Poetry Most Rare: A Rose Like No Other.

Bubble Nebula

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Dreamquest: Past Life As Welsh Warrior-King, Merlin (female) also Present.

devonshire-hunting-tapestry

The dream was the first that day and occurred in the B sleep cycle, on Thursday, June 25, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my eleventh house.  As with all past life dreams, this was inordinately lucid, all my senses were piqued.  Of course, there was the sense of being locked in – not being able to change the outcome of events as they unfolded.  

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A marvellous hall at nighttime where I was with a companion progressing through the place.  I don’t quite know who it was that accompanied me.  Then I wandered off and was with myself.  I rather relished having done so.  On the right side of the wall, it was rather dark and dimly lit by candlelight or torch flames.  There were all these books everywhere.  They were of brown-covered, time-faded colours.  They were in the fantasy genre.

Immediately, I was intrigued and got excited when recognising some as the same ones that I had bought before.  Sadly, I had never gotten around to reading them.  Interest peaked in me because I wanted to see what the covers of the books were like.  As a matter of fact, one of the books was opened.  Almost every one of them was opened.

bookcases jammed

Somebody had been reading them but hadn’t finished doing so.  Whoever had been reading these books would, as a matter of fact, then turn them upside down on the ledge of the fragile-looking bookcase.  Each night before going to sleep, this was the habit which the reader employed with the books.  I progressed down the length of the shelf leisurely perusing their covers.

There was one there which stood out and immediately appealed to me.  It was brown-covered with a young, handsome man on it.  Another had a man with a dragon in the image.  It was in the fantasy genre and terribly scorpionic in tenure.  Its sensibilities were terribly medieval.  As I kept walking along, I came to this one image on one of the walls.  It was of a very large tapestry.  Immediately on seeing it, I stopped dead in my tracks because it was readily recognisable.

It was something for which every residual resonance harked back to a former lifetime.  It was a stunning tapestry.  It was, as a matter of fact, quite large.  On the bottom of it, there was this writing in red that was very Gothic.  Arcane writing it was.  Though it seemed to be in Latin, I was more so of the impression that it was in arcane Welsh.  There were lots of Ws in the very long words.

I tried my best to read and interpret what it was saying but couldn’t quite make it out.  It did have something to do with a particular event which was depicted as having occurred in the year 1209 or earlier.  The writing was at the base of a stump in the tapestry.  It sat there, a stone outpost that appeared on closer scrutiny, more so like a crypt.  Whilst facing the tapestry, I looked at it and keenly recorded every lush detail of the very real experience.

The head was of this very princely man who was bearded and luminously silver-haired.  He wore a long, flowing, white robe and as one looked at the wall, which was on my right, so too was the tapestry’s actions in that direction.  As he lay there on this large, stone slab, the head of the man was plainly visible.  His head was to the left of the tapestry.  The robe that he wore came and hung over the edge of the stone slab.

The fabric beautifully cascaded over the edge and down to the floor.  It was a wonderful, beautiful, shiny, white robe.  The threads in the tapestry were such that the light striking it, from the room, caught and imbued it with a handsome glow.  There was a woman there in the hallway, where the tapestry hung, who was dressed in medieval garb.  Her arm outstretched, she was looking up with great yearning.  The left arm on her heart, the right stretched up over the head of the prostrate ruler.

Supplicating the gods as it were, she was arched backwards.  She was mourning.  Her mouth torn-open birthed her bloody pain.  She was wailing.  All of this left one feeling such gravity at the sad state of affairs.  Behind her was a large, brawny, warrior-like man.  Basically, her arm was outstretched to block him off.  He carried an upraised sword.  He wore gold chain-mail.  Experiencing this tapestry was very painful.  I just couldn’t bring myself to look at the face of the prostrate ruler.  Immediately, as I looked away, I was instantaneously made aware that I was participating in the action being depicted in the tapestry.

I was caught up in a re-enactment of the tapestry.  Rather, it was a reanimation such that I was reliving the events depicted in the tapestry.  There I was, of all things, lying on the slab.  I was, in fact, the princely leader.  As I reclined there, I immediately became familiar with the body.  Large, mid-aged and overweight, I immediately became fully synchronised with the princely body’s every nuance.  Also, I was instantaneously reminded of that large body which I had ensouled in that dream recall of that past life in Roman times.  In that past life dream, I was murdered at the baths by my very shrewd wife’s centurion guard-cum-starfucker-stud agent.

