Poetry Most Rare: A Rose Like No Other.

Bubble Nebula

As the dreams of Merlin after his passing betray, our relationship endured beyond dimensions.  This enduring love allowed my growth to continue.  This love allowed me to become immensely enriched for having known Merlin.  This dream betrays the continued spiritual growth that I experienced.  This growth was much enhanced for having known and loved Merlin, before meeting him, during our seven-year relationship and after his passing. 

The dream occurred, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and my third house.  At the time of this dream, I was visiting Pandora in Paris.  On this trip to Paris, I would meet the delightful Louka Duplessis.  Clearly, the dream touched on past life experiences in France but, more importantly, it reflected my spiritual maturation during the course of this lifetime.  The dream chronicles my ascension to new plateaux spiritually as mirrored in the dreamtime. 

The dream in question also occurred in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day.  Too, it was the second of four dreams that day. 

4-things-about-Paris-stairs-elevators-haussmann-grand-boulevards

I was staying in this old building.  It was a normal six-storeyed, Parisian pied-à-terre.  The windows across the way were naked of any drapes.  The window, from which I looked, allowed me a view into the third storey windows across the street.  There was no fencing between the properties and both buildings were fairly close.  It was an old building and it was situated in the rear of the property.  I was two storeys higher up whilst looking down at this guy.  He was mesomorphic, developed and swarthy.  He was definitely of North African descent.  

Callendar-01-1038x576

This man was head of the household guard of the limestone mansion.  This mansion was not unlike the one I passed by, last night – that is, in that dream experience, wherein Tina Turner performed her heart out, on the mansion’s veranda.  It was, however, not that palatial home – in that dream, the residence was a bungalow which this certainly wasn’t.  This building though was many storeys tall.  I instinctively knew that I was the owner but, somehow, my life was now in danger.  He, for being part of the household guard, was fiercely loyal.  He saw to it that I was kept securely insulated.  I was kept secured in the abandoned building, in the rear, since no one would be expected to go looking for me there.

reassuring-hand-on-back

The building that I was in was old and missing all of its window panes.  He sat there, on the third storey, on a red velvet chaise longue.  On his immediate right sat a woman.  Seemingly, she was a daughter of one of the maids.  The household staff here was quite large.  He was lounging back, on the backrest, stroking her long brunette mane.  I could tell from his rhythmic stroking of her head that he was aroused and that she was more than likely giving him a blowjob.  I couldn’t, however, make out his cock from my perspective.  He was, at the very least, exposing himself to her and wanted her to give him head.  She, however, was being very cautious.

Obviously, he was easily made impatient by her inaction.  From his energies, I could tell that he would likely soon overpower her and force her to go down on him.  Frankly, I did not approve of him abusing a woman thus.  However, it was a situation that she had little control over although it was clear that she did not want to do it.  Since it was my house, I wanted to go there and intercede on her behalf.  In any event, I really did not like being held up in this confining space.

Screen-Shot-2018-01-06-at-10.40.47-PM-1280x640.png

To have been caught up in this sort of situation, it proved truly stifling of my energies.  More than that, I wanted to kick some arse because he was abusing his powers by manipulating his subordinate.  I did not approve of this at all and, more importantly, I also didn’t want anyone in my employ to be abused thus.  So I managed to make my way back down into the palatial digs.

Entering at the ground level, as I progressed, the main foyer was fairly empty.  Here there were lots of large columns that were wooden and in the Gothic style.  The ceiling here was wooden with flying buttresses.  This was a very high-ceilinged affair that was easily two storeys.  The floor was tiled with black-and-white marble with each tile being some two-and-one-half feet square.  It was very beautiful here with a very shiny polish to the floor.  As I walked, I wore riding boots and had a very strong, demonstrative stride.  At times, as I did not want to be heard making my approach, I was being very slight.

tiled foyer

Instinctively, I knew where to be forceful in stride but I also knew where to be otherwise slight.  All of this was about announcing my presence to certain persons therein.  I then began mounting the very dark-wooded, high-glossed, polished staircase to the landings.  I was impressed with just how clean the household staff kept the place.  There was much loving care put into their jobs.  I was warmed by this and knew that it reflected their respect for me.  Clearly, I was a good steward in their lives – one who cared about their well-being.  Each storey of the large staircase had a square landing which looked out to the landings below.  Though I had not taken the time to look up, as it was very brightly illumined, there just may have been a skylight overhead the staircase.  When I did look up, on one of the landings, I saw a woman a couple of storeys up.  She was older and wore a greyish smock.

1284388399968

Her head she kept tied in a turban with white, heavy-looking fabric.  On seeing me, she rushed back away from the landing.  Straight away, I went stealthily speeding up the stairs without as much as a sound.  When I got to her landing, I slipped into this back room that was one to which I knew she would have retreated.  This was the chambermaids’ quarters.  Very wide-eyed and full of fear she let me know, right off the bat, that she did not know anything.  Clearly, she was trying to cover for the fact that the house guard had been overpowering the woman.  She did not want to get involved.  More to the point, she did not want him avenging himself of her.

The young woman may even have been her daughter yet she was not prepared to risk her security.  Hissing, I interrogated her but she was so overcome with fear that she avoided becoming caught up in the politics of it all.  She understandably felt obliged to do as I said yet she was sexually acculturated, to be subservient to men, such that she simply couldn’t bring herself to defy any man.  Even a corrupt one whom she knew was not my superior, she simply could not cross.  The attacker was a feared and forceful man – sadistic.  Seeing that he was part of the palace’s security, he could easily have her killed and made it look like an accident.  She knew this only too well.

john-wick-1447768504

This very shrewd woman had no misgivings as to just what lengths male ambition would go to assure its self-preservation, most especially, at the expense of the opposite sex.  Indeed, she too had once been a young woman.  She had clearly had to learn some hard lessons about the hearts, rather the lack thereof, of men a long time ago.  She was, if nothing else, shrewdly pragmatic.  He was to be feared.  She was not in the world to provoke or affect change.  I assured her that she would be protected then sent her to her quarters.  I then took my leave of her.  We spoke exclusively in French.

