Stellar Galactic Museum of Anthropology.

11.05.202611.05.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

In this the first dream, I was having a very heated argument with a group of Christian fundamentalists. This concerned the book of Revelations in the New Testament. My point was that there was no longer any need for them to fixate on the nihilism of that book. There was no need for them to fixate on the actualisation of the Armageddon construct. I was pointing out that much of the suffering in the world was due to the Christian obsession with violence. For this reason, for the last two millennia, their culture has done nothing but produce men of inordinate violence.

Further, I tried to point out that none of these fatalistic visions were ever prophesied by Christ. Rather, they were the result of a fearful culture’s way of trying to come to grips with having murdered Christ. The New Testament was simply the Christian Church’s way of manipulating the life of Christ, after his murder, to suit their ends. For having murdered Christ, they have been karmically fated to being a violent culture. Seeing that it was pointless to be engaged with these blind and lost souls, I chose to move on. To say the least, the energies between us were tense.

*Then, too, it was best that I moved on. The longer that I engaged them, it proved fairly obvious that I would have to up my frequency becoming light and thus invisible to the blind. Truth be told, they would shortly start ridding me of my soul. After all, I clearly was a heretic in full! END.

An area that seemed like a school, this proved the reality of the third dream, where there were kids who wore navy blue tunics. They were in their early teens and were going out to a courtyard. We were coming back from a precipice. Everyone here represented several nationalities. Some Hispanic kids, who were clearly well-off, attended the private school. Looking down at all these people far below, we were out on a balcony. I thought to myself at the time that I simply couldn’t afford to go falling over this balcony. In the meanwhile, I energetically waved down to the group below. I was encouraging them to financially invest in Africa by supporting African industries.

There was nothing in the world that they had to be ashamed of. They ought to be more proud of their African heritage and their African nations. Indeed, they needed desperately to wake up to the realisation of just how much that they actually had. Some ten feet away were two white horizontal iron bars that formed a container from the precipice. Naturally, one was expected to use common sense and not go beyond the two restraining bars. Going to the right of a guy, who did not want to move, I grabbed a hold of the upper bar. I gymnastically snaked my body through both bars and made it onto the safe side of them again.

One girl was approaching her father, to speak with him, as he was surrounded by people. Though daytime, it happened also to be overcast. For being otherwise engaged, her father couldn’t speak to her. To drive away her disappointment, I grabbed her and started dancing which her father appreciated with a warm smile. She had been quite insistent on speaking to him, however, there was no way that he could have then seen her. I was trying to get her to see that her father’s diplomatic affairs meant that there were times, even to her, when he was simply unavailable. At the time, he was in the midst of being interviewed by a television crew.

I was in a darkened room, at night time, in this the fourth dream. Somehow, Isha da Braga and other family members were also present. A man was lying there on a bed and his physique was that of a warrior or even a king soul incarnate. He was a pure white-haired man. It was the natural hair colour not due to his agedness physically. He had been across the bed on which I lay. At the time, I was not the least bit tired. I was supposed to be in repose and there was an implicit order that he not be awakened. There were several talons – fishing flies, however, they were unlike their waking state counterparts.

Apparently intended for me to keep, they were laid out on my pillow. Beyond the head of the bed was the lone door to the room. The look of the door and the room made it seem fairly sepulchral. Meanwhile, another man had entered the room through those doors. He stood in the centre of the room before me. He wore a gossamer-looking outfit which fell to just below his calves. It was as if a futuristic version on the chainmail suit of ages past. Bronze-coloured, it fitted his body pretty much like a wet suit would. There were some metallic-looking strips that crossed the outfit.

Behind him were the largest wings imaginable. These were definitely not some theatrical contraptions, they were his. Adding greater drama to his entrance, they flared out behind him and upwards. To say the least, he was quite the mythic figure. Sadly though, the intensity of the outfit’s glow obscured the look of his face. For that reason, it was hard to say whether he was Amerindian, Indian, Asian, Black or White. On remembering that dream of September 4, 1988, I instinctively sat up. Straight away, I knew that he would approach the bed. I also knew that whilst standing there at the foot of bed, he would perform some all-important ritual.

Meanwhile, Penina da Braga and Isha were telling me not to get up. That was because I wasn’t supposed to disturb the man, who lay there, soundly asleep. Frankly, I did not much care about the archetypal king/warrior-souled man soundly asleep on the bed with me. As I explained to them, I was more concerned with the winged incredibly tall man. I knew that he was there to collect the fishing flies from me. For that reason, I told them that I was afraid that the winged man may take off, thus making it potentially impossible to get them to him.

Their confusion was distracting; so, with that, I finally got from the bed and left the area. As I left the sepulchral room, I realised that I had been someone who had been quite revered in a past life. Apparently, this had been in parts of the West Indies – the Virgin Islands and mainland America. As I walked from the room, I had been told this by a guide. Seemingly, I had been a skilled diplomat which was when I had earlier been out on the balcony. At the time, I had been looking down to the masses and spurring on their spirits. I was respected and much-loved by the locals.

*The immensely powerful, gossamer-suited, winged and exceptionally tall man was not the Eurocentric angel. He was not, for that matter, some mythic archetype. He was an extra-human and it was also clear that regardless his packaging, he was clearly a king soul. There was no getting around that fact. I found that it was quite impactful being in his presence. I also had a strong sense that he was someone with whom I have been familiar, in the dreamtime, throughout my life. This is one of those rare times that he has manifested in the dreamtime. I do believe that this is the first time that his manifestation has been recorded in this audio-cassette medium. END.

