In Celebration of Merlin!

19.11.201602.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Photo Credit: Merlin 1970s in Montréal

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

Spa Ovarium at Beaubien & St. Denis in Montréal

Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal

Paloma Picasso Gelatin Silver Print 1980 Robert Mapplethorpe

Ken Moody & Robert Sherman 1984 Robert Mapplethorpe

Louise Nevelson Gelatin Silver Print 1990 Robert Mapplethorpe

Gong 96 Acrylic on Canvas 1966 Claude Tousignant

Piccadilly Circus, London, England

London Plane Trees in Paris, France

Oleta Adams – singer

Black cat domestic short hair

Headscarf and sareed Indian beauty.

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Merlin.

17.11.201406.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Merlin.

July 21, 1947 <O> November 18, 1989

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I could never have imagined surviving Merlin by 25 years. More than that, I could never have fathomed how immensely enriched I would grow for having known and loved Merlin. Certainly, I would never have imagined that our relationship would continue, merely otherly focussed, beyond his passing. However, as many dreams herein have attested that we most definitely did and have.

I offer the links to three dreams had after Merlin’s passing – all of which are to be found in the ‘Dreams of Merlin’ category. The first dream occurred as Merlin passed, the other two dreams three and four years after his passing. Do enjoy and I trust that for your own loved ones, these dreams will inspire you to remain open and focussed on being attuned and ever in love with loved ones when they transition to merely being at a different vibration as astral plane habitués.

Incidentally, Merlin was reincarnated on December 2, 2006 as a first level old scholar in an old soul northern European country’s capital city. Merlin’s soul has chosen in this lifetime to be female and yes, I have dreamt of this beautiful-eyed young woman. Love ever endures.

These dreams, without a doubt, attest to Merlin and I having shared a most remarkable love affair. All is choice. Sweet dreams and love you and your loved ones even more!

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Photo: Merlin 1977 in Montréal.

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Remembering Merlin.

17.11.201313.11.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Merlin passed 24 years ago on November 18, 1989.

As a celebration of Merlin’s inordinately ennobled life, I have created a new category entitled: Dreams of Merlin. The dreams in that category centrally feature Merlin – a most magical elfin fellow.

Merlin and I met, four years after I first dreamt of him, on Friday, October 1, 1982 in New York City.

Merlin was the godson of the actor, Lorne Greene, he loved: parrots, Glenn Gould, J. S. Bach, bandannas, musicals, magic, patchouli, reading several books simultaneously; one of which he concluded each night at bedtime at which point, he would share the book’s contents. Merlin was a great raconteur, a devastatingly funny mimic which most persons who knew him did not know as he only ever engaged this aspect of his persona at bedtime, after reading, he loved cats, wore a cowl whilst smoking weed and conceptualising how to direct a new play and pacing about our home at 20 Amelia Street, Toronto – which alas you can now see on Google street view – incidentally the black wrought iron fencing in the photo was begun by the neighbour at 18 Amelia Street – a fashion designer of note who was a snob and bore who took to sending us registered letters complaining about our ‘wild’ cats using his maple tree as a scratching post. Though Merlin’s registered responses were wickedly funny and penned by Julio, the only male of our four cats, as my bullshit threshold is readily engaged, I went one better and instead of mailing off the fourth registered response from Julio – hysterical though it was – got a five-pound bag of catnip from the Menagerie Pet Store around the Corner on Parliament Street – it is still there – and proceeded to sprinkle it on said snobbish bore’s lawn over several days… as intended, our then three cats and several in the neighbourhood fast-descended on his lawn wigging out, however, sure enough, they began pooping in the garden and on the lawn… soon the sprinkler system of said snobbish bore’s lawn and garden was kept on all hours of the day to ward off this sudden descent of cats to the prized lawn… alas, the sod was eventually replaced and a silly little fence erected, as though that could ever deter cats… of course, over time, the neighbours along the block would get matching black wrought iron fencing because, well, that’s what genteel burghers will do.

Merlin died on his mother’s birthday and she, in turn, would die on the anniversary of the day we met – 22 years after his passing.

Merlin was/is a seven level mature scholar soul; and the life when we were lovers for seven years in fin-de-siècle New York City and Toronto was his sixth life at 7 level mature and our 43rd life together. That high incidence of lives passed together was because Merlin and I were/are Task Companions; it also explains why the dreams shared herein of Merlin and me are possessed of such heightened telepathy, love, communion and lucid realism.