She was clearly multiple-generational peasant stock and from northwestern France which I deduced from her accent.  A very self-deprecating individual and one possessed of pronounced humility.  From there, I went rushing back out onto the stairs.  As I approached she had been tipping off others, in a hushed voice, to the fact that I was returned to the house.  Just as I was beginning to come down the stairs, the North African captain of house’s guard came out.  He stood on the landing, one flight above me, very impatiently asking who the devil I was.

eabc69d39cd14ca0511249cbf3675e49

He demanded to know who this intruder – meaning me – was.  I was frankly humoured by his bravura, so smiled at him, and thought to play along.  Whilst standing there very regally, I thought to call him by his name thereby calling him on his temerity.  Instantaneously, he flashed this unusually large, black weapon which seemed part rifle, part spear.  The top of the spear was all gold-leafed as a bayonet would be speared.  It was not unlike the top of the wrought iron fencing that girdled the property which I would notice afterwards when leaving the property.  Still very casually, I mockingly tossed my hands in the air and begged for his mercy.

“Fine, if you want to treat me as an intruder, go right ahead.  I’m not an intruder…” I said, not liking the flow of this exchange.

When he suddenly began shooting at me, I was certainly surprised.  The shots explosively came, a volley of five rounds, at me.  When they were discharged they came at me with quite an incredible force.  It was as though, at will, I was able to slow down the bullets.  I saw the bullets’ progression in slow-motion.  Each shot appeared as if streaks of red light coasting through the air.  Starting out on target, directly towards me they came.  I managed, my mind totally focussed, to will them to avert making contact with me.  Every one of them ended up veering off to the right.

He barked a grunt of displeasure on seeing that the bullets had not made his intended mark.  He drew the gun again to try once more.  I knew that this man was quite a good marksman yet he never did catch me.  Making like I really was an intruder, after he had finished his second attack, I began bolting down the steps.  I manically scurried, down to the ground floor, all the whilst he kept on firing after me as I fled.  Even with my back turned, I was able to maintain my mental focus and escaped being shot by him.  Still focussed, I continued directing the bullets away from me.  The thing about the bullets was how incredibly powerful they were.  As they sped by, like the high-speed trains here in Europe do, each bullet created the same gravitational drag.

*This led me to the conclusion that when one is struck by sniper fire, it is a very impactful occurrence.  As a matter of fact, the soul itself simply gets suddenly knocked out of being focussed in the body.  It is clearly a jarring experience.  The soul, at such times, is instantaneously slapped back to the astral plane in mere femtoseconds.  END.

On rushing down to the ground floor, I took cover under the canopy of the second storey’s landing.  When the bullets would strike the ground floor’s marble tiles, they zinged and sounded much like swords noisily clashing against stone during battle.  It did cause me to wonder if the weapon’s ammunition were not, as it were, tiny spears.  Rapidly travelling, the tiny spear-like bullets created a fiery streak of light whilst tearing through space.  The friction of the bullets’ speed was what would have ignited space’s explosive oxygen.  The bullets were experienced in exquisite close-up, gnawing away at the fabric of space, as if some fiery eagle lancing through the air to make the kill.

italian-walnut-secretaire-1940s-1

From under the cover of the landing, I ran across the foyer over to this large secretaire.  The secretaire did not have any gold leaf detailing on it but it was very large and beautifully designed.  Jumping onto it, I went there to be out of range of his gunfire.  He did, however, keep on shooting at me.  Naturally, I continued defending myself by deflecting every shot he directed my way.  Pretty soon the shots were ricocheting.  Some shots did serious damage to the secretaire.  Not wanting to completely destroy it, I leapt off the secretaire.  In a streak of unbridled energy, I went bolting outside through the large heavy doors.  As I made it through the doors, I could hear him coming down the stairs after me.

France_Houses_Paris_480192

By this point, he was being joined by other house guards whom he had called to his aid.  Obviously, he had inspired the other guards to turn against me.  This was truly an upsetting surprise for me.  I ran into the most beautiful garden imaginable.  Not unlike the other garden, before the sprawling bungalow that I had dreamt of the night earlier where Tina Turner sang, was this one.  However, this garden was considerably more extensive.  Like a house afire, I went running down the garden path.  Following the path that led from the front doors, I ran screaming my lungs out.  As I worked off all that angst, it was part fear… it was part celebratory war cry.  

2621_Luxembourg-Gardens-Palace1-960x400

In one leap, I bolted through the front gates.  Yet again, it proved another very large, high, wrought iron, gold-leafed, spear-tipped fence.  All that I could think of was that I had to get the devil lost and as soon as possible.  Still running, fast as all hell, I had managed through the narrow streets to get myself onto a near-deserted off-street.  This road seemed to border the abandoned building.  It was another building which was in back of the mansion.  Here it was definitely as if Paris but a few centuries earlier.  It was as if the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s reign because the second empire architecture was not yet a ubiquitous fixture.

These were buildings that had a stone ground floor with the upper ones made of wood.  Few of them, if any, had very little to no second empire signatures.  It was the most minimalist empire detailing and as such it was not very widespread.  The style here predominantly was Roman, rather than not, with some neo-classical signatures.  Some of the roofs, in their prelude to the second empire sensibility, were more so like barn roofs than not – mansard-roofed they were.  Whilst running down the off-street, I happened on a crowd of persons who were walking.  All of them were dressed as if of another age.  This was garb from an earlier time in Europe.  Drab-coloured, heavy fabrics predominated here.

On forging ahead, I managed my way into the thick of them.  They were a group of guys who were walking in the nighttime streets.  It was an indeterminate time of night.  It could easily have been a full Moon or even coming on to dawn.  As it was simultaneously dark, it was hard to discern.  As a result, it was also not too bright.  A strange light it was, which I think was also silvery-sooty, for being so choked with wood-burning fires partout.  There was the sense also that there was heavy cloud cover that dappled the full force of the full Moon.

2016-09-16_57dc238dc870f_DSCN0812

As I hid in amongst the throng, I noticed that there were also Black men present.  They seemed to be headed off to go drinking at a bar.  These men were, however, not a rowdy crowd.  Neither were they singing nor, for that matter, were they being obstreperous.  Some of them were telling tall tales and getting us in good spirits.  It was an immediate warm group of energies.  No sooner than had I joined them that the house guard, along with his henchmen, appeared at our rear.  He began yelling at us, in a hostile tone, telling us to stop and give up.  

babylon-1980-001-boys-group-photo

We were stunned.  At least, I was surprised that they had managed to find me.  Next, they were indiscriminately shooting at us.  Of course, I was the object of their hunt.  Right away, I began ducking behind some of the larger-bodied guys in the group.  One of the Black men turned on me on realising, that for being an outsider, that they were clearly trying to get me.  He and some of the others in the group, who had their own guns, immediately began to shoot at me.  Again, I began dodging the bullets and was able to run away.  