In a courtyard area, I found myself in this the fifth dream, on an estate that was close to the sea. A man was being surrounded by five Italian guys who were being problematic. Clearly, these men were thugs and the henchmen of someone with whom he was acquainted. Eventually, his mother had shown up wearing this beautiful floral-printed dress. The dress was a sleeveless design. She was a short study of the babushka archetype. There was no way to get around the fact that this man was Russian. I had had to tell his white-haired mother, to stop being emotionally panicked, to leave the scene. She could, by her distress, have proven detrimental to his survival. Besides, quietly I had told her to go get help by dialling 9-1-1. Except that when she went to the balcony, she started shining some large spotlights.

Seeing the logic of her actions, I told her that whatever she did, she had to always keep them trained on her son. In the meantime, the henchmen kept on closing in on him. The heavies all wore bathing suits. On the order of Charlton Heston, he was a tall majestic-looking man. A very warrior-spirited, mid-aged man was her son. The house was a papaya-toned, West Indian-orange-into-peach tone, to slight-tangerine-red impressive structure. Surrounding the house, in the modern style, was a large stone wall. There were marvellous sculptural openings in the wall. They were lyrically curvaceous and suggested slow aqueous movement. The style architecturally was really quite timeless. Set some twenty feet from the house, the wall was an impressive complement to it and was some ten-to-eleven feet tall. The wall was the same colour as the side of the house.

The earthen yard was a roughhewed affair, with exposed roots everywhere, as top soil had long ago been wind-and-rain swept aside. The wall was in three phases, to accommodate the sloping grade of the property, dropping a couple of feet along the way. The distance between a drop-off in the wall was roughly ten feet. When one got down to the seashore, there was a van circling in the air overhead. This van had the same green tonality of most military helicopters. The look was of that army camouflage gear that is sported the world over. The craft was definitely not a helicopter. A network of vary-sized antennae shot from all sides of the van-like craft that silently hovered in the air. Down on the shore, parked next to the sea, were a couple of tractor-trailers. Their being placed so close to the ocean, I thought was dangerous. Both of them were white with one being silver in the back. Clearly claimed by the ocean, they had been abandoned there to rust away.

I couldn’t believe the environmental negligence of whoever had done this. Not realising that the henchmen had landed on the beach and entered the house, a man had come and parked his car down on the beach. Meanwhile, the girl – who had wanted to talk to her diplomatic father – had learnt that these same people had savagely butchered one of her brothers. They had then disposed of his body at sea. The man being confronted by the murderous henchmen had come down to the sea. He was there to investigate who they were and why they had landed on his beachfront property. A number of people had seen them come ashore and had yelled out after them. The concerned were neighbours of the Russian man. These people then took it on themselves to call the authorities. With that, the murderous henchmen had fled.

By the rising tides, the butchered corpse was slowly beginning to be dragged out to sea. The murderers had fled, behind the house, to the sheer cliff, rock face where there were several abandoned buildings. These men had split up at once, taking off in divergent directions, to escape being caught together. Running helter-skelter, they veered off in separate directions when fleeing apprehension. Taking cover myself, I then went indoors; once inside, I immediately looked around when trying to get my bearings. There, I saw a man lying on the floor who was bent over. Splendidly furnished with an eclectic array of antiques and mementos of a well-travelled life, the interior of this house was busy. The décor here was in the Santa Fe style and warm it was too.

The man was on the lowest of the three levels, of the split-level house, thus leaving him closer to the sea. Theatrical, the house was wide-open and inviting. This layout afforded a commanding view of the wetness of nature’s womb outside. As each of the three levels had its own sitting room area, he was in that level’s sitting room. The seating was always in the centre of the central hall-like room. There were lots of potted plants that towered up in search of the comfortably far-off ceilings. They were all big-leafed and, for the most part, succulents. In this one area, it was absolutely beautiful – where the guy was knocked out and on the floor. Coming closer, I realised that it was my current lover, Gustavo Vadim. He had been badly beaten up by the marauding, interloping murderers.

**Shore Bird on the Tundra, Kenojuak Ashevak**

One of the henchmen, wearing a skimpy little bathing suit, went down before the Russian man’s mother and started masturbating in front of her. As she sat there, on the chair, the henchman air-jacked off though never having taken his hard-on from his tight-fitting spandex. The poor dear was being totally traumatised by his boorish behaviour. Seated there, she really did want to get a load of that throbbing piece of raw tenderloin. I found it quite comical to look at her. I, at the time, was up on a ledge that formed part of the structure’s girders. Just as outside, in the stone walls, the same sculptural schemata were reproduced on the walls inside the house. There in one of these openings I had comfortably sat. Hiding out of view of them, I had been crouching down. To my left, from where I perched birdlike, was the central living space in which were the sitting areas.

A really beautiful organic house; it was not unlike that sublime masterpiece which I explored in the dreams on Thursday, February 16, 1989. As one walked down the length of the house, towards the sea, the partition on which I hid was off to the right. Beyond the central living space, the same sculptural wall was repeated far opposite across the house. Too, that wall had groovy openings in its three-foot-thick frame. Here too, as outside, the same colour schemata prevailed. Here in this part of the house, it was dark as there were not many windows in the structure. There were, interestingly enough, no central skylights in this house. This, I thought, was a design flaw. As they went off to get dressed in casual wear, one of the Italian guys had seen me. I must say that they were an über-poilu bunch.