In between feigning wailing at my loss, the woman was now leaning over me and whispering to me.  Straight away, I realised what was afoot.  I was not yet dead and she knew it too.  We were trying to affect a faux death.  This is why I was covered in all that heavy material which would easily disguise my shallow breathing.  I was supposed to be faking being dead.  Lying there, there was a commotion outside the large, heavy, wooden doors to the damp, empty room in a stone, fortress-like dwelling.  Where it was seemingly at nighttime, there was a great deal of light coming through the high-placed windows about the room.

The man outside the door, who had been shouting in a violent display of temper, barged in and commandingly approached the cold slab on which I laid.  I remained catatonic truly overcome with fear.  He was a very large-bodied, brawny, hirsute study of Sagittarian, Martian energies.  There was a dense concentration of warrior-spirited drive in his body.  On his waist he carried his sword and was one impatient, disgruntled soul.  He wore a chainmail suit of dull gold or bronze.  When he walked there was all this noisy clanking from his armour, chainmail and sword.

He was bearded and much younger than I.  He was long-haired, handsome, like a fierce warrior, with jet-black, glossy hair.  His mouth was youthful, full and beautiful.  His was the intensity of unbridled fearlessness and sheer, brutish force.  He was cool and deadly.  On seeing him, I was immediately filled with fear.  My pulse uncontrollably raced.  All I wanted to do was get up and bolt.  However, I could not have.  Approaching, he began talking to the woman in this strange, archaic, Aryan tongue.  Basically, he was refuting the news that I had died.  In essence he was saying, “He isn’t dead.  Are you trying to fool me?”

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He had the most powerful, booming voice whose echo slapped the damp chill out of the room.

“Look at him!  He should have been dead a long time ago!”

I guess that he was my heir and was quite upset and wanted to claim the title that I had which, of course, was his by birth.  Although he was my son or heir, at the very least, I had a mortal and ultimately fatal fear of him.

“Damn you!  You should have died a long time ago.  Why aren’t you dead yet?”

Then he suddenly stopped as it dawned on him that I could be faking it.  He barked a loud breath of impatience and immediately drew his sword.  At that the woman cried out, tossing herself at him, asking,

“What do you think you’re doing?”

conan-sword-photo-by-Ann

With the most ferocious force, he brought down the sword vengefully attacking my body.  The sword entered my stomach like an intensely hot spear.  Simultaneously, it had struck my left hip as they both stood to the left of me – as indeed, she was standing in the tapestry.  When he smote me the blade came down and hit me on the hip but then he moved it by thrusting it into my stomach.

Turning and twitching, I rigidly nudged my head to the right in pain.  As he triumphantly laughed, the loudest most vulgar laugh erupted in the hall.  Naturally, had I been dead there is no way that I would have moved.

*As I slept here, I had a corresponding cramp in my stomach.  It was of a sharp, stabbing pain.  This correspondingly made me simultaneously turn away to the right in the waking state.  This was a very, very, vivid dream.  END.

My sense of smell was quite piqued and there was no way to get over my being alive in this experience.  It was very damp with a foul odour of agedness in the air.  My stomach was convulsing and there was a taste of blood in my mouth mixed with the loud smell of faeces in the air.  The woman, my companion, cried trying to explain that I had only recently died thus it was a nervous twitch – a nervous reaction if you like.

She was not very convincing to which he shot back, “Ha, well then if he is dead…” he began walking around her forcefully approaching the head of my body, “…he won’t mind having his head removed!”

All that I could see, from beneath my quivering lids, was her reaching up and lunging as she bawled aloud, “Noooo!”  She reached up her hand and I tried to throw open my lids terror-struck.  However, when the sword crashed down into my neck severing my head at the spinal cord, I swiftly felt a loud thud.

At that there was this immediate abortive blank.  It was abrupt and with great finality.  Gone was the woman’s horrified scream in mid-breath.  I could feel the contact of the sword on my spine at the point of decapitation.  This was, in fact, rather traumatic because abruptly and with great force my life was ended.

*At that point, the moment of blank displacement, I was slapped back into my body instantaneously awaking.  Finding myself fully awake, I was in the midst of raising my head off the pillow as I slept on my back.  When I heard my infamous neck injury snap and being aggravated anew, I had not yet sat up in bed.  I collapsed back into the pillow stunned and short of breath.

It was all so overwhelming that all that I could do was just relax.  I dissolved in a silent, teary cry.  It was the only way to address the tense rigidity that my body had become.  As I laid there it was extremely hard to simultaneously cry and breathe.  I had no desire to get up.  I was simply resigned with sheer exhaustion and the weightiness of having re-lived a traumatic end-of-life experience.  This was a past life which undoubtedly was in the early part of this millennium, in Wales.