I acrobatically tumbled, leapt and soared through the air, sometimes rolling on the ground, in hopes of escaping their fury and gunfire.  This time – for fleeing so rapidly – I was able to easily dodge the bullets without having to focus my will on diverting their trajectory.  However, there was one point, when he had shot at me that I had been of the opinion that he had shot me.  He had shot at my legs catching me in both knees.  Self-preservation demanded that I not look down at my knees.  Had I done so, on seeing that I was wounded, I would have been paralysed to take further action.  

All I wanted to do was to secure my escape from this tumultuous place with its volatile emotionality.  For that reason, I kept on going and ran from the narrow-streeted place.  Here in the street confrontation, as they streaked by at great speeds, I did notice that some of the bullets created a blue light.  This occurred as the bullets gnawed into the fabric of space.  Here, too, they were very powerful and created a sense of drag as they noisily zinged past me.  Their sound was like that of some giant beast of prey, noisily rocketing in, before the kill.  

6600517-World-s-narrowest-street-0

Along the block, I caught wind of a crack between buildings.  Straight away, I darted through the crevice.  By shifting sideways, I had managed my way into the crevice thus.  From this vantage point, I discovered that there was much fighting going down between both sides.  The fighting unrelentingly kept up without me being directly affected.  Meanwhile, I managed to inch my way further inwards and away from the street.  Here the little crevice-like lane led back into a courtyard area.  Pleased that I had made it to the courtyard, out of harm’s way, I took the time to enjoy the cool damp air of the enclosed space.  

Clearly, no one ever made it into this courtyard.  Winded, I needed to recharge my energies.  Whilst there alone, I noticed that it was suddenly getting considerably brighter out.  Intrigued, I began venturing from the courtyard to investigate the cause of the light change.  Unmistakably, there towered from on-high a shaft of intense blue-white light.  It went from the ground, in the distance, and extended up into the darkened night sky.  This light was off to the left, as I looked on, and across the street from where the street battle was going down.  

JdRaYG4RY0j0Ww0KExYOQG_CEGWCjVFYYKP7kGvzZmI

This manifestation was quite intense.  It proved a constant bleed of energy.  Simultaneously, one readily discerned that the flow of energy was moving in both directions.  It was all very intense with a great deal of power to it – a power which you could feel.  The quivering, almost liquid, undulating light gave off a tingling sound.  This sound matched its non-static, shifting appearance.  It was a cool sound like a whistling wintry wind.  This light manifestation was rather intense.  

Soon, I noticed that there was a column of white light which looked decidedly umbilical.  It much reminded me of the umbilical light being which I saw descending from the sky, in that dream of Thursday July 7, 1988.  Back then, in the dreams of July 7, 1988, it appeared as if a cetacean-like creature.  However, it turned out to be a manifestation of some aspect of self, some aspect of the soul, which proved to be Merlin’s soul totem.  Right away, I knew the significance of this dream.  This dream was clearly all about one’s totemic symbology.  Off in the distance, I could hear the tinny sound of persons speaking.  

One particular woman was remarking that this was happening as a result of persons having recently been shot and died.  In other words, this was a manifestation of their ascension to the next plane.  She speculated that this was likely their spirits taking flight away from this age and time.  Frankly, I got the sense that she did not know what she was talking about.  Since I was in hiding, I knew that I couldn’t seek her out to correct her perception of what was truly taking place.  I was really excited and strongly resonated with the nature of the experience.  

Instinctively, I fully understood the whole process – both the imagery and meaning of the whole experience.  Here however, I knew that I couldn’t call out to the light, as I had to the light on July 7, 1988.  For obvious reasons, I stood there resonating with the light.  I was being overwhelmingly energised by the light.  With the greatest yearning, the greatest compassion, I began reaching out to the knowing light force.  The umbilical cord of light next began snaking its way up, the column of blue light, like so many of the columns of smoke that rose up from the chimneys all about.  

However, this was definitely not smoke at all.  It was a nimbus-like, smoke-like, umbilical-like being of light.  It was so very knowing, gentle, familiar and intimate in is sublime, graceful beauty.  It was an umbilical cord of light that snaked up into the bosom of the shaft of blue-white light.  When the cord of light got up into the massive clouded sky it began circling around, like some giant spiral galaxy viewed head on, up above in the night sky.  On reaching the sky, the look of it as it circled was as if it were an illumined sea in the sky.  Here, of course, the major source of light would have been submerged and just beyond the aqueous surface of the sea on high.  

This, too, exactly mirrored what had happened on July 7, 1988.  In both cases, it was as though the sea was now where the sky should have been.  It was revolutionary.  Just as in the earlier experience, four years before, there was no sea visible at the conventional terrestrial site of the sea.  I was just inside the tiny lane, which was off a street, which was higher than anywhere else around.  This gave me a really good view of what was going on in the distance.  To again experience this magical occurrence, I again felt greatly inspired.  This was definitely set a few centuries back in France.  

If not set during late pre-revolutionary Paris, then the tumultuous times of the revolution and early Napoleonic times.  If not Paris, it was definitely one of the larger cities but it was definitely in France.  The light was so pure, so immensely intense indeed, it was breathtakingly beautiful.  What’s more, the light on making contact with the sky simply billowed outwards and became a greater explosion of light.  As it rippled outwards, the giant spiral galaxy of light would then spawn smaller spiralling encircling galaxies of light.  No music ever created or experienced, could ever evoke the beauty of experience that this light did.  It was quite simply looking into the bosom of the soul.  

They soon became circles within circles that were fast-moving independent of each other.  Whilst there were others which moved counterclockwise, some spiralled in a clockwise fashion.  All this movement occurred in the greatest display of slow-motioned grace.  This was power on an order that was mind-altering.  It was as though my mind were being expanded into new uncharted realms of spirit and intellect.  As four years earlier, the parallel experience had left me, I felt just as greatly inspired.  Within each spiralling galaxy of light, there were sparks of light that reflected every colour of the rainbow.  