Of course, our disparate races meant that some persons in Merlin’s life thought it unacceptable that Merlin should be with me; indeed, one such person – nothing more than a lost village idiot and a clown to boot – as Merlin privately referred to her – made it her campaign to evict me from Merlin’s life… indeed, those who know nothing of love can act no better and they certainly know nothing of dreams; for dreams are the fruits that a great love affair bears, which is readily validated by the dreams of Merlin and me herein, long after his passing.

Of course, as disparate as Merlin and I may have seemed we were more bonded than was readily discernible. Apart from the essence bond of being task companions – à la Michael Teachings – Merlin and I were also bonded in a way which he had hinted at. It was a year prior to his passing and I had been to my father, Isadore’s, for dinner. On my return home that evening, I brought a copy of a famous family portrait of my mother, Harella, and her family. Merlin was quite taken by my maternal grandfather’s bushy browed, moustachioed handsomeness and declared, “Are you sure about that Portuguese blood? He looks just like a darker version of Yitzhak Shamir.”

Long years after Merlin’s passing and just after Isadore’s, in 2008, I would learn that the Portuguese blood to which my family is connected is by way of both Harella’s paternal grandparents having been of Sephardi heritage, along with her maternal grandmother. Nevis, on which I was born, grew one staple, cotton, during colonial times. That cotton was prized and the Sephardi were a small colony from not Portugal but Brazil. Harella’s paternal grandmother was a Levine though it was mispronounced over time as Lavigne, after all, St. Kitts next-door was both French and English with some French families still present, and the tiny Sephardi community were referred to as the Portuguese. Harella’s paternal grandfather, Claude Sr., was of mixed blood his paternal grandfather having been Sephardi who parented children with a freed slave of African descent… one peculiarity of Nevis – which Canadians are wont to mispronounce as nay-vis or névis it is more appropriately knee-vis – is that it is the only Island in the Caribbean where slaves were allowed to own land and will it to their descendants thus making them freed slaves – odd peculiarity that – and it was a condition of the ‘Portuguese’ electing to relocate there and trade the prized Nevis cotton to both London and New York City. So, Merlin’s suspicions and intuition, as ever, proved spot-on.

Here’s to life. Here’s to lovers. Here’s to Merlin, a lover like no other: magical, charming, witty, sexy as all hell with the largest most hypnotically beautiful eyes, dream shaman, dream companion, über-sapiosexual…

**Since this post was created on the eve of Merlin’s passing’s anniversary in 2013, I have learnt that Merlin’s reincarnated. He was reborn female in a Northern European city on December 2, 2006. Merlin also is living the first lifetime as a first level old soul.

Clearly, Merlin was able to grow from 7th level mature to 1st level old thanks to the spiritual work we undertook as task companions after his passing through the conduit of the dreamtime. All of this is, of course, readily validated by many of the dreams shared in this blog of Merlin and me after his passing.

2/12/2006 = 2.3.2 = 7. Great numerology for the reincarnated Merlin and that twoness – like my current incarnation assures her a life of being creatively focussed and a definite intellectual. Marvellous.

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Photo: Merlin in the 1970s.

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Merlin Shapeshifts.

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So here then a most jarring dream had, on Thursday, January 11, 1990. This truly disturbing dream occurred whilst the Moon transited both my second house and Cancer. Of the ones lived that day, it was the fourth dream recalled.

This dream was had less than two months after Merlin’s passing of AIDS and to have found him in a dream, rather unexpectedly, the revivification of life, health and boisterousness was stunningly jarring an experience. Certainly, when last I had seen him he was within either side of 70lbs.

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I would then be moving on as if going along the main road of The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. There were some persons who were coming out of a large house that was much like Lara Wellesley’s. However, it was white… it was an off-white, whitewashed, large stone house.

Everyone coming out of there was talking and laughing. They were getting ready to go to a church somewhere. They were piling into a minivan that was also white.

I had gone past them. When coming back from Mount Idle, on the east side of the road by the old bank of the ground floor of Eustace Milne’s childhood home, from behind the minivan coming around between it and the bank building was Merlin.

He was wearing his light blue bandana – bought for him by Noëll, when he was in the hospital towards the end of his life. He wore very ordinary clothing like he always did. It was Merlin and he was very healthy.

He saw me at the same time that I saw him.

I was stunned. I stood there catatonic. I did not know what to do, and I thought,

‘What are you doing here?’

I was so happy to see him. I hadn’t dreamt of him in so long. I simply froze in my tracks. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk… I just did not know what to say.

I wanted to scream my way out of being paralysed. There was Merlin the embodiment of renewed vitality, I just couldn’t get over the fact.

He saw me and was momentarily surprised but instinctively he neurotically went into action. Merlin simply began energetically walking and went up these stairs.

I bolted after him after getting over the added shock of his response. I was surprised to see him in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was so surprised to see him up and about.

I got up onto this landing after having lost sight of him. When I got there, on my immediate left was a Chinese woman. She was just on the cusp of her twenties.

She was wearing what Merlin had been wearing except that she had no pants on. It was now a dress and the colour of the bandana… she no longer wore the bandana.

I felt so betrayed by this development. Merlin had camouflaged himself, by shapeshifting, to become a woman. He had shapeshifted becoming another race and another sex.

Merlin knew that I wouldn’t be able to relate to him thus. Transformed, he wasn’t the Merlin with whom I was excited to interact.

Thus he became female, a counterpart of his totality, to create the distance between him and the Arvin that he had known. I did not even look at her/him overlong.

The woman who was in charge of everything, organising the church outing, was not unlike Pannonica Kertész. I said to her, “I came to get Merlin… to get his things, his bandana…”

“Well you can’t. You can’t see him. You have to make a deposit and then you wouldn’t be able to see him until giving the ring deposit back.” or something to that effect.

She had replied very matter-of-factly. It was as though there had been a pact and somebody had reneged or something to that effect. I found it most upsetting.

I was completely flabbergasted.

*Of course, Merlin chose to shapeshift in this dream because he wanted to have some distance between the raw emotionalism of the attachments associated with his just completed life. I thought it interesting that though he had never travelled to the Caribbean of my upbringing, one of the earliest dreams of him on becoming an astral planet habitué found him there and of all places in Sandy Point, St. Kitts – a place he much wanted to visit. END.

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Photo: Chinese model in A-line dress.

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You Cheeky Little Imp!

21.02.201331.01.2026 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

This dream occurred, on Friday, May 1, 1998, whilst I then lived in Montréal. The Moon was in Cancer thereby transiting my second house. It was sheer joy to have encountered Merlin’s playful spirit which was fully engaged as the trickster – the exalted dream shaman.

Once inside the house, I laid low for awhile and then got up to explore. I do know that Pandora da Braga was on an upper level of the dwelling.

A little boy was outside in a stroller. Above all else, there was no way of getting around one fact… this was a supremely intelligent child. White, his hair was sandy-blond.

Naturally, he was regimented into a blue jumpsuit denoting his sex. His legs were fat and there was, of course, the bulkiness of his being diapered.

The back of this boy’s knees were dimpled, fat and very cherubic a body was his. His stroller sat on a paved walkway.

Two or three steps from the house’s landing led to the yard. His back was turned to the yard’s six-foot-high, wooden fence of pale wood that was treated to be weather resistant.

As it had some traces of cyanide in it, the wood had an off-green hue to it. Seated there, his left profile was closer to the house as I looked outside at him.

Whilst I absently worked at something, he inquisitively looked in at me. I held up the bottled water that I had been drinking, extending it out the window, as if to offer him a drink.

He was keenly adept at the art of telepathy but feigned ignorance – as well he ought to have, as someone might have had him dismissed for mad. Goodness knows, it would only take one superstitious adult to then have this young child declared demon-possessed because of his gifts.

Whoever he is, it was quite good to have connected with this august-souled young man. Cocking me a look, he sized me up letting me know that he knew that I was playing games with him that he was not ignorant of.

I was floored by his candour. He was a real cheeky devil who soon managed his way out of his stroller’s harness. Since he was much too young to be walking, knowing that this was the dreamtime, he did the logical thing.

He shapeshifted and suddenly became a cat. Thus, he magically acquired the stealth and agility which his paucity of human age and physical growth denied him. I was blown away for not even I would have thought of such a magus move.

Once transformed, he became a large white cat which came up and quietly snuck into the house. This was the sort of move that could readily have tricked and unhinged a lesser mortal, in this situation, but I was aware that it was him all along.