The fact that they had been able to inflict a great deal of damage on their target, they openly celebrated. One of them had gone and gotten the guy, who reminded me of Gustavo, putting him on the gas range. Turning on the gas, they then struck a match on his genitals and arse. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Both his anterior and posterior sexes were on fire. Rushing to his aid, I snapped at them telling them to layoff persecuting him. Grabbing his body, I pulled him off the range and covered his singeing sexes. I then reached over and put out the glowing blue-flamed gas range. The Italian guy, it turned out, drank a lot of whiskey then he violently spat out the liquor at me. With lightning ease, I caught it in my mouth and rapidly spat it back at him. He had followed the liquor with a spurt of flame which, of course, was meant to set me alight. The stunt had failed as intended. I had no intentions of being burned as he had intended.

The way in which I blew the breath out had amazed me. The sound of my breath was a thunderous quake. The process was empowering and felt as though a wind tunnel had opened up. Out of my body, there blew all this warm air. Though I had feared that he would throw a match at me, setting my breath and self on fire, it never did happen. In the same position, as a frog’s limbs, Gustavo was crumpled on the floor. Crouched forwards, I turned him back, attempting to right his body. Gustavo, however, remained on his knees. His spread arse cut quite the impressive inviting image. Finally, on seeing his face, I could see a semblance of Gustavo’s face. More importantly, this reincarnationally was the amalgamated face of his soul over the ages. The nostrils were more flared than Gustavo’s.

Though not dead, he was as if in a deep comatose state. Nonetheless, he was sexually inviting, expansive and to the point of being submissive. Furious, I shrieked at the henchmen and ordered them to instantly get the fuck out of the house. They were very rebellious though. Getting outside, I rushed after them and made sure that they were taking their leave of the property. When the authorities pulled up, tires screeching, they had gone down into their car. Tearing from their cars, they abandoned them fleeing on foot. Before the house, there was a sheer rock cliff which was some eight feet high. Where the millennia of water runoff had created deep cracks in it, there were deep fissures in the rock face.

This is what had caused the earth, in the yard, to become so eroded leaving a bare rocklike surface. Whilst I hid out down in a dugout, I saw the arrival of backups. They arrived in futuristic, EHV(extra-human vehicle)-like machinery. As if made from malleable chrome alloy, they were silver. In that sense, they appeared as if animated machinery effortlessly floating through the air. Removing myself from the chaos, I went off on an exploratory tour inside a large complex that seemed like a museum. There, I saw several strange-looking persons who seemed not wholly human. I couldn’t though quite fathom what it was about them that made them, as it were, not quite homo sapiens. Finally, nothing on display made precious sense to me. With that, I took my leave of the complex.

The persons there were also openly making fun of Blacks though not necessarily me. Since I did not appreciate this, I took off. I was then in this area with a guy whom I initially thought was Black. He energetically seemed Black. I had been too distracted, by the goings-on outside, to have paid him much attention. There was considerable fighting taking place outside the dugout. The Italian henchmen were caught in a stakeout with persons who were obviously extra-human. They seemed more so like sentinels – automatons, if you like, rather than humanoids. With a large pylon slab in it, the dugout was metallic and less than six feet deep. On the other side of the pylon was a doorway. The guy was always on my right as we hid out. Soon it became apparent that the EH sentinels were aware of our being in hiding. What’s more, they were actually protecting us from being overwhelmed by the Italian henchmen.

When they appeared to do battle with the sentinels, the Italian-looking guys had the most incredibly large guns. A woman in army fatigues had jumped back away from a bullet. With ferocious skill she had grabbed a bullet, ripping through space, from the air then violently tossed it down into the dugout where we were. Eventually, she had managed to shoot one of the sentinels. Soon enough, they received backup from the army fatigue-coloured crafts that had appeared as if out of nowhere. At the time, for the first time, the guy that I was with pointed out the sentinels to me. Not until they had come close enough did I realise that they were as different to us, indeed, as were we to them. They had spindly arachnidan legs. Their bodies were round squat and robotic-looking whilst their heads were small as compared to their rotund bodies.

However, these were not mere machinery, they were unmistakably sentient. They could fight and were rather immune to battle fire. Seemingly, in composition, their bodies were made of material that was fairly close to steel. Long-limbed, their legs were frightfully skinny. Terminating in a spear-like or pin-like sharp point, their arms were sticklike and long. A bipedal race they were whose locomotion was rather nimble. Their legs were in three sections with no discernible feet. They moved as if their extended feet were perpetually en pointe. The henchmen were tossing out these round pellets which seemed some new sort of anti-personnel grenade. The sentinel would quickly grab a hold of the grenades and instantaneously diffuse them. They managed to throw one down at us and, at that point, the guy got up and made to leave the dugout.

I was uncertain whether or not he had been shot. When he was crawling from the dugout, I could tell from the shortness of his legs – as compared to the length of his back – that he was White rather than Black. This man was, in fact, Gustavo and I called after him and asked him not to leave the dugout. Reassuringly, he told me that he would be back. Nonetheless, I did not like being left alone without his grounding company. When he started coming back, his face was now different. He wore a green mask which had a large diamond-shaped, quartz crystal in it. Another person also came from the hall that went down into the earth. Whilst he was walking there, he and the others all looked like cartoon or animated figures. What they were, in fact, were astral entities that we were witnessing. This creature then came out to do battle with the sentinels.

The creature wore all-black flowing garments that independently billowed in the non-extant wind. A plaque on the slab read ‘Minerva’ or some such ancient name. This woman represented yet another mythological archetype. I went, beyond the courtyard, to explore the inside of the structure. There, I saw an exhibit of species of sentient beings. They were, some of them, humanoid. Some were Black but these species were, for the most part, not members of our own homo sapiens species. As it was an anthropological exhibition, at the time, there were several other persons there taking in the exhibit. With some of the other humans about marvelling aloud at the vast array of sentient life forms, it was all very revelatory. They were all alien to anything that one could fathom evolving here on Gaia.