557842c3f29bf0f7c5e89612afa047bf

In that sense, they were as if circling rainbows of light.  Lights they were that created a form of music with their tingling sound.  Inspired great music of the soul it was too.  Whilst looking into them, I saw colours that have never been experienced on this side of the dreamtime before.  It was so revolutionary to think that there could be colours beyond the known spectrum, yet, there they were.  Even more interesting was the fact that these lights flickered in and out of existence.  Each manifestation caused a resonant quiver at the solar plexus which itself had rippled outwards, in waves of ecstasy, to and from my very soul itself.  

Thus these spirals were pulsating light at what, though seemingly random, was a rather orderly progression.  With every flicker, my entire body was being inundated with the most intense stimulation of light, sound, emotion and awareness.  Most of all, I was being inundated with love.  Standing there, it was as though I were having the most thrilling flying dream experience whilst remaining perfectly motionless.  My skin, as it were, had become peeled away.  This heightened sensitivity allowed my every nerve ending to hungrily drink of the purity and intensity of the experience.  This was so elevated an experience that it can never be adequately articulated by mere words.  

It was so profound and so sublime that it was sheer simplicity.  It would be like trying to describe a rose ad nauseam.  A rose is manifested inspiration for it is creativity at its most sublime.  For that reason, a rose is experiential and is totally beyond the realm of description.  The rose is creative manifestation, as such, only one’s correspondent state of beingness allows one to experience its inspiring beauty.  Beyond that, the rose simply is yet another symbol in the pantheon of acculturated signs.  For every one of those symbols one has an automatic response.  The symbol of the rose or anything, nine of ten times, causes one to never genuinely experience anything.  The experience of the spiralling light, which only mushroomed outwards, grew more and more intense.  

Its vibrational frequency kept on rising and pushing into octaves that previously I could not have fathomed.  With this expansion, the blackened, aqueous night sky only grew more and more intensely and predominantly white-lighted.  It was as though, as it slowly churned into greater actuality, it was hurricane season with some massively powerful storm cloud gathering strength.  Where the umbilical cord of light broke through the surface, of the aqueous light surface on high, it became increasingly intense.  So intense, in fact, that soon there was a break in the continuum of the medium there.  

Now the light became even more intense than already it had been.  The poor container of my relatively tiny body seemed unable to sustain so potent an experience for much longer.  Soon, the light’s intensity waned as it had instantaneously mushroomed outwards forming a perfect circle.  Within this supra-circle were the infinitely mushrooming circles of light wherein each was teeming with an array of pulsating spectra of lights.  This was music on the order of the cosmic.  This was truly music of the soul.  Now the expanded supra-circle began flickering like some giant lightning storm.  

There within its aqueous-looking light confines, the counter rotating circles began exploding in the most symmetrical and geometric shapes imaginable.  Here, there were some geometric entities that are unknown to waking state thought which have as yet been discovered.  In that sense, it was as if one were experiencing pure mathematics.  Even though the whole thing looked like water, however, it was definitely light.  Moreover, with the explosion of geometric shapes, it now looked like crystals that were made of pure light.  They were light crystals which were spherical and simultaneously musical.  They moved in amongst themselves without ever crashing into each other.  This was pure creativity at its highest order.  The whole thing was a very molecular organic process.  

DSC100553791

In the centre, the aqueous-looking lights on high then bled open.  It became as if a giant crystalline rose of light, in an aqueous sky, which kept on breaking open its infinite petals.  By this point, my body was quivering throughout.  Too, as I stood there lucidly dreaming, I silently laughed whilst losing tears.  The whole magical unfoldment was so immensely humbling.  Finally, instead of revealing its seed pistons the petals parted revealing this incredible planetary entity.  It was more brilliant than Luna.  Try – if you will – to fathom the accumulative intensity of Luna since four plus billion years ago, it first shone full, and every full Moon since.  

68B6DECE-1722-4C2A-B292F02FD9737B11_source

However, it was no mere planet.  It was so brilliant that it was not even a star.  It was far more powerful and brighter than any star could ever be.  Even though it was so intense it was not so harsh a light, as a star’s, such that one couldn’t look at it.  This body was easily seven times as large as Luna.  Too, this immense orb was more potently luminous than Luna.  The surface of it was as if aqueous as it constantly shifted and changed form.  More than that, in its collective kaleidoscopic beauty, all this stellar planetary body proved to be was a face.  It was quite simply a glimpse into the face of one’s soul.  

Swept away, I yogically stretched my arms into its very bosom and let out a thrilled cry of joy.  This was an air pocket of inspiration like no other I had ever coasted.  I did just then begin hearing similar cries from persons who were in the buildings in the neighbourhood.  There were no persons in the abandoned buildings, which bled into the tiny courtyard, to my rear where I had been earlier.  There were several voices, all female, all of them naturally speaking French.  They were marvelling at the sight but, frankly, they did not get the picture.  

For them it was an apocalyptic event that no doubt presaged the end of the world or the second coming… paradigms which like the symbology of the rose they had been acculturated to believe – their loss, I realised.  As for me, I was really connecting with the experience.  I totally knew what it was all about.  Again, their lack of awareness only reflected their not having achieved this reflective state of creative beingness which would have truly allowed them to experience the rose of the experience.  

Rather, for them, it was an experience outside of themselves.  Just as in that dream of experiencing a planetary totem, back in July 1983, I instinctively knew what it was.  Here it was to the east and not yet reached its zenith.  This was such an incredible experience.  At this point, my body started resonantly vibrating.  Before I had been trembling, as though grounded by the force of some booming bass which impacted everything in its wake, now though I rattled throughout.  This was such a fuck-all glorious experience.  

As it had also been so long since I had experienced that kind of uplifting connection, with the soul element within, I was very much so moved.  I was humbled.  The whole revelation only lasted briefly… mere seconds.  To have been longer in duration would, finally, have been too overwhelming.  Nonetheless, I had gotten it.  I had made the connection and was greatly inspired for having had the uplifting experience.  The other townsfolk hadn’t gotten the essence of what it was; this finally was a moot point.  Quite simply, this stellar, illumined, aqueous anthropomorphic face did not exist either inside or outside of space, time or dimensional experientiality.  

merlin-arvin-1987

It was, quite simply, a glimpse of the soul.  Whose soul, mine or Merlin’s, smiled back at me?  It was not here relevant.  I had matured into the experience for having met and known Merlin.  So to that end, it was the face of both his and my Soul.  This was the most rapturous state of being that I had experienced in a long, long time.  There and then, I knew that my life had matured onto a higher octave for not just having had the experience but for having assimilated it – gotten it.  Just when it seemed that my mind was going to irreparably nova, the crystalline light of spiralling spheres began shifting.  