This obviously was, from every richly detailed nuance of the very intensely lucid, progressional experience, a slice of a past life.  What was really impactful, even more so than the beheading, was the moment at which I saw the tapestry.  It was immediately familiar and infused with a certain validity which couldn’t be denied in any way.  I wanted to run, to not see it, on first contact with it but was incapable of doing anything.

The tapestry depicted the slaying, of the aged leader, as being a pivotal moment in that realm’s history.  I did not get the sense that the man was my son but rather my usurper.  Regardless, I was rather afraid of this man.  This dream was much like so many others that relate to matters of trauma which resonate to the level of soul itself.

I can remember thinking at the time of that dream of Francesca and of the one with Merlin, in which he collapsed a great deal in that life in Spain with the Ludnezes and I protested by saying, “I want out of this dream, now!”

It does go without saying that as Merlin is a scholar soul, the upturned, unread books – which were brown-covered and time-faded – were a residue of his true soul in essence and agedness of soul.  After all, it was Merlin who nightly read several books, one of which he would conclude.  Until he was prepared to return to one of them to conclude the following night, the others were kept upturned or down-turned about the apartment.

In the event that they were to be accidentally closed, there were even times when he would wedge a piece of pretzel in between the pages.  Of course, I was in the habit of going around and closing the books when cleaning house.  Merlin, time and again, expressed displeasure at what he saw as interference.  I would never mischievously close the books that he had kept opened about our home.  Alas, such is wedded bliss.

Every detail in these dreams was so richly realised and resonant.  There was no way that Merlin could not have been instrumental in this past life revisit and reanimation.  I am confident that Merlin was crucial to the invocation of this past life milieu which awaited my arrival.  Of course, thanks to the jarring vividness of the decapitation, I abruptly awoke.

However, I still felt as though I needed to dream on.  I knew that there was more yet to come.  Despite Whoopi having leapt from the bed anticipating being fed, I chose not to get from bed and do anything.  I would much later after this dream learn, from Mathilde Duchenne’s channelling, that Merlin and I are indeed task companions – he a seventh level mature scholar to my seventh mature artisan.  This validation only made the dream of the library, of much loved books, that much more relevant.

Obviously, that dream set in late-twelfth, early-thirteenth century Wales involved both he and I.  I don’t, however, know whether he was the large-bodied woman who pleaded for me not to be killed or whether he was the Sagittarian-Martian energied usurper/heir who came to make sure that the job was done and I was truly dead.  It was all very lucid and like every reincarnational dream one was incapable of affecting change in the outcome of events.  One was, as it were, simply along for the roller-coaster ride.  END.

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As ever, straighten up and fly right, all the while singing, vocalesing and having a merry old time of it… because you are special and I say that you are damn well worth a flying dream.  Thanks for your ongoing support.  

 

 

 

 

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

Cicada Principle.

Bonsai

So much of what happens in the waking state is smothered by fear-based strictures like tribalism, classism, sexism, racism et al which results in one being preyed on – one’s very life threatened.  Sadly too many proceed through their lives impervious of the Maya that effectively leaves them blind to the ties that bind us all together as souls incarnate in the human experience.

Being as awakened when awake as when asleep and dreaming, gives one a greater appreciation of the beauty of life and the beauty of all humanity.  This awareness also allows one to see across the illusion of time.

This sensitivity and awareness affords one the ability to perceive and appreciate the gift of persons known and loved along the way – from lifetime to lifetime.

This visionary dream not only spans the rifts of time but it also gets to the heart of the love that binds all souls together.  That love that endures regardless the strictures of the waking state and the perceptions of those involved.

The dream was rather magically and lucidly experienced, on Tuesday, January 9, 1996, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and near-conjunct the cusp of my fourth house.

 

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*Prior to sleep, I meditated with crystals in the pyramid.  I then focussed on being able to astral project, during sleep, to specific points on the astral plane where desired experiences could be had.

I opened myself up to, requested of my soul itself, pleasurable experiences with persons whom I have shared multiple past life experiences.  Most of all, I was clear that the bonds had to have been predominantly of a positive nature.

Thus, I fell into sleep open to whatever laid ahead.

In the first dream, I was having a phone conversation with both Isis and Isabella.  In some way, this involved much discussion about Pandora.

I had been concerned afterwards that I had not upset Pandora for having overly spoken of her.  This is an area, her private affairs, which Pandora never treads into with anyone.

