Ah Summer…

12.09.201831.12.2025 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

After having ravenously devoured this fascinating trilogy last winter, I re-read Crazy Rich Asians in anticipation of the film adaptation. Of course, no film can ever approximate the layers of nuances and breath of ideas between the covers of any book. Moreover, reading is a purely subjective experience and with someone possessed of such a rich dream life, a book is always like the most welcome lucid dream.

I was beyond wowed by this film. Nick and Rachel were beautifully cast; however, I had always envisioned Astrid to be deliciously long-necked and more reserved… I think that they ought to have gotten an exquisite beauty who is in repression mode because no one does refined hauteur like a woman in repression mode. Love the greens of Tyersall Park. This was one of the most glorious movies that I have seen in long ages.

Also this summer, I headed off to the Cineplex in Dundas Square to catch an opera production, which initially I had not when it premiered three years earlier. Lucian Mann-Chomedy a mature scholar entity mate and I have been catching movies and attending the opera together. He is a world-renowned expert on Voltaire. Sublime and strastopherically knowledgeable, he is always welcome company. Usually, we gather at my place once per fortnight and have tea, talk ideas but of late, we have naturally been looking at the recent royal wedding of TRH Duke and Duchess of Sussex. More of that later…

In any event, there were we happily settled in in our back row seats, eating popcorn and excited at being transported by Verdi’s mastery. As ever Anna Netrebko was superb and nothing was more moving whilst simultaneously sad than seeing Dmitri Hvorostovsky in glorious song. We both held hands and silently lost tears as his passing two years later, November, 2017 was highlighted at the end of the film. A truly remarkable performer with a lot of sage and king energy going on somewhere in his casting and role in essence.

So there were Lucian and I returned to Dundas Square to have yet another vicarious theatre experience. This time, it was the Royal Ballet’s new production of Swan Lake with choreography by Liam Scarlett and the most fuck-all fabulous sets designed by the gifted and visionary George Macfarlane – that gold-leaf-looking set in Act III is worth flying to London and seeing it in person at Covent Garden. Vadim Muntagirov and Marianela Nunez were the pricipal dancers. Now this is world-class dancing of the highest order. I would rather fly to London and catch a performance than time-waste and money-waste on a season of the National Ballet of Canada. If I’m honest, the only dancer in NBC I ever recognise, when onstage, is Skylar Campbell thanks to his russet afro.

Besides, I was deeply disappointed when in celebration of Canada’s 150th anniversary as captured territory – let’s be real here – rather than look forward to the future, one just had to go raiding the Canada Council Grant system. I can understand that these are all friends socially but I am so tired of this “one Anglais, one Français” approach to things. God forbid that Canadians outside of Québec should ever be nationally presented on their nightly news with what goes on in Montréal each July 1, Canada Day. After a week earlier celebrating Fete National, everyone moves house rather than celebrate the country’s holiday. Of course, for the poor Anglo newcomers to Montréal, living in English enclaves, who did not secure indoor parking, they find themselves with slashed tyres and knocked off side view mirrors – all for being Anglo in god forbid supposed Canada.

Instead of saluting the fact that Indo-Canadians in the GTA (greater Toronto Area) have arrived by mounting a production of La Bayadere, instead we had to settle for two non-choreographers mounting crap that you know I had no time to waste on. I heard from friends that it was utterly dismissible fare as can well be imagined. After the opening night performance of a new production of La Bayadere, one could then cross Queen Street West to the grounds of Osgoode Hall (Law Society of Upper Canada) with a few pitched marquees and have an Indian themed party with a handful of Bollywood stars thrown in for good measure. Naturally, this would see new sponsorships for the NBC – god knows arts funding is always hard to come by – and it would be a wonderful way of being both inclusive of all Canadians and looking forward to the next 150 years. The maudlin fare staged will not be in the repertoire ten years hence, you can count on that.

Alors, enough about what might have been… this after all is Canada. Lucian and I had ourselves a fantastic time vicariously enjoying a live performance from Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. The dancing, staging and orchestration were all stellar. Vadim and Marianela were fabulous. Of course, had I flown to London to see Swan Lake, I would have opted for Natalia Osipova’s interpretation of Odette/Odile or a partnership wherein Steven McRae danced Prince Siegfried.

One of the things that Lucian and I also do when getting together for tea, entity mates as we are, is we delight in looking at the recent royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex. When initially her overleaves were channelled as requested by moi, she was said to have had two prior lives as a high ranking member of the British Royal Family. Naturally, as I was completely taken with the sweeping theatricality of their wedding, I had those past lives explored and was not surprised in the least.

Back in 1995 whilst living in Vancouver, I spent a glorious weekend with a friend who had moved from Toronto at least a decade earlier. A great cook and marvellous raconteur, he also happens to be an artisan entity mate. In among his stellar library was a book that he highly recommended; he devoured biographies with true relish. The book was a favourite of his, The King’s Mother: Lady Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby – it proved a most fascinating portrait of someone whom I had never before heard of. There was no doubt in my mind that this was a phenomenal woman without whom there would have been no House of Tudor.

Cousin to King Henry VI, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother to King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to Queen Elizabeth I, here was the most sweeping portrait of a life lived in full and of a truly remarkable woman. Not surprised was I then to learn that the soul now incarnate as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was in that past life, Lady Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby. Indeed, there sat Meghan, holding hands with her beautiful-of-spirit husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with the black marble tomb of King Henry VI behind them in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. Furthermore, like true Queen and Mother of the House of Tudor returned, Meghan on entering St. George’s Chapel was greeted by fanfare, which is reserved for the arrival of the Sovereign.

Lucian and I have spent much time, trying to spot as many persons who attended the wedding beyond the usual fare: Oprah Winfrey, Amal and George Clooney – whom I thought were both sartorially off. One does not wear a hat on the left side of the head anymore than one would a medal on the right breast as David Beckham did at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge in 2011. I loved every shot of Emilie van Cutsem; she looks like a real tough broad who is definitely got a goal of dominance. Of course, there she sat in the quire next to Jack Brooksbank in her ruby brooch to match her monochromatic outfit. By far the most handsome of her four sons, is Hugh van Cutsem who sat two rows in the nave behind royals, Cleopatra and Franz-Albrecht zu Oettingen-Spielberg; a baroness at birth, her husband is a Bavarian prince and friend of HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. Hugh van Cutsem also sat two rows ahead of Chelsy Davy and her brother Shaun.