I had not stayed very long in ‘the hall of species’ which is what it was called. In a soothing blue-walled salon, one hall was adorned with beautiful tapestries. The designs here were most unusual. They sprung from vastly different aesthetic sensibilities than those to which the human experience has given expression. One guy who was there, an older man, was talking aloud of the exhibit. He was White and from time to time kept on looking back at me whilst throwing shade. Here was this asinine human, identifying with EHs, when he hadn’t even been able to accomplish the same with his own kind. He was also Gay and, for greater impact, doing an affected lisp.

He was a tour guide. He was speciously trying to show how these alien cultures also had connections to ancient Greece. This monologue of his was so much bullshit and, yet again, another example of racist absurdities. Dismissing him and his ilk, I moved on picking up the pace of my walk. The entire place was a series of stairs that went up, and then down, sometimes even winding but along them the exhibits were visible.

*The sense of the winding stair-interiored museum was not unlike the layout of the Guggenheim Museum on New York City’s Fifth Avenue. END.

As in the waking state, this undoubtedly was not the conventional approach to museum exhibits. The beautiful courtyard was littered with chairs that were of a pinkish-red-toned iron. They faced up towards the courtyard’s piece de resistance which was a lovely stand of the most unusual-looking trees. The sunlight here could best be described as starlight because its intensity suggested that this was not being illumined by Sol. After having seen it earlier, now I was seeing it in greater detail. They were preparing to serve a meal there. At that point, I did not get too involved. The mythic woman/creature Minerva was also there in the museum of alien anthropology. The other species aesthetically were simply fantastical. The chromium stick-limbed sentinels were also represented in the exhibit. I had taken cover in the museum, which was completely underground, to escape becoming caught up in the fighting aboveground.

Under no circumstances did I want to have to get involved in warfare. The man had been spirited away during battle, by one of the hovering vehicles, by the whitish-silver, sentient chrome beings. The craft had circled the property, before touching down in the sea, away from being overrun by the Italian-looking guys on land. The henchmen had no way of making it out to sea to overwhelm the sentinels’ crafts. There were lots of especially tall coconut trees that ringed the estate of the marvellous split-level dwelling. The craft had made it ashore, at which point, then morphed into looking like an abandoned car. In that way, its transformed shell served as clever camouflage. There were several antennae on it as did all the others have antennae. When they had been in the house, they were in constant communication with their crafts.

This was the point at which I made the realisation that the Italian-looking men, in bathing suits, were extra-human got up in human disguise. This is why it had made it so confusing to fully discern what was afoot. As they were way bigger and more space-aged, than anything native to Earth, the guns that the Italian-looking extra-humans used were a dead giveaway. Though they were young-looking, there was something about them that suggested that they did not fit into the ageing process governed by Sol’s unique vibration. Warrior-spirited, they were an adversarial people. Clearly, they were there to capture humans for their own purposes whether for research or something else.

That something else, whilst I was in the museum of EH anthropology, I thought meant capturing human specimens for sale to museums like the one that I toured. Either way, they were sadistic, extremely unpleasant sentient extra-humans to be around. Theirs was a young-souled focus that was not unlike the rapacious exploitations that began 500 years ago on this planet – which prevail to this today.

These dreams occurred on Sunday, April 25, 1993 whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house. Unlike dreams from this date previously shared herein, on February 16, 2013, these dreams, however, were had during the ‘B’ or second sleep cycle that day. They were, to say the least, rather transformative dreams. As per the Minerva mythological woman in this dream, I am beginning to think that she may have been connected to the same mythological female in that dream set on the Moon. Indeed, this dream may also have been set here on Earth’s Moon. I will also go one further and presume that the dream of the inverted Machu Pichuesque, canyonned civilisation may well have been set on Earth’s Moon. Who are we to say that this is not the case? We are a planetary civilisation where ignorance and superstition are the order of the land.

I think that it makes perfect sense for there to be a museum of anthropology on the Moon. Said museum would, of course, bear examples of all the species which from time to time frequent or have frequented the planet. I am sure with each species on display that there would be a history as to its connection to Earth. Were they engaged in deep sea marine studies or mining – aquatic or land-based? Were they engaged in trade, research, exchanges with some levels of Earthly governments? Again, as with the canyonned Machu Pichuesque civilisation, December 29, 1990. There was the sense of the dugout and that dream of October 6, 1997 wherein the 500-plus-storeyed skyscrapers sat inside portal-like canyons. I do believe that all three of these dreams are connected and were centred on the Moon.

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Raye Live 2025 Montreux Jazz Festival

She’s a dynamite Jazz singer in the making!

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Two rats during the course of eighteen months produce one million offspring. You’ve long transcended being a cultural infestation; you are a fucking plague and Karma, that most vicious of cunts, will yet dispense with you!

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Homecoming… EIIR 1926 ]-0-[ 2022

15.11.202129.12.2025 Arvin da Brgha4 Comments

Last night, on the eve of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’s 73rd birthday, I dreamt the most spectacularly lucid dream in long decades. In the evening of Saturday, November 13th, 2021 when I don’t even know the lunar phase and have not audio-cassette recorded my dreams since 1997 when then living in Montréal, I simply had to share this dream. I awoke from the dream being saddened that I had to come to so soon.