They ended their contraction and began expanding, collapsing over the magnetic orb, to which the umbilical cord of light had ascended.  Their movement was orderly, graceful and utterly organic.  It was like looking at a fast-action film of a crystalline rose bloom over a massive expanse of time.  This, however, was as if being cinematically experienced in slow-motion and in reverse – very spectacular.  

*God I am so glad that I have never done drugs.  END.  

When the supra-circle had finally collapsed, to cover the self-illumined, face-like, planetary being-like entity beyond the veil of glowing lights, the orb it now hid then novaed in an explosion of intense white light.  What then shot through me can only be described as enlightenment.  Quite simply, my cellular integrity was vibrationally sped up to momentarily become light itself.  When the orb’s light had imploded to nothingness, I was left instantaneously feeling very drained.  Even here in the dreamtime, I was aware of having a numbing headache.  

By the time that I came back, through the crevice-like lane, all the gun fighting had finished.  They were all gone, as a matter of fact.  On looking down, I discovered that there was nothing now wrong with my knees.  Just as I had suspected earlier, I had been wearing boots but they did not cover my knees.  Coming out into the street, I hurried along the sides of the buildings going back to the wonderful, palatial residence.  Going back towards the grounds, this time I saw another building there which was one on the side of the property.  Looking down the block, I saw four or five cars and all of them were red.  

Sure enough, just as I suspected, Magnus Colsen’s car was one of them.  As I came closer, his car was beginning to move but only slightly.  I went and said hello to him.  Inside, there were lots of boxes crammed everywhere as though he was moving.  It would seem that he was moving out of his family home, to get a place of his own, for the first time.  Unusually enough here, he was spectacled – so perhaps he is a Scholar soul.  Whilst we warmly spoke, the lens over his left eye automatically moved upwards in a sweeping arc.  Revealed, his left eye was intensely blue and warm.  They were much bluer than, in the waking state, they actually are.  

Magnus let me know that he had to be on his way and began driving off.  However, he did suggestively add that he would be back later to get some more things.  We parted, saying so long and he took off.  With that I turned around, never returning to the grounds of the palatial residence.  

*This dream was totemic for me.  I knew instinctively that it signalled the mark of me beginning to manifest at my true soul age.  Of course, during the time of my Saturn Return and Merlin’s illness, my transit from young-souled consciousness and egocentrism was affected.  During the time of Merlin’s illness and transition, there were those rather momentous and totemic dreams.  I had a very strong sense of Merlin’s vibration during the experience.  However, I never thought of him as being physically close-by nor had I anticipated seeing him in person.  Now four years later, pushing closer to my true soul age, I was crossing the seas of consciousness.  I was manifesting as a seventh level mature soul.  

We are incarnate for two chief reasons, to empower ourselves and thereby spiritually grow.  Of course, this can only be successfully achieved by choosing to conquer fear through love by choosing to love rather than fear.  This momentous dream had positively nothing whatsoever to do with anything so disempowering as experiencing God or any such tribal bullshit.  I was come face–to-face with my soul state and the energies and power which being part of an entity and itself part of a cadre represent.  There were times that I had an awareness of Joop van der Pelster who, of course, is a cadre mate.  Of the more than one hundred and fifty Michael Overleaves that I have had channelled, through both Mathilde Duchenne and Kritika Bhatt, he has proven to be the oldest-souled at fifth level old.  

I do know that I definitely do feel a sense of limitlessness when in his company.  Truth be told, the sweetest most pleasurable sex that I have ever had was not with Merlin but with Joop van der Pelster.  With Merlin there was passion and intimacy that was unsurpassed.  However only with Joop van der Pelster would one, after lovemaking, feel so exquisitely fulfilled that there was a fatigue that was of the most pleasurable order.  Every time that we have been intimate, afterwards I have felt as though that all I would have to do is simply continue the smile by closing my lids and letting go.  For doing so, I would become instantaneously an astral plane habitué – yet again.  

It is shamanic what Joop van der Pelster affects as a lover.  This is something which is also achieved between us during phone sex.  This is why he remains the only person with whom I ever have phone sex.  It is an aspect of our relationship that has lasted, for the some thirty-five-plus years that we have known each other.  Joop van der Pelster and Merlin never met nor did they ever once speak on the phone.  What Joop doesn’t realise is how incredibly uncannily his voice, when we are having phone sex, is exactly like Merlin’s.  It has always been that way even when Merlin was incarnate and knew of my phone sex relationship with Joop.  

It is as if we get into a groove whereby he channels Merlin and affects, what can only truly be called, long distance intimacy.  It is the most pleasurable form of lovemaking imaginable.  I have lived a richly beauteous life and, when it is concluded, I and a choice few will celebratorily dine on the astral plane.  I suspect that then, we will experience moments of quiet rapture.  What we will be celebrating is having lived life with the greatest panache and the sophistication befitting the brotherhood of the truly sly shamans that we are.  We are, every last one of us, truly magus.  

Van-Dyck-self-Portrait-251113-04

These dreams – and these twenty-five volumes of dreams – would not exist had I never met and loved both Joop van der Pelster and Merlin.  They have affected in me the expansion of spirit and consciousness which is reflected in the nature of the dream experiences that I have lived.  Of course, Joop van der Pelster was in a previous life the Flemish painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck.  

Now then, before this afterthought meanders on longer than the dream itself…  

______________________________________________________________

As ever, for your unflappable support, I fly-without-moving and mean it when I say, I love you more.  