There was real pressure here, on both her siblings’ part, to see to it that Pandora went out and got herself a job.  Both were furious with Pandora and claimed that she was not putting any effort into finding a job.

Concerned for Pandora, naturally, I thought of how possibly I could help her get grounded.  I thought perhaps to phone Maddox Pool and see if he could not get her work in I.A.T.S.E.

However, I really did not think that Pandora would be able to adapt to such a work environment.  Besides which, realistically, my connections to the place precluded her being able to get her foot through the door.

Since Owen Hawksmoor knew Pandora and her connection to me, I knew that Vikram Srinivasan would definitely not approve of her getting work there.

20141207. The main entrance colossal and classic brutalist Ross

The next dream then found me in an incredibly far-off land.  This is the only way that one can best describe this place.  Here, it was nighttime out.  A black capsule, in which one was able to sit, was being prepared.

An additional person could sit on one’s lap though it was basically a single-occupant capsule.  It was shaped not unlike the lunar modules, which returned to Earth and landed in the ocean, during the Apollo missions to the Moon at NASA’s heyday in the late 1960s to early 1970s.

However, this capsule was conical.  There were exceptionally tall men who wore black clothing that covered them from head to toe.  Their faces were kept hidden by black visors.  The capsule door was opened and closed by these same men who seemed like sentries.

At this point, when sitting in the closed capsule one would seemingly travel to distant places without moving.  Of course, this was the astral projection that I had coveted during pre-sleep meditation whilst in the pyramid.  Nonetheless, I became highly suspect of this capsule’s true purpose.

A couple was there with a young child.  They wanted the child to sit in the mother’s open legs whilst she was already seated in the male parent’s opened legs.  The three members of the family wore thick saffron robes.

For whatever reasons, the little girl tugged free of her mother’s embrace and began running away.  Immediately, the sentries were hot on the heels of the child in a bid to apprehend her.

Of course, as it only validated my reservations about the true nature of this machine, this I did not find very reassuring.  Opting out of taking a flight aboard the capsule, I shoved off instead and began flying.

I left the large hangar-like structure behind me and flew out into the outdoors.  Next, I was beneath the awning of the building; the awning extended from the building for about fifty yards.  It was a most massive structure!

The architectural proportions here were inordinately massive.  The scale here was on the order that things appeared in that dream of Merlin, on July 9, 1993, which was truly astral… truly colossal.

I thought that I shouldn’t stay too close to the building – any of the sentries could come around the corner and apprehend me for having left the queue to the capsule.

I then held on to the awning’s beams whilst inverted much as though I were a fly on the awning’s underside.  I then went to the right, of the far left corner, where persons were way below me who busily walked about on the sidewalk and in the infrequently trafficked street.

No one had noticed me.  I did grow concerned, nonetheless, at being spotted from below thereby drawing unwelcome attention to myself.  As I crawled along the awning, it gave way inside to the ceiling of a very noisy watering hole.

This bar was jam-packed with high-spirited persons.  Not liking the energies here I crawled, still inverted, back into the large complex from which I had fled.

From inside I peered outside, beyond the awning, where I saw a large craft.  White and massive, it made the Boeing 747-400 series look like a compact glider.  The craft’s nose, however, more resembled that of the Concorde aircraft.

Thinking that the sentries were perhaps on the inside of the craft, I let go of the awning beams.  Of course, these beams were the typical dark woods of the astral plane.

With that, I had resumed flying.  Whilst still inverted, I flew from just inches below the beams.  From time to time, I held on to a beam to get my bearings.  At such times, I looked over my shoulder below and behind me.

I then went in through a proper entrance to the building which I used for crossing over to another section of the noisy bar.  With that I then did a half-tumble, rolling over, to now face down to the patrons in the bar below.

Slowly and effortlessly, I floated down and alighted.  I had not made too much of a spectacle of myself as there was a major disturbance happening in the bar to which everyone was noisily focussed.

A Hispanic man and another, who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas, were being especially rowdy.  The bartender decided to maintain order and left his post to show them to the door.  He was a large burly man.

The door, through which they had been ushered outside, had a view to the outdoors.  The natural pathway from the bar led to a large tropical-looking growth beyond the complex.

Soon after they went outdoors, there was a sudden outbreak of light flashes.  Basically, they had had a run-in of sorts or had been apprehended by the sentries who were clearly extra-humans.  Soon after they had left the bar, I also headed outside.