HM Queen Elizabeth II

Since then, of course, as of today, September 8, 2022, it is obvious HM The Queen, Queen Elizabeth II is on the cusp of passing, so I reissue this here. Similarly, after having published this in November, 2021, I did recall that there were on a high hilltop a mighty army of bagpipes creating a most glorious sound.

At once I was come to in the most lucid dream set on the astral plane. Astral plane dreams are possessed of lighting that is uniquely found there and nowhere else. Vibrationally, it always feels in such dreams as it does between 0400 and 0600 with the intensity of this magical time being closer to 0500. In any event, I was in the midst of a flying dream above what can only be called the boulevard. It was a street wider than any in the waking state. The focal point of the dream, in this astral metropolis of at least 3 billion souls, was the gates to an ancient church, which was set back from the boulevard at the end of a long narrow straight pathway. It was exactly as the Anglican Church in the parish of St. Anne in Sandy Point St. Kitts. It was a church which was millennia old and all along the path to the foreboding wrought iron gates were clergy – all male – of the Anglican faith. As at the Anglican church in Sandy Point on either side of the pathway between the church and the gates were graves with the most ancient tombstones imaginable. There was a lone grave which was open, the earth on either side black and rich. There were clergymen at the grave concluding their business. As I alighted and took my place along the boulevard, HM The Queen walked alone in a green crew neck woollen dress; it was the same colour as a young artichoke, green fig or green guava. She carried no handbag. There were no corgis; about her neck was a single strand pearl necklace which was so ancient that its nacre had become diffused, time-yellowed and on the very cusp of looking like browning rotting teeth. She was reserved and poised and as the rear of the giant Rolls Royce faced the gates of the church and cemetery, she walked around to the right rear door and entered; her hair here was beginning to grey but predominantly brunette. There was no foot person to open the door. She got in and was seemingly in her late forties to early fifties, which is more in keeping with her soul age, that of being an early mature slave soul.

Myself for not being an astral plane habitué, had the ability to fly on the astral plane and, of course, though the habitués themselves could, they of custom chose not to. I was for being an observer referred to by the habitués as a visitor. On exiting the grounds – just as in the Sandy Point, St. Kitts arrangement, there was a crescent in which the massive Rolls Royce sat with its rear facing the open gates to the cemetery and church. The car carrying the arrivée Sovereign was expected and eventually did turn right onto the ridiculously large boulevard where the astral plane throngs along the boulevard’s route were as claustrophobically packed in as it must have been at St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Duke of Wellington’s funeral. Here the atmosphere was electric.

What had initially drawn me to this marvellous place, was the distant sound of several bugles, playing the rouse. I knew instantly what it meant. On my arrival, there were hills all around this sector of the astral plane metropolis; this seemed to a very layered astral plane London where different epochs in the city’s history simultaneously co-existed. On one particular wooded hill were the largest stags imaginable – they looked almost sentient whilst regally standing in small mobs. They had majestically arrived to the top from the other side, stood there for a long while then en masse sat down to onlook. Along the route, there were the most massive black steeds and when they walked and stood along the route, they were buried in the astral landscape such that the underside of their bellies were submerged.

The arrivée astral plane habitué Sovereign was then taken on a celebratory parade. The wood was an exquisitely polished oak that framed the exterior of this astral plane version of the Rolls Royce that seemed to have been from the late 1920s to early 1930s. On pulling out onto the boulevard the slow-moving single vehicle motorcade turned right and went down to the shorter arm of the boulevard. Along the right, as it were, of the boulevard and on either side were the most opulent, massive astral plane replicas of each and every stately home in England. The closest house on the right on leaving the cemetery was Blenheim Palace This astral plane version was easily 30 storeys tall and at least 15 millennia older than its waking state counterpart; I suppose that they were this massive as they served as suites for past Dukes of Marlborough as with Blenheim Palace. Even the stately houses which were demolished at the end of the empire, which saw families that didn’t marry robber baron Americans to stay afloat, were here represented. Longleat House, Althorp House, Highclere Castle, Knole House, Hampton Court Palace, Kensington Palace, Mapperton House, Waddesdon Manor, Wilton House, Castle Howard, Chatsworth House; you name it, they were all here behind wrought iron fencing and they stood side-by-side without massive ground anchoring each. This astral plane Blenheim Palace counterpart had sapphire-blue cupolas at the towers and center; every astral plane counterpart was here replete with sapphire-blue copulas. The walls of each house on the astral plane was made of marble that was time-yellowed, betraying the multiple millennia it had existed on the astral plane. Just as the skyscrapers on New York City’s Avenue of the Americas from 42nd to 57th Streets are tall and easily in excess of 30 storeys, so too was each of these astral plane counterparts for familiar English stately houses.

All along the route, which was teeming with astral plane habitués, there were different sections that towered up for several storeys. Directly opposite the gates to the church and cemetery from which the astral habitué Sovereign Elizabeth II emerged alone, was regally sat Sir Winston Churchill; he was surrounded by all the astral plane habitué Prime Ministers who had served HM The Queen. Here, there was a section reserved for astral plane-focussed English aristocrats; one recognisable such habitué was Gerald Grovesnor, 6th Duke of Westminster. At no point, however, did I ever see the following habitué relatives, HRH Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh, HM Queen Elizabeth Queen Mother, HRH Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon or Diana, Princess of Wales. Constantly, persons were arriving to take their place, even when the parade was begun. This dream was so vivid, so electric, so lucid that the stimuli was so overwhelming that I times, I had to alight to ground myself. Indeed, at times, it proved laborious to try and fly where the amount of stimuli and the outréness of this astral plane milieu proved overwhelming on my ability to stay aloft to project myself whilst astrally projected into this utterly rhapsodic dream. As this dream was set on the astral plane, there were astral plane habitués here who wore the dress of the age in which they lived when incarnate. I readily assumed that these were past-life personae with connections to HM The Queen from past lives.