 

_______________________________________________________________

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

All Too Human… And Then Some!

man-s-head-self-portrait-1963

Well, after having been dazzled by Natalia Osipova, there was no doubt what next adventure my soul had to devour.  I arrived at Pimlico Station and enjoyed the cool brisk walk to the red and white gorgeousness of the neighbourhood architecture.  I arrived at 08:50, a good hour ahead of the opening.  I took the time to place my palm on as many of the august sycamore trees in the neighbourhood as I could.  There were some high-end cars waiting out front of the Tate Britain Museum to take in All Too Human as yet another jetliner roared towards London Heathrow.  Definitely bulletproof, a stately Benz sat closest to the entrance with a smoky grey Bentley, SUV no less, parked furthest of the cars.  

the-big-man-1977

Eventually, persons began turning up and the engaging West African security agent who had the same strong, proud, full-lipped mouth as Leontyne Price’s closed one of the two heavy black doors to protect me as I waited outside the main glass sliding doors as a private event was underway — thus one couldn’t be allowed inside.  Finally, persons began leaving, one of whom — in a beautifully vivid red coat — was Cherie Blair CBE, QC.  She was proud-looking and had the kind of broad body that as I child was so familiar when growing up in the West Indies.  She had that air about her that bespoke a life in the public eye; someone made a curt remark and she was quick on the rebuttal.  I was much humoured and reminded of Saddam Hussein trading insults with the men who moments later gladly terminated his life.  

two-plants-1980

Finally, it was on to the business in hand and what a beautifully stunning exhibition; one of the best contemporary art exhibitions that I have attended in years.  The greatest discovery was the lush, richness of the Lucian Freud still-life, Two Plants.  Thoroughly layered, engrossing and lyrical in its deft vividness.  I was left teary eyed by its sublime beauty. 

Sleeping by the Lion carpet Leigh Bowrey

Of course, I was moments earlier moved to dewy-eyed focus when drinking in the rich tableau of the portrait of creative artist and true eccentric, Leigh Bowery whom many years earlier I had seen perform in New York City.   I was reminded, of course, in Leigh’s passing of the countless many whom I have lost along the way to AIDS.

All Too Human

The poster for the show at Russell Square Tube Station in Bloomsbury.  A wonderful tribute to Leigh who covered a fair bit of ground during his lifetime… sweet and blissful dreams be yours…  

Francis-Bacon-Portrait-1962

Naturally, I booked my flight based on two things: one, Giselle with Osipova and secondly, a joint exhibition featuring Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon.  For that, I would gladly hop a Tesla to Iapetus.  Of course, this exhibition was a pilgrimage of sorts for me and it was a way of paying homage to the artistic accomplishments of cadre mates.  

Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud Francis Bacon

As per the portrait of Lucian Freud above, these two artists are cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s.  Lucian Freud is a mature priest in our entity (6).  Along with Rudolf Nureyev and Grace Jones, Francis Bacon is next-door in entity 5 of our cadre.  Francis is a mature artisan, Grace Jones a mature warrior and Rudolf Nureyev a mature sage… and how.  I was thoroughly warmed to have drunk of their spirits.  

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne 1966 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

This particular portrait, Isabel Rawsthrone, I especially loved.  Raw, primal and emotionally intense there is something decidedly operatic about the focussed intensity of this portrait.  After initially getting over the intensity of it, it proves rather warm and enveloping.  

Three Figures and Portrait 1975 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

This was a thoroughly arresting and soul-stirring adage; it was a beautiful way to have begun the day’s adventures.  

20180302_104844

After walking past the noise of the construction/renovations taking place on the first floor — one of the workers was a real pulse-racer, looking as he did like no end of hot, rough sex and in work gear no less!  Then it was downstairs to take in the Impressionists in London exhibition.  I did not buy the catalogue.  I always am a bit put-off by the association of the word “dream” when describing the works of impressionists.  There is nothing unfocussed or diffused about dreams.  Trust you me, as someone who recalls at least half a dozen dreams on average, oftentimes, dreams prove the most lucid part of any given day.  Perhaps, it was all the wine the French impressionists consumed but the maudlin-feeling lighting just doesn’t do it for me… most times.  

Notting Hill Gate

Having had my fill, off I went from Pimlico to Nothing Hill Gate in the wet snow and made the long trek to Kensington Palace where one of the most glorious flying dreams in this lifetime was set — also, in that dream was a then incarnate, Diana, Princess of Wales with her two beautiful-spirited sons, the future HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry of Wales and Duke of as-yet-known after he marries his beautiful bride, Ms. Meghan Markle — a mature artisan, to his mature warrior and an entity mate of his no less.  

Kensington Palace

On the long trek along Broad Walk in Kensington Gardens from the high street, I enjoyed the look of snow everywhere.  The odd flake fell from time to time as joggers braved the fierce wind off the park.  One brave soul with a shock of close-cropped red hair, sported the greatest thighs as he jogged strictly in a pair of wrestler’s shorts.  He proved warming for my blood, indeed.  

20180302_114238

As I got towards the edge of Kensington Palace the handsome raven above swooped in from off my rear right and towards the palace.  He alighted, cocked the head at me and kept taking to the wind to come closer, all the while fixing me with a hard gaze.  “Yes, of course, you can see my heart.  Love is the password” I said aloud to the totemic creature as it kept on calling at me and edging ever closer, though, not being confrontational.  Satisfied with my password, seemingly, it bobbed and took to the air never to alight again.  I rather appreciated the warm welcome.  

20180302_115503

I loved the sparse beauty of the King’s Gallery at Kensington Palace, which — for me at least — was lauded over by the Equestrian Portrait of HM King Charles I by Sir Anthony van Dyck, who happens to be in entity 1 of my cadre; he, presently incarnate and one of my oldest friends, shortly is about to return from his winter stay at his Acapulco penthouse; I will be visiting him later this spring on the Canadian west coast.

20180302_123009

A truly beautifully tailored, handsome suit, this one.  I am not a big fashion person — I believe that one is best dressed when naked and preferably tumescent.  I did, though, rather enjoyed the movement through the Diana, Princess of Wales exhibition.

20180302_123120

A very beautiful second-level mature artisan, she was too.  

HRH Catherine Duchess of Cambridge

Having been inspired by Diana, Princess of Wales’ portrait, I made my way to Charing Cross Station in Trafalgar Square and cut across the street where there was a broken water main flooding the street.  As usual, Yoda was there doing his routine and, no doubt, earning a pretty quid.  I took in the HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge-curated exhibition, which had opened two nights earlier on my arrival.  Though, I had stood outside the National Portrait Gallery to catch a glimpse of her arrival, I soon dashed off in the increasing snowfall, if I were to make my Jazz at Lincoln Center performance across town at the Barbican Center.  So, having missed seeing her in person, the next best thing was to go gaze at the portrait of HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge.  I love it as it is so layered and complex; she is a late-mature warrior soul.  

National Portrait Gallery

As I move very, very quickly, I was out of there and soon grabbing a take-away fish and chips at Ben’s on Shaftesbury.  I then headed back to my hotel, ate, napped and got ready for a night at Royal Albert Hall to see OVO.  

Royal Albert Hall

Never before had I taken in a Cirque du Soleil performance — I have my reasons…  Nonetheless, I just wanted to enjoy anew the ambiance and acoustics of the marvellous auditorium.  

OVO

The show was no more engaging or exciting than bad bathhouse sex, which if it weren’t so late, one would never have bothered engaging in.  A perfectly forgettable tourist sort of thing to indulge when there was no other nighttime entertainment going that was worthwhile.  I could have taken in 42nd Street in the West End but I had already seen it at least a dozen times when then living and dancing in New York City in the early 1980s.  The idea of taking in 42nd Street was only slightly less irritating than the thought of messy bathhouse sex… options… choices, indeed!  

20180302_191420

After the show, on the long walk from Royal Albert Hall to South Kensington Station, a young mesomorph asked me for a fag — I don’t smoke — but it was obvious what he was after.  He sat across the narrow aisle on the eastbound Piccadilly Line ride and the rest proved a rather memorable night.  

20180302_081601

The morning after the night before, it was off to Windsor Castle, of which I will next blog.  

All Too Human Catalogue

__________________________________________________________________________________________

As ever, sweet dreams and thank you for your ongoing support.  

__________________________________________________________________________________________

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

Two Albrechts but what a Giselle!

Giselle Royal Ballet

Second night in London and there was still lots of snow — at least, by London standards; after Montréal where three feet of snow is no horror, 1.5 inches seemed to have arrested London in its tracks — I was all excited to see David Hallberg whose recent memoir I read on the flight over and carried in my custom Ruben Mack messenger bag, to have it signed after the performance.  Enjoyed my glass of champagne and being in the balcony at Royal Opera house was magical.  My seat was smack in the middle of three Japanese young ladies who were being chaperoned by their lovely teacher.  I negotiated and they excitedly expressed their appreciation at being able to switch with me being on the end so that that they could all sit together.  The closest two sat on their coats and I even offered the tinier future Giselle my coat to sit on.  

Natalia Osipova Matthew Ball

Naturally, I was returned to London as last June, I had pleasantly discovered Natalia Osipova dancing in Marguerite and Armand and was instantly a fan.  There was no way that I was going to miss her Giselle.  Midway through Act I of Giselle, David whom I had never previously seen perform, failed to have impressed.  He seemed not to be dancing full out and the partnership seemed strained; it was as though they had not had enough rehearsals.  Then after intermission and really good champagne, the company’s artistic director came to the stage to announce that Mr. Hallberg had been injured during Act I and would not be proceeding; he then announced that the youngster, Matthew Ball would dance the role of Prince Albrecht in Act II — the house went wild as he had days earlier made his debut in the ballet.  

Natalia Osipova

What then unfolded was the most glorious of evenings in the theatre.  Ms. Osipova, who has the most phenomenal ballon ever witnessed on any ballerina — to say nothing of her turns — danced as if truly overjoyed.  Mr. Ball was also fantastic and I howled for joy at their curtain calls.  Heck, I, who never go backstage, went in hopes of having Mr. Hallberg sign my copy of his book; however, he was a no-show.  Ms. Osipova, inordinately gracious and an ecstatic Mr. Ball, who had had to dash back to the theatre that evening, was only too happy to sign my copy of the program as a steady drizzle fell beyond the double, glass stage doors.  

BernsteinJLCO

Of course, the night prior, I had trekked in even more snow out to Barbican Centre to catch yet another performance of the Jazz at Lincoln Centre Orchestra led by the unparallelled genius, Wynton Marsalis.  The programme was exclusively Leonard Bernstein in a celebration of his centenary… and what a phenomenal show it was.  London’s Jews were out in force to be sure.  I sat next to a princely 93-year-old Jew whose energies were rather like those of Yehudi Menuhin and boy was this man gracious of spirit.  To say the least, I had a ball.  

Barbican2

Naturally, one goes to a Wynton Marsalis performance for the encores!  And boy, he did not disappoint.  As always, I unashamedly howled like mad at the end of all that.  This musical genius’s fabulousness is out of this world.  This truly was a marvellous way to celebrate  a homecoming of sorts; London truly does feel like another West Indian isle.  As Merlin and I shared a rather accomplished life as court musicians in late 18th century London, it is always great to be in London.  

Arvin da Brgha 1.3.2018 Royal Academy London, England

Though I had downloaded the app and had planned on biking whilst in London, the snow everywhere precluded any such adventure.  So there was I next morning — the night of which I attended Giselle, leaving my hotel in Bloomsbury and making it from Russell Square to Piccadilly Circus to, of course, look at art.  

Royal Academy2

Naturally, I had arrived at the Royal Academy at Burlington House to see what for me was the most eagerly anticipated art exhibition in years:  Charles I, King and Collector.  I was the first to have arrived for the show, slipped inside from the snow before being asked to wait outside by security.   Whilst waiting at the head of the queue, there were three gentlemen who arrived, all on the other side of 70 years of age and they were the most urbane aristocrats whom I had ever encountered.  The way they spoke; there was no denying that they were posh.  Moreover, it was more than their accents; their use of language made it sound as though they were speaking a form of English which was mannered, musical and as though another language entirely.  

Royal Academy

Finally, once inside the exhibition, I was truly enthralled, moving from salon to salon as though in the most lucidly captivating dream.  Here were all my favourite Sir Anthony van Dyck paintings in one place — plus, there were some which previously I had not seen… at least, in this lifetime.  Naturally, there were also some rather intimate Sir Peter Paul Rubens in the exhibition, which featured the art from the impressive collection of HM King Charles I… that ode to swaggerliciousness and a young sage to boot.  

HM King Charles I Three Positions Sir Anthony van Dyck Oil on Canvas

I had managed to snap four paintings whilst moving through the first of ten salons when a kindly security agent asked that I obey the rules and refrain from taking photographs.  This truly was as though caught in a flying dream as I moved intoxicated of spirit from salon to salon, I managed whilst looking at murals in one of the larger salons, to make my way to the inner sanctum where the most glorious Sir Anthony van Dycks were hung — the two equestrian portraits one from the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square the other, which previously was hung at Buckingham Palace; there was also that most striking portrait Charles at the hunt which normally is hung at Musée du Louvre.  A lovely henna-braided African security agent informed me that I had progressed improperly and ought to retrace my steps and view the art in the salons on the periphery of the three large internal salons where murals, tapestries and the prized, aforementioned van Dycks of the Royal Collection collected by HM King Charles I were hung.  