So many persons seemed to have gotten it wrong, claiming that Chelsy looked glum whilst being simply focussed and meditative – I rather suspect that she is either a scholar or warrior soul, which would give her that singleness of focus. There was a beautiful moment, one of my favourites, where whilst chatting with two ladies, she and one of the other women silently break open their faces in spirited laughter – it was one of the more memorable moments. At the time, they stood next to another troika Jake Warren father of bridesmaid Zalie Warren and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s goddaughter as he chatted with Marcus Mumford and his wife the actor, Carey Mulligan.

Edward van Cutsem is, of course, married to another the late Gerald Grosvenor, Duke of Westminster’s daughters, Tamara, older sister of Dan Snow’s wife, Lady Edwina who sat directly ahead of Adam Bidwell – a man with a most sexually dynamic face – who entered the chapel’s south door in a cluster of males which included Jake Warren, Mark Dyer, Thomas and Charlie van Straubenzee, Arthur Landon, Hugh – the current Duke of Westminster – and Jack Brooksbank.

One of the more beautiful intimate moments between the Sussexes went unnoticed by 95 per cent of persons watching the ceremony. Yes there was that beautiful moment during the Kingdom Choir singing Stand by Me when the camera cuts to an adoring HRH Prince Henry as he taps on his beloved’s fingers and she turns and smiles into his familiar soul, being the only sunshine that lights his world – this is the 21st time that these two souls have met during the course of reincarnations. As he slipped the golden ring onto her finger in movement that was sexually charged, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex then winked his left eye at his ravishing bride – sly, intimate and subtle, most persons would not have noticed the wink as it happened.

Veiled, I love this photograph of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex as the veil represents the vision of Lady Margaret Beaufort having a lucid dream of herself into the future where she is being crowned, as it were, at a wedding in Windsor Castle’s St. George’s Chapel. How like a true queen, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex appears as her train is carried by the Mulroney twins, who along with the other eight pages and bridesmaids beautifully fulfilled their tasks. The dark and umbra lighting also suggests the past and that soul, having been the mother of the House of Tudor coming through to claim her reward as a member of the House of Windsor, which would not have been Anglican, indeed might have gone the way of so many other monarchies were it not for the shrewdly calculating and indomitable Lady Margaret Beaufort from whose womb like an acorn indirectly passed two of the greatest of the United Kingdom’s sovereigns, King Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth I.

Theirs was a truly remarkable and beautiful wedding. Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their tasks ahead as Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors, charter members of the Royal Foundation, the driving force behind the Invictus Games and strongly bonded entity mates who have found each other anew. Hip! Hip!

For now, I have returned from the emergency at St. Michael’s Hospital after being thrown from my chromium steed by rain-smeared steel crating. As ever, I got up and after a vituperative bouquet, I resumed singing and scatting my heart out as it is the only way to stay focussed when bike-riding in this town. Though it has done my arthritic right knee no favours, my laptop survived unscathed.

As ever, thank you for your ongoing patronage. Don’t ever forget to deeply breathe in, plié then push off because life is but a most glorious of dreams and right here is where it’s at. Sweet dreams as ever.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Two Albrechts But What A Giselle!

10.03.201801.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

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.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Soar Higher Still!

12.02.201701.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Al Jarreau

12/3/40<O>12/2/17

Sweet and blissful dreams, you ravishingly beautiful ennobled soul!

I love you more…

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Hot Rhythm.

05.02.201701.01.2026 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Hot Rhythm

Oil on Canvas

40 x 48 inc

Provenance: Chicago History Museum.

Love this rousing masterpiece!

___________________________________________________________________________________________

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.

__________

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.

________________________________

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.

_________________________________

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.

___________________________________

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.

________________________________

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.

_______________________________________

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.

_________________________________________

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.

___________________________________________

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.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Crawl the Fuck In Your Casket!

27.10.201602.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Goodness, it has been a long time since I have posted a dream herein. I have been busy putting the finishing touches on the memoir for which many of the dreams shared herein will be featured. The subtitle for the memoir will be: Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoir.

More recently, I was having a leisurely ride home in the morning up Yonge Street. I had just ascended the last incline on Yonge before it cruises down to a level grade, then it is hang a right and cruise along Wellesley Street East and home. Just as I crossed Carlton Street and begun the real steeply graded portion of the ride, a cab pulled up and immediately out popped a female in suit at the start of her business day; she was headed for the 24hrs Shoppers Drug Mart.

Immediately, I opted to change course and rode around to the driver’s side of the cab and cruised along the little bit of leeway afforded as yet another condominium construction – Yonge & Grenville meant that the two lanes in each direction were reduced to only one. As I cruised past ringing my bell, the cab driver suddenly began opening his door; I could not believe his audacity. I shouted him down and insisted that he let me pass, to which the dirty-looking mid-aged Dravidian shot back, “Oh shut up as if you matter!”

My heart was already pumping beyond the norm after the fright of seeing his door beginning to open as I rode alongside. Indeed, who are we to think that Black lives matter? As I was too exhausted to fight just then, I continued peddling hard then started back to the right and towards the curb where I always ride. No sooner than had I made it round the front of the cab that the hairy back and arsed southern Mediterranean construction worker on the east side of Yonge Street holding up a stop sign, on having witnessed the near miss, shouted, “Kill him! Kill him!”

My heart only pumped even more deafeningly as his face became contorted with racially predatory hatred his ilk own so well but are forever careful to claim not to have any awareness of. Exhausted and feeling like I was going to keel over, I soldiered on too proud to have to stop and deal with the ubiquitous ugliness that is racism. Yes indeed, Canada is a racist hellhole and they are so stratospherically sophisticated at being venal racists that unlike their tormented neighbours to the south, they do not need the ubiquity of guns when they have quite effectively rendered Blacks as negligible as a weevil-infested bag of flour in the corner.