As I soared in flight into the astral plane air some three storeys above to get my bearings, I saw a phalanx of swashbuckling courtiers, progressing down the boulevard to take their place. They had all the swagger and style of dress as King Charles I in the masterful van Dyck tableau, Charles at the Hunt, which hangs at Musée du Louvre. They walked down the boulevard which housed the stately houses on either side, and well ahead of the habitué Sovereign’s Rolls Royce, which glided along the boulevard as if in bucolic slow-motion.

Still, there was a section of the immensely long boulevard which seemed as if longer than New York City’s Fifth Avenue, which on either side housed waking state visitors who were in attendance. Naomi Campbell, who was recently made Commonwealth ambassador to replace the Duke and Duchess of Sussex on their departure from royal duties, was here present. She was there in an enclosed section where all the waking state guests were kept. Also notable was fellow supermodel Kate Moss. I found it utterly fascinating to hear Ms. Campbell speaking in flawless Jamaican patois as she was gobsmacked by the beauty of this astral plane ritual. Taking a break from the laboriousness of dream flight in this particular dream, I had sought refuge in the glass enclosed stands where incarnate persons were focussed. These stands existed opposite each other across the ridiculously wide boulevard.

Once returned to flight I soon realised the immensity of the life that HM The Queen had lived. Here along the astral plane boulevard, on which I suppose that the Circus Maximus was modelled, were habitués who had lived during HM The Queen’s long life and reign and who had immensely admired her. These spanned the range of human civilisation with not just every racial stratum of Commonwealth member states but all other humans who had so immensely admired this extraordinary human being. Here were astral plane habitués from the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, 2000s, 2010, 2020s. From her earliest years of being the much admired Princess of York to becoming the young Sovereign and onwards, there were adoring astral plane habitué admirers. Absolutely everyone was here represented. It was simply overwhelming to see so many tens of millions of persons focussed in one place and all experiencing rapture at the arrival of someone in whom they had focussed much of their admiration, respect and love. This was a truly remarkable dream.

Pushing of again and exploring more of the unique dreamscape, I flew slowly in the opposite direction of the habitué Sovereign’s parade down the boulevard lorded over by palatial astral plane counterparts to known English stately houses. In one section there were humanoid creatures whose look suggested that these were animals which were long extinct long before animals were documented in earnest. One particular creature was pure white with liver spots markings. This large-headed male was singing whilst perched on a floating dais. Cloaked in a white ermine robe, the three to four thousand pound male creature sang with a range that went from whale song to counter tenor bravura. His voice was simply healing. Light seemed to emanate from beneath his skin and in varying intensities based on his emotions. His performance was so powerful that I had to alight again just to gather my energy reserves as flying does take considerable focussed energy.

Further along the boulevard, as every corner of the Commonwealth was here richly represented and this was a celebration of the life of the arrivée Sovereign, there were African women in colour garb, singing and dancing with jubilation written all over their cul-de-sac of the astral plane. From time to time, feeling the spirit one or more African woman would step into the boulevard and let their spirit jubilantly soar whilst in trance from singing and dancing their souls out.

The further along the boulevard one explored in flight to the left of the cemetery gates and to which the arrivée Sovereign had yet paraded, I explored whilst flying. Eventually, the lone Rolls Royce would come past a section of the boulevard where the astral plane habitués though humanoid, had heads that were akin to those of many gods from the Egyptian pantheon. Still, there were those who closely resembled Kiwi bird-headed humanoids. As astral plane-focussed dreams go, this contingent of totemic beings was not that unusual a sight. When the arrivée Sovereign’s motorcade of one turned to return and tour past the cemetery, I took to the air again and this time soared higher than usual. This enabled me to fly more swiftly than when lower to the electrically charged activity along the boulevard’s route. I returned to the far end of the boulevard to a stately house which sat at the end. Inside this royal residence, there truly was a battle royal underway. At the centre of this feud was Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Here, her voice was a booming commanding business. She was powerful and was settling scores. When she spoke, the walls of the stately house cracked, glass and art flew off the walls. Eventually one of the stately house’s cupolas cracked and eventually collapsed. It was a noisy, violent business.

The last time that I had dreamt of an astral plane-focussed dream wherein the past was being prosecuted, involved the recently passed Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Maria Callas. That, too, was a battle royal where scores were being settled. That dream is as follows:

Prosecuting the Past whilst at the Deathscape.

*As per the urgency of this dream, I rather suspect that HM The Queen may already have passed by the time of the 2021 Remembrance Service at the Cenotaph; however, London’s hotels would have to be cleared of the Veterans and tourists before the death announcement would be made.

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As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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Here’s to Life! A celebration of the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth.

21.07.201701.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

On this the eve of the July 21, 2017, 70^th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I am still over the moon and greatly inspired for having travelled to London, England, Paris and Versailles France and Amsterdam, the Netherlands in June. I wanted to take in the pomp and pageantry of trooping the colour, revisit the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, Tate Britain, Tate Modern… and did! I really loved my visit to the new wing of the Tate Modern and the beautiful panoramic views that it affords of the north bank across River Thames.