Sir Peter Paul Rubens Self-Portrait Oil on Canvas

At the point at which I was about to leave one salon for the next, I suddenly and distinctly thought of Kritika Bhatt the Michael channeller who had been trained by Sarah J. Chambers one of the original channellers in the Michael group.  I thought it odd at the time as I only ever would think of her when a request for overleaves are outstanding and my impatience is having her surface to mind as I wonder if I would be receiving the requested overleaves that day.  Since this was not the case, I thought per chance, that I was thinking of her as she is known to have King Charles spaniels.  Yes, that must be the out-of-nowhere association, I concluded.  

Esther_before_Ahasuerus_(1547-48);_Tintoretto,_Jacopo

On entering the next salon, I immediately moved towards the largest masterpiece and was struck by its depth and impressive use of strong bold colours.  What’s more, I had never seen the painting before.  Fascinating, I whispered before heading to the title to see the title and artist.  I was struck dead in my tracks when reading, Esther before Ahaseuras by Jacopo Tintoretto.  Wow!  I exclaimed.  Years earlier, in an email regarding the overleaves for other artists, Kritika had made mention that her current son had previously been the 16th century Italian artist, Jacopo Tintoretto!  I was floored and for me that out-of-nowhere associative thought of Kritika was validation of the overleaves and information shared years earlier.  

Sir Anthony van Dyck Self-Portrait with Sunflower Oil on Canvas

Earlier, whilst moving through the first salon, I had never come so close to Sir Anthony van Dyck’s Self-Portrait with Sunflower before.  Taking the time to really study the painting, I was struck by my response; suddenly, at my solar plexus, I began experiencing a — not though rare — thumping which was independent of my cardio rhythm.  Never before had I been able to so closely inspect the eyes in the self-portrait.  What was really interesting was the look of the artist’s left eye in the painting; it really was a darker version of my Dutch born and oldest friend, Joop who previously had been Sir Anthony van Dyck.  Though Joop’s eyes are a strong, soulful blue in this lifetime, they truly are the same eyes as Sir Anthony van Dyck’s in the self portrait.  Different colour, same vibration… same intensity.  I had not been expecting that and just as later whilst moving from one salon to the next, I was not expecting to have the Michael Teachings and overleaves validated.  Nonetheless, there is was, two instances of overleaves validated and that was the kind of bonus that one could not have anticipated whilst planning this trip.  

Fortnum & Mason

After purchasing my lovely catalogue of the exhibition, I moved across the street and did some shopping at the grand old dame, Fortnum & Mason.  Let’s face it, I was there to slip into the eatery and score myself the best free lunch in London… and as ever, the bites on offer did not disappoint.  I bought marvellous teas as only can be found at Fortnum & Mason then hopped onto a double decker, driving westerly along Piccadilly.  Making my way up the stairs, I soon had to double back on myself when realising that the upper deck was packed with a sprinkling of London’s homeless, who obviously had been afforded refuge out of the cold and what for London was unheard of snows.  God it smelt atrocious.  As the bus made a right onto Buckingham Palace Road, I hopped off and made my way past the Royal Mews which were closed owing to snow and made it for the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace.  

Charles II Art & Power

I was there to be wowed, though, sadly was not by the Restoration exhibition.  Naturally, how could it have been a show to rival that at the Royal Academy when most of that art had been sold off by the time of HM King Charles II’s coronation.  I would have been rather underwhelmed, had I gone to London just to take in this show.  As it was, it served as ample reason to have appreciated the Royal Academy show even more.  

HM King Charles IIb

Really got off on the vibration exuded by HM King James II as he held court in all his glory in the portrait in the same show at the Queen’s Gallery Buckingham Palace (following painting). 

HM King James II when HRH Prince James Duke of York

Well having had my fill of the Restoration art or the paucity thereof, I enjoyed trekking in the snows along Buckingham Palace Road to Victoria Station and descended into the depths of London’s Underground for yet another adventure.  

St. Paul's Cathedral

Emerging from the bowels of London, I made it to the soul of the nation to pay homage, yet again, at St. Paul’s Cathedral.  

St. Paul's Cathedral4

I wanted to go and light a candle, I lit two actually, in homage to the ennobled lives that both Merlin and I enjoyed in this glorious city three centuries earlier — the memories of which readily surface in the dreamtime.  

St. Paul's Cathedral3

Before one gets too old to be able to make the trek, I managed my way to the whispering gallery, sat down and caught my wind back whilst reflecting on my life.  

Henry Moore

This place so rich in history, is also the sacred shrine where entity mates have left their mark.  Henry Moore is an old artisan in my entity.  

Arthur Duke of Wellington

Of course, no visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral would be complete without paying a visit to the soul of the nation at its crypt and paying homage to ennobled souls who’ve made an indelible mark on London… on history.  There is great and fittingly so, grandeur in the tomb of Arthur, Duke of Wellington’s resting place.  

Admiral Nelson

Of course, the other tomb which dominates the crypt at St. Paul’s Cathedral is that of Admiral Nelson, whom both Merlin and I knew during that incarnation.  Doubtless, it was his passion and tales for and about Nevis, which planted that seed that sparked three lifetimes later with my soul’s choice to reincarnate into Nevis; indeed, it has proven an isle no less magical than his captivating anecdotes then must have been.  Days later, of course, I would see the bullet which felled this great man whilst visiting Windsor Castle; that is for another post.  For now, I rushed home, took a dream-filled nap before heading to Covent Garden and being wowed by two not one Albrechts and the most exciting prima ballerina on the planet… at least, as far as I am concerned.  

20180304_065639

__________________________________________________________________________________________

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and look forward in coming months to book three of my dream-filled memoirs, mandated by Merlin and which prove human civilisation’s first dream memoirs.  

__________________________________________________________________________________________

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

Cornelius Satchleven.

vandyck3682

Engraving (Original)

25.1 x 17.5 cm

c. 1641 Sir Anthony van Dyck

What I especially love about this van Dyck engraving – one of my favourites – is that the subject, Cornelius, is so august-souled.  His look is so kaleidoscopic thereby betraying his reincarnational history.  To look at the subject, he could be Tatar, Nepalese, even Inuit… all the lives that he’s lived to date are magically alluded to.   Masterful.  Stunning.  I love it.

_____________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________________

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