Edging less gingerly up Yonge Street than normally I would, I was met two blocks north by more lane closure; yet another block long condo complex was breaking ground – east side of Yonge Street from Maitland Street south. Riding past, I made eye contact with a mid-aged member of the local constabulary who on making eye contact smiled and nodded in kind; I have always found Toronto’s officers to be worlds removed from their counterparts in Montréal. Getting to Wellesley Street, I realised that the store to which I would normally drop in to get my cache of lottery tickets and ice cream did not have my choice flavours.

Thus, I hung right and began homeward east along Wellesley Street East. Riding past, opposite the subway entrance to Wellesley Subway Station, I noticed three large 5 tonne trucks lined up along the south side of Wellesley’s eastbound lane; they actually were obstructing the bike lane. Again, I grew understandably cautious and began ringing my bell on approaching the first of three trucks waiting to service the condo complex under construction on the north side of Wellesley where the three hundred pound-plus Dr. Edward Kamski with a drifting eye serviced one of Toronto’s largest group of AIDS patients back in the 1990s in an office low-rise tower that no longer exists.

As I rung my bell and cruised along, I heard a male voice to my rear impatiently yelling for me to get the hell out of the way. Finally, when I cleared the third 5 tonne truck, the White male pulled alongside on his bike to start shouting at me. I was called a fucking stupid arsehole and a moron and called crazy for wearing a helmet with lights on at just past 0700 when the Sun had not yet fully risen. Of course, White male bigot number 1 million and two wore no helmet and fixed me with hostile looks that were full of rage that had nothing to do with my having been in his way. Naturally, his whiteness is his helmet and were he to have fallen, he could never possibly suffer brain injury of any kind.

I am always so happy when the weather turns icy and snowy because all these casual cyclists who never wear a helmet and are forever speeding and illegally dashing through red lights are not a nuisance for a good six months. Naturally, he let a green light turn red at Church Street so that he could wait for me to catch up to him after he had initially sped off owing to cowardice. Now he had to return to get his fix of being hateful and seeking someone Black to blame all that was wrong and blameworthy in the world.

Again, he started with the racially predatory yelling as though this was some moment in Apartheid South Africa and I was his bitch. Because life is too short to suffer the White tribe and its fucked up psyche, I simply began singing aloud whilst drowning out his dreck – with a little change of lyrics, “Ooooh wooo wooo wooooooo, what a little sunshine wouldn’t do-ooooooo!” Thereafter, I followed with loud merry scatting as though having to drive off another bothersome neighbourhood yapping stray dog. You will never fucking-goddamn-arse snuff out the spirit of the people who invented Jazz! Know that!

Finally, I got to the store along Wellesley Street East where I have visited since it opened a few years back. In the last couple of years, I have stridently avoided frequenting said store in daytime as there is a White female clerk there who from the first time that I entered the store, she was rude and has remained rude on the odd occasion that I would pop in.

Last June close to the end of the school year, I dropped in the store to get a couple of lottery tickets in the afternoon whilst en route to work. Naturally, there was a gaggle of giggly, bubbly youths from Jarvis Collegiate Institute, the city’s oldest high school. As I patiently waited, I admiringly observed three Black males who were negotiating with their Filipino and Somali female friends. They were giving them cash and a list of what they wanted.

Said one youth, when asked by one of the scarfed Somali why don’t they just get their stuff themselves, “She’s a bitch! I’m not going in there to be yelled at.” Another of three out rightly dismissed her as a racist bigot who was always targeting them for being Black. Straight away, I knew to whom they were referring. Finally, I made it into the store where as I got my tickets again, the cigarette-smoking, mouth-breather whose idea of post-secondary education will amount to how to successfully cock-suck and breed more ignorant offal just had to be rude, snicker and fight-pick.

I ignored her because again, life is way too short to have to suffer shit that just does not count. Previously, I had walked out the store to avoid having to operatically scream at her sleepwalking hateful arse. Of course, on that occasion, I got home only to realise that my lottery tickets had not made it from the store with me. I then returned hours later when she was already concluded her shift to pick up my tickets.

So there I was, after having been met by three rounds of racial animus all within five minutes of each other and mere hours of these persons having awakened; at least I was near the end of my day. All I wanted was my blasted ice cream, my lottery tickets and go home, turn up my ever turned-on BOSE to JazzFM and have Garvia Bailey lay some culture on me. For the brief time that I was in the store, as ever, the racist White boor kept up the usual sotto voce remarks and insisted that I get the hell out of the store and take my bike with me. The bike she has always used as her crutch for dicking with me and since I have always had the manager’s permission to bring my bike into the store, long before she ever dropped out of high school, I had no intentions of being bullied by her.

So I ignored her bullshit and had quite had enough when she said, “Are you deaf too; like don’t you hear me, just take you and your bike and get out of the store.” Taking two steps back, I began channelling Leontyne Price after she has just stridden victorious offstage to rapturous applause in Tosca, to Nina Simone singing with stinging rebuke Mississippi Goddamn, to Diana Ross in her live 1992 show in New York City singing with callous brutality, Strange Fruit, to Betty Carter wrapping it all up breezily singing, Thou Swell – and you can always count on Heather Bambrick to drop some Betty Carter when she is on-air hosting on JazzFM.

“Why don’t you go lay your fucking grey arse in the sun…” I lethally shot back, to which she rebutted aloud, “Excuse me! Why would I want to lay in the sun? Like, why would I want to look like… you?”

“No sweetheart never mind that, the sooner you lay your hideous grey arse in the sun, the sooner you’ll get cancer and crawl the fuck in your casket.” Of course, never before having had her daily fix of racially charged aggression challenged, her feeble comeback was another, “Excuse me?” said with the sort of lisp that likely meant that her brother and or father were devout cocksuckers as is one’s wont.

Always having to have the last word, she then added, “Go on, get out the store, you are blocking the aisle.”