Staying in the beautiful SW10, I had a great place to stay and had a marvellous time. Great it was to revisit Westminster Abbey, feeling the sense of history and the grandeur of the abbey. Every moment of being in London was sheer magic. This city, more than any other, readily evokes a sense of home –- somehow, in its magical agedness, there vibrationally is something perfectly harmonised about London with aspects of the West Indies into which I chose to reincarnate and where my sense of ‘home’ is grounded.

The LGBT exhibition at Tate Britain was a bit underwhelming; however, I enjoyed being exposed to the many female artists and their Lesbian-themed art, which heretofore I was not cognisant of. Naturally, the male perspective has always been prominent in homoerotic art. Without doubt, the best exhibition was at the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace and the Crown’s exhibition of aspects of the Canaletto collection. Naturally, I did have to return to the National Gallery to take in my favourite Sir Anthony van Dycks in their collection; among them, that ode to sage essence grandeur, King Charles I’s Equestrian Portrait of Charles I. The Rotunda at Ranelagh remains my favourite and most moving Canaletto; of course, it did prominently feature at the end of a flying dream, during early pubescence, that had me dreamquest to a past life in London, England.

That past-life was shared with Merlin when we were musicians at court in late 18^th century London. During that lifetime, we knew 1^st Duke of Brontë, Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson. Apparently, Viscount Nelson was a great raconteur and it was likely his tales of his love of Nevis which proved the seed that eventually led to my choice at the level of soul to have reincarnated into Nevis –- which incidentally Canadians are wont to mispronounce as Knévis… Sorry, the third world natives are not wrong; besides no one in London would ever think to say, Knévis. The correct pronunciation is Kneevis… Knévis is no more correct than is Kanarda the correct pronunciation of Canada. Enough about the risible ignorance of elitist petit bourgeois Canadians and their need to forever condescend.

So, there was I arrived in London with umbrella, pea coat, raincoat and it was all hotter-than-hell climes for the two weeks! After trooping the colour, I decided to escape the heat of London and decamp à Paris… what was I thinking; goodness, it was at least 5 degrees hotter there! Alas, Paris has become an armed camp -– I suppose this is what Paris during the Nazi occupation in WWII was like. Either way, I could not wait to hightail it out of there. Firstly, though, I had to head off to Versailles where previously I had not been. Goodness, what grandeur -– the scales are truly phenomenal. If I had ever had a dream set on the grounds of Versailles, it is highly likely that I would have awakened and assumed that I had just dreamquested to a marvellous world where the architectural scales surpass anything witnessed here on Earth.

In all that heat, I was told it was just a stroll away from the entry gates of Versailles to Grand Trianon to take in the Pierre Le Grand exhibition celebrating the 300^th anniversary of Peter the Great’s trip to Paris. Finally, after 50 minutes in my brand-new Crockett & Jones wellingtons, I arrived to what was not an especially impressive show. However, the last piece — a beautiful bust of the Tsar — made my sweaty and blistered foot ordeal worthwhile.

After having been quite underwhelmed by Paris –- save of course my visit to Père Lachaise cemetery where I left pine cone tributes to Marcel Proust, Chopin, Oscar Wilde and Honoré de Balzac –- it was off to Amsterdam. Finally, I had escaped hellish climes! Amsterdam proved the most gloriously idyllic experience. With a cool welcome breeze off the North Sea, the temps were in the low 20s and, of course, everywhere just about everyone rode a bike. As I made the pilgrimage to the Rijksmuseum to be richly inspired, I was warmed as passing cyclists called out to me in my white panama hat that I purchased at Chateau de Versailles to beat the heat, “Hello!” “Hi there!” “Hi ya!” This excursion to Amsterdam was truly soul-warming. Nothing was more glorious than entering that salon and seeing Night Watch and the Meager Company.

Whilst browsing, I thought of George Hawken and wondered if ever he had made it to Amsterdam. Just like that, on coming around the corner, the first painting I noticed in the salon which contains Jan Vermeer’s The Milkmaid, was an exquisite, stunning still-life of white asparagus. The one legume that George considered the perfect signature to a fine meal -– cooked by himself -– was asparagus. His most memorable meals ever featured asparagus coated in the most sublime sauces made from scratch. I was truly warmed on seeing the still-life seconds after nostalgically thinking of him. Yet another moment of synchronicity.

On preparing for the video to celebrate the 70^th anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I decided last week to head off the costumer, Malabar on McCaul Street where George lived in the late 80s to early 90s. Inspired by the first dream of Merlin had 39 years ago in July 1978, I decided to get a cowl as a tribute to the cowl Merlin wore in the inaugural dream encounter with him, four years before having met on Friday, October 1, 1982 in New York City. So, there was I at Mount Pleasant Cemetery last Saturday, July 15, 2017 in my cowl and the panama hat purchased at Versailles to escape the heat. I thought it fitting as Merlin always loved wearing panama hats.

My trusty friend, J.J. who happens to be an artisan entity mate whom I have known in 20 past lives –- which is a high incidence of contact -– was the director. Initially, I had hoped to throw a white party on the lawn to the southwest of the chapel at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and have a drone film the event where a gathering of friends would raise a glass to Merlin on the anniversary of his ennobled birth. Merlin always threw a white party each year for his birthday at his parents stunning backyard in north Toronto’s Servington Crescent.

The plan was not approved by the cemetery and thus, one had to improvise. I got my panama hat and my cowl and together, we proceeded with a dozen long-stem white roses to visit Merlin’s resting place. I had a pretty good idea what I was after. With the matching white cowl, I wanted to evoke the magic of meeting Merlin in that initial dream which is shared in volume one of the dream memoirs which is already published: Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey.