Turning around, only briefly, I had lost sight of him but caught his drifting tail as he sneaked around a corner. I was not, indeed, going to be hoodwinked.

Roaring aloud, thrilled by the child’s brilliant display of both wit and magus energy, I went chasing after the cat. Like the child that it represented, the cat bolted rushing through the house by going downstairs.

Eventually, it settled on a pile of crates. The crates were off in a far, darkened corner of the basement. Though a large, multiple-roomed house, the basement was not partitioned. It was simply a large open space.

In the form of the water heater, heat and air conditioning systems, the usual signs of normalcy were present. Nothing here could have proven a fire hazard.

Through which the cat could come and go as he pleased, the crates comfortably sat just beneath a tiny basement window. The window proved, in fact, an air duct which was shared with another of the house’s many rooms.

Clever though he was, I was not fooled by his cheeky little act. A large white tom, it had a fat rump on it. A pure snow-white cat it was. Addressing it as the precocious boy that I knew it to be, I called out to the tom.

I told him to be careful, being so high up on those crates, to not hurt himself. To my surprise, he cockily shot back, sounding every bit like Merlin when speaking in his duxypuss voice,

“Oh come on, I’m a puss!”

I roared, blown away by the playfulness. In one sure leap, it leapt through the opening and headed upstairs. Just like that, he was out of sight. He had flashed the tail at me just before taking flight.

I was stunned by his wicked playfulness. This kid had me dismissed as a real pushover. Not missing a beat, I went running upstairs calling out to Pandora as I did.

I told Pandora to keep her eye on that cat – I did not want it to get away. When I came up, Pandora asked what cat I was talking about. There was no cat in the house, she was confident, nor was there one normally.

To my surprise, the little devil had shapeshifted again and returned to his original state by becoming a rather precocious human child. There he was holding the same bottled water that I had previously offered him.

He sat there, hungrily gulping down the water, all the while looking at me as though he had never laid eyes on me before. Indeed, quite the cheeky little imp. The sight of him only made me roar even more.

I couldn’t believe his brilliance. It was such refreshing magic.

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Photo: White domestic short-haired cat & Buster sporting Lion cut.

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On Board the Schooner.

20.02.201330.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

The dream occurred, on Monday, December 2, 1991, whilst the Moon was in Scorpio transiting my sixth house. Every now and again, long after his passing, there would be dreams such as this one which would revisit the gravity of Merlin’s end-of-life illness.

These dreams are uplifting in their beauty, realism and inspiration. Deeply breathe in and drink of this poetic turn.

<O>

I was standing by this shore looking out to sea. There were some orcas that had come close into shore. It was, in fact, an unusually murky sea. The waters looked even cloudier because the cetaceans had been chopping up the sea a great deal with their mammoth bodies.

Out to sea on these rocks, there were some wonderful, little sea lions basking. There was clearly a coral reef in that section of the water. Where the killer whales were, of course, there was no reef.

Suddenly, one of the orcas bolted like a submarine-launched torpedo. With lightning speeds, in such shallow waters, it made for a young adult sea lion.

It was overcast here. Goodness, before I knew what was happening, it had ferociously ripped into this animal and was manically feeding on it.

Basically, the pod had come in to feed but this one orca had become frustrated. The tide was rapidly changing and they knew that they would have to head out to sea. Based on the tidal activity, the pod knew that they had arrived a bit too late to make a successful kill.

I had been looking at this bunch of guys who were working as marine biologists. They were there to usher the orcas back out to sea so that they wouldn’t beach. This would be most queer if they did because orcas almost never do beach.

The human professionals had to do so very cautiously and at a safe distance because, at any moment, the orcas could have attacked. Finally, they managed to guide the orcas out to sea where they then took off.

After that, I entered the sea as did some other bathers. There were about eight of us and we swam out to sea because moored out to sea was a wonderful, large white yacht.

The stern of it was facing directly to shore. Another vessel was also out to sea; it was a brown schooner and a bit off to the left. As we swam I did the crawl; it made my progression so timelessly beautiful.

The water was not too choppy and the further out one got the murkier it did, in fact, get – and just as well. I started gaining, whilst a girl swam to my right and rear. She was pointing out that I was soon going to get ahead of the guy in the lead who was outfitted with snorkelling gear.

He kept on looking down into the water. Taking his time, every now and again, he lazily used his fins. This guy wore a partial wetsuit that ended in shorts at just above mid-thigh.

The marine biologists were, of course, wearing full wetsuits. Their wetsuits were no doubt, though black, outfitted with that mesh to prevent them from being severely injured if attacked.

I effortlessly swam and, in point of fact, I was almost as if a fish in my complete union with the water. More than that, I progressed through the water by sheer will.

As a result, I was as if an aquatic creature in its medium and one not hampered in its progress. Of course, normally I would have been much slower for being human but things were different here in the dreamtime.

It was, in fact, quite beautiful. My head was always above the surface. When I got close to the stern of the white yacht, it was populated by a bunch of young-souled, aggressively smiling people who were on a leisure trip. The stern of this yacht was unusually wide with a white awning overhanging it.

When I got to the side of the brown schooner – a beautifully polished, medium-tanned wood, I then propelled my way out of the water and dove up into the air.

At the zenith, which I had gotten to by powerfully kicking my legs in a cissons-like motion taking me clear of the water, I was now above the considerably raised deck of the schooner to my left.

Stationary in the air, for a second, I then arched my head forward bringing my body forwards. Pulling down my head, I brought it into my pointed feet with legs fully extended. At that, I kicked opened my legs and was now stationary in the air whilst perfectly upside down. My head was craning back so that I could see the water way below.

I began diving downwards but this was more so flight than merely crashing down at normal speeds. Majestically, I gracefully spliced into the water. It was a rather effortless entry. Beautiful! It was quite nice.

I then came up for air. All the young souls, on the white yacht, were excitedly paying tribute to how skilled I was. They had been thoroughly impressed – not that I had done this for anyone’s benefit.

I had distinctly been aware that I was dreaming. It felt so freeing to will my body through the water that the next logical progression was to have become even freer in another medium – air.

The water, in fact, was covered here with seaweed as though it were close to the full Moon. Characteristically, it is during this stormy lunar phase that much kelp gets uprooted, harvested and make it ashore. This always creates quite a mess of things.

I then got up onto the brown schooner with the others and we hung out. The guys on board were going to be taking our picture. I was hunched down in the front row and was sunnily smiling enjoying having my picture taken – which is certainly rare for me.

However, I thought that because I was feeling in such good spirits I would show-off and leap off the edge of the schooner and into the water. I did not, however do so. In fact, I was glad that I hadn’t because when I got down into the water, I realised that the water was quite shallow on that side of the schooner.

The vessel had, in fact, been docked at this reef but was in no danger of grounding, for being moored there. It was a very thick, massive, coral reef which was on the port side of the schooner.

I went and walked around on top of the coral reef; the sea came to just above ankle level. So had I dived in, I would have suffered a great deal of head and neck injuries; it wouldn’t have been pleasant at all.

Then I came off the reef by walking on it out to sea. I then jumped off the reef’s edge and down into the deep water. I was swimming around towards the bow to see the other side of the schooner.

It was then that I had a pang of fear thinking,

‘My god, Arvin, what if there are sharks just below the water here, having hidden out under the edge of the reef? I could be attacked from below.’

The water was so murky. The profusion of kelp obstructed a good view of things. However, then I thought that that was being silly of me because that was being fear-focussed.

It was the certified way in which to bring on negative experiences. So I promptly decided to heal myself of such images and to move away from such fear-based vortices.

Then, on swimming around to the starboard side of the schooner, the kelp was so thick that one could easily walk on it. I got up and walked leisurely atop the kelp. It was delightful an experience. I moved towards a door that was opened in the hull – just inches above the water.

On getting inside the hull, I visited with a couple of people. We were talking and having a good time. I can’t now, however, say that I recall the gist of what we were discussing.

<O>

I do know though that at one point whilst on board, I had encountered Merlin. I was so blown away to have seen him. He was off by himself. He was alone and very introspective. He was very weak. Immediately, I came to his side and visited with him.

I felt a swell of compassion towards him. It was devastating to see him in this state because he was very frail and just as he was a week before his passing. It was so wholly unexpected.

Merlin was so drained, for being ill, that he couldn’t even communicate. However, it was okay, for me. All I needed was the drink of his company and the touch of those soulful – though here weary – truly magus eyes to parch my questing soul.

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Photo: Schooner.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Dreams of Merlin

In Celebration of Merlin!

Merlin.

Remembering Merlin.

Merlin Shapeshifts.

You Cheeky Little Imp!

On Board the Schooner.