“Shut the fuck up and get some sun, you fucking hideous lizard-lipped fraud. Not only are a poor excuse for a human but you long ago used up your quota of oxygen. Go on, crawl the motherfuck in your casket!”

“Yeah whatever, get out of here!”

Life is all about choice: you can either play Rodney King or you own your power and be a proud motherfucker like Lena Horne or Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones for that matter. As I began leaving the store, right on cue, the morning radio show chimed in with the opening sounds of Robert Nestor Marley crying out, “Oh Yeah!” at the start of his famous anthem.

Oh ye fucking gods, never before had Bob Marley sounded so sweet… been so empowering. Getting to the automatic doors, I drowned out her bullshit as the White loutish effete Athenian – whose thick moustache likely stunk of phlegm and faeces – who was in the store observing what went down, got to the counter and began saying some shit about ‘them’; singing for joy, I joined Bob Marley and shouted, “Rasta-far-I” as I slipped through the door and into sunlight which suddenly seemed more crisp, indeed, more vibrant.

In having taken the time to take this racial predatory boor to task, the universe had synergistically harmonised and lifted me higher as Bob Marley’s infectious idealism took control. Never before had Marley sounded so beautiful, been so right. Had I done as too many times previously I had, I would have suffered the indignity of being driven out of the store by the racist lout and missed out, most importantly, on that Bob Marley tune.

I then got home, had Garvia Bailey’s magical energies groove me back to centre. But enough of me kicking racially predatory arse; let’s then focus on the business in hand. I found this wonderful dream of the most glorious eccentric who much informed my upbringing in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. She was the original, the real McCoy… a true eccentric. Unlike that other Florence (Foster Jenkins) there was nothing lunatic about the eccentric Kittisian Florence (Pole).

These marvellously uplifting dreams, which had also included a right proper astral plane fuck, were gloriously lived on Thursday, April 1, 1993 whilst the Moon then bugalooed through Cancer and my second house. These swell uncompromisingly beautiful dreams are to found in volume XV and were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty-seven.

The second dream of eccentric Florence Pole was dreamt on Saturday, March 10, 1990. At the time, it was a full Moon in Virgo and thus Luna transited my fourth house whilst being conjunct my natal Pluto and simultaneously opposing retrograde Chiron and square both natal Luna and its opposition to Mars at the ascendant. This dream of Florence was the most lucidly awakened dream poetry imaginable.

Go on drink from the chalice that is this rare beautiful flower; but don’t get too close and definitely do not get out of line ‘cause I’m a rapaciously carnivorous motherfucker who will hand you back your arse roughly ploughed and bloodied – beautiful flowers always have to protect themselves from being preyed on. More than that, please know that your support these past three years have been immensely encouraging.

I quite look forward to sharing the bounty of dreams and the story of Merlin and me in the memoir which will be dropping in coming months. Be well and always straighten up and fly right, you cool shamanic kindred-spirited cats! Sweet dreams whether focussed in the waking state or dreamtime; anything less is just not living.

____________________________________

Arriving at Florence Pole’s, next door to our Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house, I ventured indoors. Naturally, in this the second dream, the entire house was boarded up.

When crossing the veranda, I had cautiously treaded; I knew that the floorboards there had a history of being broken or rotted away. On entering the doors from the veranda, in place of a living room one immediately entered a bedroom.

This was the easterly room off the veranda which, in the waking state, had always been the living room. A large single, metallic bed sat in the center of the room.

Seeing it brought back childhood memories that were pleasant to the touch. Though it was fairly dark inside, I knew that Florence Pole was in the house.

At one point, she called me from across the house; with that, I went in search of her. From the room, I made it into a large, impressive hall which seemed too large to be contained in the confines of her quaint Kittisian bungalow.

I was quite surprised that it existed and its high-ceilinged beauty was inspiring. Though the entire house from the exterior appeared to be completely boarded up and thus shutting out any possible light of day, there was a great deal of light flooding into the hall.

Several beautiful area rugs were strategically placed on the floor of the hall; the rugs, however, never overlapped. They were in the center and were placed in square formations.

The parquetry, down the centre of the hall, was so well polished that it shined. To see all this splendour really blew my mind.

Seeing that she is such an eccentric, I thought that perhaps she would been some celebrated aristocrat in a past life. She certainly is an intellectual aristocrat; Florence is so fine-tuned that she is beyond the ordinary.

This makes it impossible for her to relate on the level of the mundane. How good it was to see her ensconced in such splendour.

She is certainly an eccentric, mature-souled, evolved creature. A breed apart and onto herself, for that matter, I thought as I moved through the palatial hall.

On further reflection, I realised that her inner life would really look this opulent. There would be nothing but splendour here; after all, all she gets in the waking state is social ostracism and derision.

The rugs were genuine Persian rugs and were in tiptop shape at that. They were well preserved and of the finest quality; seemingly, they were hundreds of years old.

There were two long ones, on either side, which ran the length of the hall. Between them and the dark, rich panelling of the walls were some two feet of empty space.

The grid, which formed the rectangle of exposed parquetry, was some five by twelve feet long. Wanting to hear the sound of my feet when striding through such a majestic place, I kept to the parquetry as much as possible.

The sunlight flooding the hall left the space infused with the very warmth of Florence Pole’s spirit. Eventually, I entered the room off the central hall from which she had called me.

When I entered, she greeted me grandly and was truly eccentric. She recognised me, right away, and was warm and genuinely excited to see me.

Her energies were thoroughly theatrical. All that I could think was how wonderful it was to see her again.

Here, in this room, there was an identical bed to the one in the guest room; this one, though, was in a far corner of the room. This room was sparsely furnished.

Over in the far southwest corner of the room, the head of the bed was facing due south. The door faced eastward and into the hall.

There was no disputing the fact that the interior of this house was considerably larger than her waking state house. As a matter of fact, it was palatial in dimensions and the home of a very wealthy person.

This, of course, was a metaphor for this woman’s considerable wealth of spirit, intellect and creativity. Florence Pole has substance and it was being borne out in this dream.