Get your copy! Thanks as ever for your support!

In the hardcover edition of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs, the initial dream encounter with Merlin is shared. The dream begins on page 110 in the hardcover edition. I wanted the same sense of wonderment and magic that I felt for having met Merlin in that first dream four years prior to having met reflected in the video. In that dream, Merlin’s appearance was preceded by a white totemic creature which seemed, in its astral plane outréness, to be part Russian wolfhound, part alpaca, part dog.

So, moving to the lawn, having descended the steps of the chapel, I began walking across the open lawn towards the statuesque lion festooned mausoleum with the five remaining white long-stem white roses. Seven roses, of course, were left at Merlin’s grave -– one rose for each of our seven glorious years together. As I stepped onto the lawn, it seemed magical… timeless even. Slowly, confidently as I approached the filmmaker at the other end of the lawn, I thought of Merlin and that initial dream.

Just then, I very distinctly thought of Merlin greeting me by purring, “Hello Lambs.” As if right on cue, from off stage left, an adult deer came from behind the bushes and tombstones that line the far edges of the open lawn. Never before had I seen a deer at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Indeed, the good burghers of Forest Hill who clearly regularly jogged in the park-like setting stopped and were overheard remarking that they had never seen a deer in the cemetery before. All that I could do was tear up and continue walking as the deer then bolted and ran from stage left to right as I continued my stride uninterrupted –- unfazed by the appearance of an adult deer on the grounds of the cemetery. What is more astounding, is that J.J. at the time was filming my walk; at the last minute, I decided against a run-through as I was concerned about the natural light possibly changing if we were to rehearse the shot.

Unbeknownst to me, the deer after having made it to stage right, then returned to the centre of the lawn and stood there perfectly still whilst observing my progression across the lawn. J.J. who was astounded by the occurrence remarked that he had just witnessed a miracle. There is no doubt in my mind as I tried to recapture the magic of that initial dream encounter that there was a subtle validation of that dream from the magical shaman himself on the other side by having had Merlin’s spirit step in as director emeritus and had the deer enter the shot as validation and a token of his appreciation of the love that we shared and my steadfast loyalty to him. After crossing the lawn and turning to watch the deer stand there, looking down the lawn at me, I felt such utter peacefulness and abandonment of spirit — just as when alone and intimate in the dark with Merlin.

Yes, I believe in magic as did Merlin and as though an appreciation of having stridently done everything to fulfil his mandate to me, Merlin’s astral body conjure up the same magic here and now as he had in July 1978 –- four years before slipping inside a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up and readily winning me over with his sexy elfin charm, magic and sex that proved the most grounding shamanic passion… every time.

All the music chosen for this 13-minute video is music that Merlin loved whilst incarnate and to which he returned time and again -– whether at Joe Morton’s tiny Upper West Side apartment in autumn of 1983, Toronto’s 20 Amelia Street in tony Cabbagetown. From Glenn Gould’s mastery of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations, to Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight and Dionne Warwick singing That’s What Friends Are For –- in that segment of the video, I included friends whom Merlin valued: Kareem Benezra, myself, Wayne Robson and his oldest and most loyal friend, the ever-gracious, Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.

Of course, for Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely, I exclusively included photos of Merlin and his very handsome and gracious father, David Ben-Daniel. Whereas I favoured Sir Paul McCartney’s Hey Jude, Merlin ever loved George Harrison and especially My Sweet Lord. Of course, one Saturday, whilst staying at actor, Joe Morton’s Manhattan apartment, when Merlin and I secretly committed to being together, we slow-danced to Supertramp and Roger Hodgson’s unmatched magical vocals on Supertramp’s Breakfast In America.

Additionally, Jeffrey Osborne’s On the Wings of Love which was one of Merlin’s favourite ballads is also included. Merlin loved Black male soul singers: Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jeffrey Osborne –- most especially –- George Benson, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Donny Hathaway, Barry White. Most of all, I am especially proud of the video that J.J. and I have created; I think that it masterfully captures the depth of my love and fealty to the most fabulously magical shaman encountered on this incarnation’s spiritual odyssey.

Naturally, before having left for Mount Pleasant Cemetery, I had flooded my apartment with the music that appears in the video. Perhaps, unwittingly by so doing, I was evoking Merlin’s spirit which later joined us when he played ultimate director and pulled off the most magical bit of stage direction –- an adult deer in the middle of a cemetery in the heart of mid-town Toronto. Lastly, I played the sublimely soulful Shirley Horn’s interpretation of, Here’s to Life! Whilst raising a glass of coconut water, I had forgotten to pick up some champagne the evening prior and it was too early in the morning to find champagne anywhere –- the lighting was way too good. Besides who knows if that magical deer would have been anywhere about.

Here’s to life… most of all, here’s to Merlin… here’s to dream shamans everywhere!

In coming weeks, there will also be other tokens of this celebration of Merlin and his mandate to me:

“Please my darling, I want you to write about our lives together. I promise you, however possible, I am going to send you dreams to include in the story of our love… our lives together.”

Of course, there is my Instagram account: Instagram Arvin da Brgha

Do please be patient and stay tuned as there will be a site where one can purchase merchandise that’ll greatly assist with the costs of having overleaves channelled that will yet appear in the five volumes of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs to come. Also, there will be a podcast link.

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For now, here’s to life, here’s to you and thanks so much for your ongoing support all these years!

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Mythic figures in dreams

Stellar Galactic Museum of Anthropology.

Homecoming… EIIR 1926 ]-0-[ 2022

Here’s to Life! A celebration of the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth.