lane.

I had been looking into the garden where the curtain trees were on the south side of the property.  Here in the dreamtime, however, the curtain trees were gone.

In their place were three or four little baby curtain trees coming up.  The rest of the land was dug up and it hadn’t been watered.

The soil was drying out and so I said to myself that I would have to water it.  I thought I would have to go inside and get some seeds or plant some wonderful little flowers that were going to bloom.

Until the curtain trees grew up, I figured that they would add beauty to the place.  So on remembering, I said to Nicole, “Oh yes, let me get you the spritzer.”

So I went and I got her the spritzer.  She came and was then going in the house.

A lady then came out of their house and there was some sort of consternation.  As it turned out, a White woman had a little terrier-like dog.

The dog had a black collar and the same fur as a Calico cat.  This had been Nicole’s cat which the dog had obviously bitten up or eaten it up or whatever.

So there was quite a great deal of consternation.  Nicole was standing up outside a wooden half-dilapidated house.

On the far right side, there was a cement staircase much like the arrangement at The Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  That part of the house, the cement part, was also crumbling.

Vida McHugh was there with Nicole and someone else – a little girl.  The girl who had had the terrier was being rude.

She was cursing and saying, “Watch yourself wid me.”  She had wanted to get in the door, from out on the landing, but the McHughs were in the way.

So she cursed and carried on.  Eventually, she ended up rushing her way into the house.

Then I immediately was on the inside of the house where I watched this drama unfold.  The events were as if an Opera and I said to myself, ‘My goodness this is Opera.’

Truly, this was much as if Opera.  Then persons were coming in and there was movement – people coming down and pointing their feet.

They had on wooden toe shoes.  As the movement progressed, there was advancement then retreat.

There were different forces of people.  Like a ballet really, it was all being done in silence.

They had on long period costumes.  The dramatisation was interesting.

Next, there was a sense of seeing the same woman, and everybody else, being extremely studious.  The one woman was in a large area that had stained bronzed, clay-coloured, sand-coloured glass.

She was in the pews with the man who had been helping Nicole earlier.  This was set in a large area and she was studiously reading the Bible.

She did take the Bible to be the literal word of god.  Everybody else was more or less of that bent – I thought that it was so sad.

At this point, I was struck by the fact that this was where the Christ was going to be reborn.  London, England, in fact, was where this was going on.

At this particular point, Diego Lunamas was about because there had been lines of people who were in the balletic part of the opera.  Diego had been one of them.

At the time, he was sitting down on a set and it was lit by blue light.  He was being grilled by this asinine White guy who was talking about, “Well if you believe in oversoul 7, then you also believe in overbigtoe 7, and what about oversole 8, and overhead 7?”

He was making fun of the philosophical concepts by way of the anatomy because oversoul could have been spelt, as though ‘sole,’ as in the sole of your foot.  He was really stupid.

Diego was saying, “I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.”  On Diego’s behalf I interjected saying, “Through my experience, I’ve read the Seth Material which I find far more well put together an idea construct.”

At this point Seth did, in fact, come through and began channelling.  His voice was booming and it shook the entire place to the beams.

This was happening outside in the street between the McHughs’ and our houses in Crab Hill, Sandy Point.  A stage had been set up in the street – a bluish-white lit stage.

I thought about Diego and the guy who, was in front of him, wore a blue-white costume.  The booming voice was coming from behind the McHughs’ house.

Everybody was absolutely scared because here were these god-fearing, fear-obsessed people.  Totally dismissing them, this was a booming voice which claimed to be Seth; the channelled voice then began calling them fools.

They were very fearful.  I thought that it was absolutely great.

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Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from 'Les Orientales' by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo)
CHT163698 Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from ‘Les Orientales’ by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo) by French Photographer.

In the second dream, I was in a wooden dance studio.  The floor was wet because, in place of resin, they used water.

I had a sense that it was in the past, however, I seemed to be my present self.  Even so, there were aspects of me that were different.

I remember the way that I postured and used my face; I knew that I had very Caucasian features.  I could see the tip of my nose and yet I felt like I do now.

*I was not so much Caucasian-featured, if there’s actually such a thing – frankly there isn’t.  I was, though my present self, actually Caucasian.

I was present in the exact same body and I was my usual-personaed self.  However, the body was no longer Black but White.

The packaging had changed but nothing else had.  END.

Ahead of me was a guy in black trousers – nylon stretch trousers.  He was, in fact, the reincarnation of Vaslav Nijinsky and again male.

Again, he had very mercurial energies and he was a mover.  He had exceptionally large thighs.

He could phenomenally jump and leap about.  He was just incredible.

When at the barre, I was directly behind him and then just behind me was Pandora.  Although, truth be told, it wasn’t Pandora herself but an aspect of Pandora’s.

I never really had made eye contact with Pandora.  I remember after we had finished the barre, Nijinsky went and laid down on his stomach – in the frog position to work on his turnout.

The girls then went and they were feeling his muscle tone because it was quite unusual-looking.  His feet were so pliant and flexible as well as his calf muscles.

He had eventually turned over because Dannie Cyrta, who was one of the instructors at the head of the class, was saying, “Guys, just leave him alone.”

When we were then doing the grands battements, I remember being really elongated and holding my port de bras.  You had to do it turned out, doing grand battements, turned out to the front.

You had to do it out, towards the centre of the room.  Also, then in second position, you were facing directly ahead of you.  When doing grand battement en arrière, you did it out again.

The arm positions were up and in second position.  When you did grand battements en arrière, you would put your arms up again as though you were peeping under your arm – when you were in arabesque doing the grands battements.

I remember before I was doing the exercise, whilst I was doing the current exercise, I was thinking of how I would do the position and how I had to use my port de bras.  So I remember standing there in développé and you had to do these grands battements in plié and, somehow, I was in plié and I was holding my back up in port de bras.

My back was absolutely perfect; my port de bras and torso were perfectly open and I wasn’t sticking out my chest.  I was thinking, ‘This is so improved.’

I remember my neck being quite elongated, with head held high, as a result.  I was wearing a navy blue woollen set of tights and white dance slippers.

My feet were beautifully pointed.  There was a sense of looking up.

Interestingly, my whole sense of self – attitude and posture was all about looking down my nose.  This was when I realised that there was something about me that was Caucasian – physiologically.

*There was a half-mirror across the room and I was never at the front – the girls, of course, of custom were.  That was when I looked and found myself, I was indeed Caucasian more Tartar than not – dark-haired.

I had a strong sense, for looking at myself in close-up without moving, that my eyes were smoky-green-coloured.  My nose though aquiline was flared in the Tartar style and my teeth were gap-toothed.

This is not uncommon a feature when someone is currently Caucasian but was Black in their immediate past life – in fact, I was told by Sarah J. Chambers that it is always the case without exception as she was instructed by the Michaels.

Case in point, Madonna Ciccone, the Pop icon, who in her immediate past life was Black American entertainer, Bessie Smith – she has the same gruff raunchy persona.  Prior to that, though not immediately before that life, her soul was then incarnate as Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

Vis-à-vis Madonna, her life is a completion of the agendum she set out to accomplish, in her immediate past life.  She thought that it sucked being Black and a woman in showbiz.

However, her immediate past life did give her an understanding of the way the world works.  So she decided to take the world by the balls, a ‘give-me-what’s-mine’ approach, as it were, this time around.

Madonna, as per her immediate past life has the same talent, same drive, “Now give me what’s rightfully mine!” Power to her!  END.

Dannie Cyrta was, unusually so, very nice to me.  She was saying, “Yes, yes Arvin.  This is perfect and is much improved.

“Everybody look at Arvin because this is the way it should be.  This is as close to perfect, as you can get, in the way your torso ought to be.”

*Imagine that – the Mormon princess, Dannie Cyrta, being remotely civil towards me.  She even feigned to pretend that I was not a strongly projecting phantom as she treated me back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s School.  END.

I remember the Nijinsky-like character, coming off the barre to look at me.  The other people who were behind me were peeping around to look at me.

I felt very open and joyous.  Mine was a really good, good feeling.

When we were doing the exercise and I was holding my torso, Dannie Cyrta and the rest of the people were discussing and saying, “This time he’s really ready to go out and perform and he’ll be okay.”

I felt that way too and I knew that I was going to be okay when I went out and performed.  My body was quite together.

I was prepared within myself to face an audience.  I felt really good for being in the studio.

*Dannie Cyrta’s energies were extremely unusual and contrary to what they were during Winnipeg days.  I felt there was a good feeling in this class.

What was really sad, though, was that Dannie’s behaviour had much to do with the fact that I was not Black but Caucasian.  In that sense, she truly was ‘the blind’ because she still did not realise that it was me.