That no one in the waking state actually perceived her, for her true self, is not the issue. They frustrated her because of their intolerance but ultimately, she was not lunatic, crazy or demented.

This dream encounter validated my suspicions, held since my childhood, of her. Style and character were innately hers.

Florence Pole had this one particular painting which was in the far, northeast corner of the room. The painting was on the northern wall but towards the eastern edge of it.

This painting was the most incredibly beautiful work of art. The art was held in an ornate wooden frame that was gold filigree; the frame was about two and one half inches thick.

Bevelled, the frame graded in towards the painting. The painting was oil on canvas and was quite rich.

There was a wonderful sense of the ‘blue’; indeed, it was an aqueous sky. On the ocean was the most magnificent large ship.

The ship was from the age of the buccaneers. Right then and there, it dawned on me that the painting hearkened back to a past life of Florence Pole’s.

Thus, I presumed, she perhaps had been a pirate; a European pirate who had come over on one of the galleons during the 16^th or 17^th centuries. Perhaps, I further speculated, she had come to St. Kitts and had so loved the place that her soul had decided to pass a future lifetime there; of course, that future lifetime is the life that she is now living.

She would definitely have been European, perhaps, British, French or possibly Spanish. That experience, as it were, had ended up planting a seed in her soul.

There was no mistaking that this lifetime of hers presently hearkens back to a disputatious lifetime of hers; a past life in which she was White of European descent and deeply involved in the pillage, rape and plunder of the spoils of colonialism. She had clearly had a swashbuckling lifetime somewhere back there.

The ship was brown and black with three masts. Two of its sails were unfurled.

The ship was the most majestic vessel imaginable. Never before had I seen a painting that was so alive with sheer realism and creative genius.

She stood there whilst admiringly looking at me as I rather admired the painting. I knew that Florence Pole knew that I was getting the gist of the ship’s importance.

The oils used were as if still wet and slowly, hypnotically in motion. This painting was as captivating as when I stood before Rembrandt van Rijn^†’s Night Watch back in 1992.

Quite simply, I was blown away by the languorousness of the painting. This was not static; it was as if having a window onto a past in which simultaneously said ship was on the high seas centuries across time.

To say the least, Florence Pole in that past life would have been on board that ship then and there. Perhaps, she was even the captain of the vessel.

The colours here were so masterfully rendered. A truly realistic reproduction of things this proved.

In that sense, it truly was magical as it simply seemed to be the seed point from which the actual vessel was created. The blues of the sea, as contrasted to the blues of the sky, were so subtle that it was mind-blowing.

This was a very rich blue with different tonalities to it. In its subtleties, this work of art was so sublimely magical that it was mind-expanding.

Also, in the room were two antique chests of drawers. There was as well an antique rocking chair.

This woman was so very regal and dramatic. I rather got off on being in her presence.

We completely connected; there was no way to get around the fact that we were not strangers to each other. She did very much so appeal to my Sagittarian energies.

Our sense of self and style were completely harmonious; in that sense, we were kindred spirits in the true sense of the word. So very good it was to see her that I said, “Oh, it’s so very good to see you…”

With that, I grabbed her by the hand and energetically squeezed it. She warmly smiled and together our hands remained at our sides.

The touch of her hands relayed to me that energetic spark of her soul itself. The feel of her vibration was readily familiar.

She was showing me around the room; together, we spent much time looking over the oil painting of the galleon. Florence Pole then told me that it was her very favourite painting and held a special place in her heart.

This, of course, made perfect sense to me as it was clearly a pivotal lifetime of hers. Clearly, it was a lifetime in which she commandeered on the high seas and was quite the adventurer.

There was no sense that there was something lacking in her life, in this lifetime, because she was isolated. There was a lot of processing going on in her life at present.

I had the sense that she was in the process of transiting soul ages; as a result, she was having to take stock before making the next big leap forwards. There was nothing wrong in her present lifetime.

She was an older soul; of that much I was, for having experienced her, certain. I then left the room and walked about the hall more leisurely whilst exploring the various rooms off the central hall.

Meanwhile, Florence Pole could be heard very beautifully singing as though I was not even there. This was the kind of inner musings in which she constantly engaged without as much as a thought to others’ opinions.

This was one of the most pleasurably rapturous experiences.

*To have been in this great eccentric’s presence as she was simply being herself whilst caught in a groove, I thoroughly understood. This truly was an utterly amazing dream odyssey.

Here, it was quite nice and uplifting. More than ever, this astral plane encounter impressed on me how very rich a life this woman is leading.

She was letting me into her innermost lair whilst following her inner voice. This was the most beautiful and intimate of dances of souls.

I thoroughly connected with the every complex idiosyncrasy of her being. Florence Pole, contrary to waking state misperceptions, was quite grounded and completely aware of her selfhood.

This woman has achieved a great deal in this lifetime and I am very honoured to have been witness to it; a totally admirable soul. During childhood, this woman was the object of intense study for me.

Every time that she would fly out onto her veranda, taking to the stage, I would become as if possessed by her. There was no way to get around the fact that this was great theatre; every time she appeared, I was captivated by her every stunning, quicksilver innuendo.

What I learnt most of all, about her self-absorption, was that it does not matter what it is you do. You simply have to go ahead and do it because ultimately no one can either stop you but you.

When it is all said and done, Florence Pole was simply exploring her beingness. For flying out onto her veranda, in full operatic rant, she was fulfilling herself. END.

When I ventured into another bedroom, I found there a man. He was mesomorphic, tall and blond. Although his body reminded me of Storm Isbister’s, I could not make out who he was.

He called me over to join him in bed – even better than I would have scripted it myself, “Oh, my goodness! Yes… let’s make love…”

The sheets were a quilted satin, the most luxurious touch, as I seductively slithered into bed. Passionately, we groped each other’s hard-ons whilst groaning and hungrily looking into the other’s eyes.

We truly delighted in each other’s bodies. All the windows to the house were of course closed; thus we were provided with ample privacy.

Climbing atop him, I rubbed my cock hard against his. As he lay back there, into the propped up pillows, his body reminded me in its largeness of Karl Weller’s.

Nimbly, I straddled him whilst making his body familiar territory and all mine at that. We grabbed a hold of both cocks whilst frottaging atop the other.

His cock was longer and considerably thicker than mine. He was also uncut.

What really freaked me out about the whole experience was how wonderfully real it was. I could smell his maleness: his balls, cock, precum, armpits, sweat and breath.

Our passionate play was profoundly grounding. After pinching hard his nipples, with my left hand, I flipped around.

Now I straddled him with my back turned to him whilst still frottaging. With that, he righted himself by propping his upper body with the elbows.

Grabbing a hold of my contracted scrotum, I began rubbing the ridge between it and the anus against his hard, throbbing cock. Sweaty and on the verge of going wild, I cried out to him, “Yes, oh god, let’s fuck.”

With that, I went to get a vial of lubricant that sat across the room on a bureau. Straight away, he drew my attention to the fact that this was the dreamtime and there was no need for lubricant.

More to the point, his referral was to the condoms which I brought back to the bed. Irritated, he shot at me, “Come on, let’s not use them.

“Look, at you. Look at where we are, will you?”

Yet I felt the need to use them, of habit, as in the waking state. He did not protest any further; I then began squeezing some of the lubricant into my palm.

The feel of it was so cool and luxuriant that it made me shiver throughout. I so wanted him that I lunged at him and began passionately kissing him.

We both hungrily struggled in the other’s arms whilst consumed with one another. The experience was so incredibly intense.

I did take note that his eyes were very waking state in focus. That is to say, there was nothing soulful or old-souled about them.

He was very grounded, young-souled and sexually dynamic. I am not quite certain that this was indeed an encounter with Karl Weller.

His face was not distinctive; besides, I was too overcome with lustful desire to have paid his looks that much attention. All the way through, I kept on groaning whilst completely enjoying myself.

Nothing else in the world existed whilst being alone with him. I was not the least bit self-conscious about Florence Pole being close by in another room of her palatial digs.

In all honesty, it was hard for me to transcend my lust and get into him. All I wanted was to have my size queen’s every yearning fulfilled.

Nothing about him mattered to me but his cock. I wanted his cock inside me; I wanted the feel of his powerful body all over me.

On my knees in the bed, I faced out whilst he got well lubed and slippery. The slippery bulbous head of him was just comfortably past the plush, relaxed rim of my butthole when we heard Florence Pole noisily rushing down the hall towards us.

From outside the door, she called out concerned and wanted to know what noise was this. Stealthily, we both leapt from the bed whilst still engaged and onto the floor.

We threw ourselves onto the ground, on the far side of the bed – north side, away from the door. Somehow, in our energetic manoeuvre, I had managed my way on top of him whilst he was now completely buried deep up inside me.

The feel of him was mind-altering and exquisite. Florence Pole then entered and projected her usual feisty, argumentative waking state persona.

Right away, she demanded to know what we were doing; this, of course, was her way of feigning ignorance. She then grandly announced that she did not want us messing around or carrying on like this in her house.

Speciously, I called out to her and let her know that we were not doing anything untoward. My left elbow was on the bed, bracing me up, whilst he was lying behind me on the floor; at the time, he was totally hidden from view.

I sat squarely on his cock, with my back fully elongated, whilst yogically breathing. Whilst she stood there and stayed her ground, I tried to stave off her intervention but the feel of his cock thrusting unabated and rhythmically deep into me was fast rocking me to a cerebral orgasm.

To not lose it and shriek at her to get lost, it took every fibre of my being. Consciously, I began elevating my vibration whilst simultaneously projecting this process onto her.

The object here was to quiet her fears and elevate her life condition to a place completely removed from all fears. Try as I might, she would have none of it and simply stayed her ground.

Florence wanted to have whatever we were up to, on the other side of ‘that’ bed in ‘her’ house, to be readily concluded. Fussily, she told me to get up and be decent.

I was not, after all, even wearing any clothes. At this point, we had long since ripped off all our clothing.

Florence then insisted that I get dressed and immediately get going. Pulling up off his cock, I groaned aloud as there was a vacuum tug created in the wake of his bulbous-headed departure.

I could not have cared less that she had heard it all; there was no way to have controlled such intensity of emotions. This was the kind of cock which on seeing it in the waking state, one had to readily sublimate one’s usual posture as top and pay homage by way of experiencing a momentary lapse and play bottom.

She came over to the bed whilst insisting that we both get up and take our leave of her house. I then suggested to my uber-lover that we slip out the house, by way of the side doors, which would have faced Jestina Hendricks’ house to the south.

He did not like the idea of being seen together when leaving the house. Agreeing, I offered to meet him down the street after heading out the front door.

He was mindful that no one suspect him, or us, of having been physically intimate. I then offered him to come home with me as I had to be heading back anyway.

With that, we parted and left the house at opposite ends. Eventually, we came together around the corner of the house; there, we pretended to have just met.

We then went walking along the street. What was really interesting was in my haste to get dressed before Florence Pole went truly wild, I had pulled on my blue jeans and forgotten to put on the underwear first.

Funnily enough, I had only remembered the underwear when I saw it fall out the left leg of my jeans. The underwear had slipped out ahead of my pointed foot as I hurriedly got dressed.

Quickly, I grabbed it up off the floor and tucked it into my waist. I secured it there so that it would be held in place beneath my shirt by the belt.

All that I could think of, when we were alone outside, was the fact that we had not used condoms. All this even though I knew pretty much so that this was a dream.

In my mind, I went through a battery of fears about him being riddled with STDs of one kind or the other. I became quite concerned and fearful.

I then got in and on entering the house, I could feel Isha da Braga’s vibration about the interior. Pandora da Braga was there with a brown-folded brochure for a concert or some such.

We were looking at it when she began naively asking, what I had been doing; there was so much implied about the super stud with whom she had seen me out in the street. Deflecting her intrusion, I told her that I had merely been next door to visit with Florence Pole.

Next, I pointed out that the guy was there with her. We met and he decided to go for a tour of the place with me.

Earlier, as we walked home, I had been urging him with the suggestion that we go get a room at a bathhouse; there, at least, we could fuck our brains out. All I wanted to do was to be with him and fuck ‘til daylight.

I told him that there was no way that we would have any privacy at my family’s. Looking disappointed in me, he let me know that he never went to places like that and did not like my idea of finding nothing wrong in frequenting such a place.

“That’s not my scene. I wouldn’t want to go to a place like that, at all.

“I just wouldn’t be comfortable,” he protested.

Nonetheless, I was persistent, “Come on. It’ll be just you and me.

“We’d be together in a room, away from being spied on by anyone.” I could see that he wasn’t going to get into it.

Contrary to the waking state arrangement, the walk from Florence Pole’s to our house was unusually long – especially for being a next-door neighbour. Both houses are separated, in the waking state, by the narrow earthen lane.

Outdoors, it was quite sunny and bright. This, too, had been the case inside the sky lighted grand hall at Florence Pole’s palatial digs.

Sol’s intensity here was also a metaphor for what I was feeling, deep within, as I had literally been walking on air – after having played St. George to this veritable dragon of a schlong. Well quelle scandalle!

He would have none of my deceptive banter. Just like that, he put in and let Pandora da Braga know, “No, no, no. We were over there, in bed.

“And we had a good time. We really connected and we fucked.

“I mean, we didn’t get to fuck as much as we’d like to. But it was really a good, good fuck nonetheless.

“It’s like we didn’t do anything. Yet, we did everything…”

Talk about being completely mortified. Yet, there he stood all man and no bullshit.

There was no way to get around his candour. Obviously, he was feeling the depth of sublime connectivity as much as I was.

The passion to be sure was there as well. Though we had not been able to go all 15 rounds, it was all around a pretty damn good fuck.

Interestingly, Florence Pole’s interruption and nonstop banter moved us onto an alternate, totally unexpected plane. We were arrived at a groove where we were able to experience the most meaningful of orgasms: an intellectual high, communion of spirits.

What passed between us was quite incredible. Overwhelming it was and thrilling too.

He was pleased at what we had experienced and, for that matter, he could not bear to have the beauty of it marred by my being in denial of what had had transpired between us. Finally, I felt embarrassed before both.

Pandora meanwhile, to say the least, did not much care to hear about any such thing. Adroitly, before being possibly late for some appointment or other, she declared that she had to get going.

With that, I took my leave of them both.

*Back to Florence Pole, she was channelled by Sarah J. Chambers as being a mid-cycle mature sage. Previously, Florence had been the daughter of the Maharajah of Jaipur in the 15^th century.

Too, she has had many celebrated lifetimes on the stage; furthermore, she had had an illustrious past life in Rome. There, she had been a celebrated sculptor some of whose works still exist.

More than that, as is obvious, she was no stranger to either Merlin or I. Of course, Florence never did meet Merlin. END.

___________________>0<______________________

I was on the veranda of 20 Amelia Street and this old White couple who live here in Cabbagetown were present. They live on Metcalfe Street right at the corner of Amelia Street across the street from Mark Stuartson’s.

*This same august-souled couple also worked at Canada Post Corporation. They worked there until long years after their official retirements. END.

They were going home from Parliament Street across Amelia Street. They stopped because this man was coming towards them; he stopped and they took the time to talk with him.

He was telling them, “Oh yes man. Yup, Florence Pole died.”

I immediately ran down towards them. I was truly stunned and called out, “Ou true!”

I ran all the way down and around onto Parliament Street. On entering Cabbagetown’s Parliament Street, it immediately became the main road in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.

You could see all the people in Crab Hill. They were hanging out around Florence Pole’s house.

They had her corpse lain out on the veranda. I went up filled with love and paid my respects.

I was really pleased to see her because she did look good. Florence was the picture of ethereal serenity.

Laying there, truly in state, she was truly at peace with her ruggedly eccentric, accomplished life. Though she obviously was not breathing, there was no getting around the fact that she was aglow.

Everybody was laughing and basking in storytelling tributes to the dear old soul. Then somebody had us all howling when they said, “Is all dem cussing why you see ‘e live so long ‘o know.”

Truly, it was a testament to her marvellous spirit that it seemed as though all of Crab Hill, if not Sandy Point, had turned out to pay their respects. Rightly so, Florence was being deferred to.

She lay in a vivid purple casket which sat on three sturdy-looking typical dining room chairs as those popular in West Indian homes. Her head was facing due south towards Brimstone Hill Fortress and her feet towards the north, the main exit from the veranda and our home.

Florence wore a rich multitoned blue dress which was muted by a thin film of white diaphanous linen. All about her body were a rich array of local flowers and that green vine whose leaves looked like miniature Christmas trees.

Though it had never been used when she was widowed, the official stairs from the main road up to the veranda was opened. Persons would arrive to pay their respects by mounting the official, though never used, stairs from the main road.

They would then move about the casket with some speaking lovingly of her. On the side of the casket closest to the house stood a group of women – they were actually fairly androgynous-looking persons.

Their sole purpose, it seemed, was to fulfill their role as astral guides. Perhaps, they were astral plane habitués with an obvious soul connection to Florence.

Truly impressed, I had taken my time and stood beside her coffin. With head cocked to the side, I lovingly looked on at a truly remarkable life in full which had been lived with the greatest panache.

Whilst admiring the collapsed lips of her supremely serene face, my already enthralled lids slid shut. They did so more for being hypnotised by Florence’s regal beauty than for being intentionally slid shut.

Just like that, my lids reopened. The moving dream vista before me, however, was totally gone.

____________________________________

Art: The Mary Rose and Fleet

Artist: Jean Walker

___________________________________________________________________________________________

I Love You Ollie! Happy Birthday!

12.09.201602.01.2026 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

Hymn To Freedom

Oscar Peterson & Oliver Jones at Festival International de Jazz de Montréal, 2004.

Happy Birthday Oliver… I have got no end of mad love for you, Sir!

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Do It to Me!

30.04.201602.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Horne, Lena 30/6/1917 <O> 9/5/2010 NYC

This fragment was a fifth level mature warrior – 4^th life thereat. Lena was in the power mode with a goal of unmitigated growth. She was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lena’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance with a secondary chief feature of stubbornness.

Lena’s casting is in the second position of the second cadence in the seventh greater cadence. She is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – another entity mate.

Lena’s was a Saturn/Venus body type.

Essence twin for Lena is a warrior and her king task companion did exert some influence.

The three primary needs for Lena were: expression, power and exchange.

There are 10 past-life associations between Lena and Arvin whilst there are 7 past-life associations with Merlin.

____________________________________________

Back in Spring, 1994, I was standing in my West End, Vancouver bedroom getting dressed – after having made dinner for Bower Carlyle-St. Clare and me. At the time, he was recently full-blown with AIDS but doing well. As he sat out in the living room in the rocking chair which had been Merlin’s favourite piece of furniture, I was busily getting ready to head off to work on the midnight shift.

Just then Ross Porter, who was gigging on the CBC’s late-night Jazz show, began introducing a recently released album. I screamed and rushed out to the living room, turned up the sound to full blast and directly stood in the centre of the perfectly placed speakers.

Said Ross Porter, it was a new album by Lena Horne – a cut of which he was nicely setting up. Since as long as I could remember, this woman’s every performance always made me feel good throughout. The opening of the song, Do Nothing ‘Till You Hear from Me, began with the bass working its magic.

For the next several minutes, I stood there flying-without-moving. Admiringly, Bower sat there silently drinking in the visual of me as I stood in black stretch jeans tucked into riding boots and nothing else with hair long and out.

with lids closed, I drank every note of the performance; I was truly besotted. Then the song got really groovy and at one point, just past the four-minute mark, simultaneous with Lena Horne, I let out the exact same whoop as she did. Stunned, I placed my hands at my mouth and threw open my eyes.

Bower was convinced that I had heard the recording before. Soon enough, Lena Horne’s album, We’ll Be Together Again, was blasting my West End apartment on a daily basis. One day, Bower called up and declared that we were going to New York – he had never been.

To hell with work, he had declared as I tried begging off. Not having it, Bower shot back that he was taking me to New York City because I knew it and always spoke so fondly of my time there.

Early October rolled around and we held up at the Hotel Chelsea – he had booked the suite as he knew that it was Merlin’s favourite place to stay in New York City. We went to the show and although, he had been hoping to see Diana Ross – chiefly why he wanted to go to New York City, we ended up having a blast at the performance way up in the balcony. The next day, I stood around in Times Square and scored us tickets to, Kiss of the Spider Woman, at the Broadhurst Theatre.

A couple of days later and we were returned to Vancouver as giddy as two kids who had just had the wildest adventure. Sadly, for being full-blown, Bower developed a nagging cough which dragged on for long weeks; nonetheless, it was a magical adventure and I was especially grateful that he had made possible, the trip to see Lena Horne in concert at Carnegie Hall.

As Diana Ross was his favourite performer, every film of hers he had taped. He understood my love of Lena Horne when finally, he took the time to appreciate her performance in, The Wiz – directed by her partner Sidney Lumet.

Back in 1978, when seeing, The Wiz, on its opening weekend with Owen Hawksmoor – a man of truly equine proportions – This brief appearance and performance by Lena Horne made the film for me; everyone else paled by comparison.

Back in 1969, whilst vacationing in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, one briny Friday evening the 1943 film, Stormy Weather, was on television. This was my first introduction to Lena Horne. I was thoroughly captivated by her.

My response to her has always been visceral; she is energising, captivating – her eyes both raptor-like and thoroughly empowering to lock on to. If there was no essence bond, it is highly improbable that I would have such an intensely visceral response to her.

I then found it hard to sleep that night after the film. Not surprisingly, in light of our essence bond as entity mates, I did that night dream of her. Furthermore, I have noticed that the passing of entity and cadre mates leaves me especially splayed – I don’t feel impending doom, I just feel as though a portal has opened up and I could drift off and find myself on the other side… an astral plane habitué.

I think that because of my casting’s cardinality, I tend to act as a beacon – somehow, I tend to sense when cadre mates are on the cusp of departing. This used to be fairly frightening when younger; now, I have learnt to simply give of self and realise that someone in the fold is moving on.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Prince.

21.04.201602.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Prince 7/6/58<O>21/4/2016

The fragment who is most commonly known simply as Prince has also had an illustrious past as a performing artist. However, his first life in the music world was as one of the many children of Johann and Barbara Bach.

This child was female and did not become a musician but was surrounded by the musical life. She was particularly close to her brother, Carl Philipp Emanuel, and this started the fragment’s interest in music as a vehicle through which one could perform.

Although this fragment has enjoyed many stellar performances as an actor, a dancer and a singer of opera, it is this fragment’s immediate past life that is most pivotal to his current endeavours.

As the composer/pianist Scott Joplin, this fragment popularised ragtime as an art form that did not have its foundations in European music and was uniquely American.

Prince is a fifth level mature sage in the passion mode, with a goal of rejection, mostly functioning in the positive pole of discrimination, a sceptic in the moving part of emotional centre.

He has a Mercury/Saturn body type.

Prince’s primary chief feature is that of impatience, with a strong secondary of arrogance.

He was sixth-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity two, cadre four, greater cadre 43, pod/node 414.

___________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________________

One.

19.04.201602.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

What a lovely drink for the dreamquesting soul…

Yesterday, I caught Don Cheadle’s, Miles Ahead, with an old friend from Montréal. We both thoroughly loved the film. The concert at the end of the film was phenomenal and it was good to see Esperanza Spalding joining Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter and Robert Glasper and Don Cheadle for, What’s Wrong with That.

More than that, I lost a tear when seeing this at the end of the film: May 26, 1926 – . Yes, indeed, Miles’ genius has no ending.

Life without Jazz is hardly living…

______________________________________________________________________________

Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Jazz