To her, it was someone named Arvin but more importantly it was someone who was White.  More than that, Vaslav Nijinsky is a mature sage entity mate of Merlin’s and mine.  END.

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A green-eyed tartar

In this the fifth dream, I saw a beautiful hairless White boy who seemed Tartan.  He was dark and handsome.

He also seemed to be a mélange of White, East Indian, Oriental and Black.  He could well have been one or any of all those ethnicities because he actually had a bronze or even Hispanic look.

He had a bronzed hue to him.  He was not however, for being so hued, extra-human.

Such that he seemed somewhat High-Yellow, he had taut smooth skin.  He was extremely good-looking.

He seemed like a male prostitute or a gigolo.  He was half-naked and teasingly aroused.

I was quite attracted to him.  I made a play for him.

He seemed to be in the lane up by ‘Aunt’ Edith Dean, outside by Beryl Babbin’s wall, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I made a play for him but he dismissively brushed me off.

He then moved off and went along his way.  I felt quite rejected and naked really.

Afterwards, I was thinking that perhaps I should not have made a play for this person.  Nonetheless, I had and I was not fulfilled in my desires.

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

*What’s really interesting, too, is that he was basically a younger version of the Tartar, green-eyed, ‘Arvin’.  So, in essence, though in the body during the dance class, I would see myself at a younger age.

At that time, however, I was outside of my younger-future-self’s body.  I was resoundingly rejected by him – that is precisely what I would have done at that age.

Later on, of course, I was taking class with the reincarnated, Vaslav Nijinsky.  A class it was which was being taught by Dannie Cyrta.

I shudder to think that in my next life, I will be a male prostitute, gigolo.  Then again, it would not have been the first life passed in the much-maligned profession of providing succor to the sexually-repressed and the sexually-obsessed.

Long after this dream, I have since learnt that my essence twin is now reincarnated.  He is male and was born during the second decade of the new millennium.

He is born to German, Japanese parents and lives in Germany.  Our overleaves are quite similar though he is a realist.

They are, in fact, rather writerly overleaves.  Too, one or both of his parents are artists; I believe that the mother has been a dancer and the father a portrait painter.

Perhaps, I was picking up on him in this dream.  If not, it may well be me in a near-future incarnation.

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Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

Sandy Point, St. Kitts seen from Brimstone Hill Fortress.

Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.

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

Miles Ahead!

Miles Davis 2

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Miles Davis

Davis III, Miles Dewey 26/5/26 <0> 28/9/91

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I am so looking forward to the opening of Don Cheadle’s Miles Ahead this week.  i think of any other Jazz artist, Miles is the only one whose every album, on listening to it, I conclude is a favourite.  This creative genius just oozed authenticity.  Of course, a major part of his outréness and originality had to do with his having been an actual old soul.

I have always been partial to him as he was briefly married to Cicely Tyson who was a maternal first cousin of my late mother’s who in her youth did play the cornet.  Of course, Cicely Tyson, who is still going strong and currently starring on Broadway, is an entity mate of Miles Davis’.

My creatively gifted mother whose songs are published in the hymnal of the now Wesleyan Church was a remarkable woman who was pure intellect and a source of fierce pride.  She whose paternal grandparents were Sephardi from the small Brazilian community which settled in Nevis.   Indeed, she who is now reincarnated in London, England, male and first-born and about whom I have dreamt – East Indian/Caucasian heritage in this lifetime and currently aged 13 years old.

Sadly, none of my dream encounters with Miles Davis were ever audiocassette-recorded as they were never had during the decade when I did so – 1989 to 1998.  Each of those dream encounters did, though, validate his agedness of spirit and he seemed every bit an old soul during astral plane encounters.

In anticipation of this long overdue film – imagine that, the paucity of Jazz biopics when so clearly Jazz is rooted in Klezmer!  More than that, on to the matter of saluting a true original, a true creative genius and a giant of Black high art.

*Sadly, I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to track down the title of the Miles Davis painting herein featured; alas, to no avail have I managed to have discovered its title et al.

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Birth of the Cool, 1957.

Kind of Blue 1959.

– This is the music (Kind of Blue) I am mostly likely to listen to, after having audiocassette-recorded the dreams, on awaking from a flying dream.  This music is about finding centre whilst simultaneously remaining aloft in the realms of the flying dream.  As West Indians would say, it’s sweet!

Milestones, 1958.

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