In search of the Hispanic with the uncanny resemblance to Diego Lunamas, I had gone flying through the air.  I had remained, when airborne, between ten and fifteen feet off the ground.  My flight was slow; my flight was languorous.  This was clearly astral projection.

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The growth here was very thick.  Enjoying the purity of their energetic signature, I flew through the trees whilst simultaneously revitalising myself in the process.

This soon gave way to an opening, in the thick growth, beyond which was the most breathtaking vista.  These were by far the most beautiful trees imaginable.  They were simply colossal.

Each arboreal’s trunk was about fifty feet across whilst they towered up at least a mile.  I momentarily hovered whilst my entire body quivered throughout at the powerful vibration that they exuded.

This was a truly humbling experience for me.  Right away, I was reminded of the ecstatic epiphany that I experienced on Boxing Day, 1972.

One tree snaked from the ground and rose up into the air.  It leaned against the right side of a tree that was incredibly immense.  It seemed a mile-high astral plane baobab.

Flying over, I landed on the trunk of one tree.  This tree had two leaves that were frond-like but incredibly oversized.  Whilst I stood on the trunk, a slight man – he looked Amerindian though likely Balinese or even Fijian – approached me.

*He seemed from an earlier age in human history.  Of course, this was likely owing to the fact that he was yet another humanoid, extra-human species.  END.

He suggested that I look at where the growth began.  The vine-like trunk was some fifty to seventy-five feet in the air; it extended at an incline to a great distance far away.  It was a truly fantastical tree.

There were the beginnings of the two frond-like leaves close-by.  He told me that he used them to get milk.  He said that the milk derived from this rare arboreal genus was used in all manner of applications.

He was a shaman.  He was a true, innate dream magus.

I then noticed an indigenous ladder that they used to climb up the tree.  Here it was nighttime.  The frond-like leaves grew side-by-side and curled over.  The leaves looked, as a matter of fact, not unlike umbrellas.  It was these trees to which the locals came to harvest the vine-like tree’s milk.

I then began moving down the tree trunk growing concerned as the much-feared extra-humans were expected to return soon.  They seemingly appeared at set intervals and their intentions were generally adversarial.

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With that, I flew away and returned into the clearing.  As I flew back, where there was now a large open area below, I saw a Black man who was an agricultural engineer.  He carried a wheelbarrow of earth.  He had placed the earth over a trap of some sort which employed a cord system.

They apparently also captured cicadas.  When I came off the inclined vine-like tree, I had briefly landed on the ground before taking flight again.  To my amazement, I had landed in a patch of a few hundred cicadas.

They were exclusively on a tree which seemed the very centre of the growth.  This central tree gave off a definite hum.  All the cicadas were on the trunk of the same unique tree that seemed, by its vibrational signature, to be a life-sustaining energetic magnet.

This tree was not a member of the pine family.  Rather, it was a tropical tree which made the sitkas in Vancouver’s Stanley Park or the redwoods in northern California look like seedlings.

I remained motionless for the longest while.  I was magnetised by the tree’s vibrational hum.  It was hypnotic.  There was nothing but love radiating from this tree.  It was a truly humbling encounter.

The cicadas had swarmed onto its trunk to become harmonised with its vibration.  As I flew off and looked back, I realised that the cicadas were being caught by the locals as they had proven themselves a nuisance.

The cicadas were not in the habit of eating the crops but there were so many of them that their noisy song made the locals devise a plan.  The locals simply captured and relocated as many of the cicadas as they could.

I realised that this bit of drama, being acted out in the clearing, was also a metaphor for the larger drama back at the cosmopolitan complex.

There the extra-humans were laying traps, by way of the oval-shaped black capsule, for capturing unsuspecting humans.  However, there was also another aspect to all this symbology that was not lost on me.

I knew, though many of the cicadas were still alive, that the ones who had left their empty shells behind represented two things.  The symbol of the empty cicada shell was that of being astral-projected out of the shell of the sleeping body.

Secondly, the other symbolic reference was that, each discarded cicada shell represented a lifetime already concluded.  They were as if totems of past lives.  This was validated by the fact that here was I visiting, as it were, a remnant of a former life.

It was a life that was lived in Southeast Asia.  A life it was in which my spirituality was closely connected to the strong bondedness that I achieved with the all-encompassing beauty of nature.

thatched-hut

This was validated by the ectomorphic loin-clothed Balinese – Southeast Asian – who had come from his little thatched hut to greet me and serve as a guide to me.

He was, if not me, then definitely someone whom I have known in this lifetime but with whom I have shared multiple past lives.  I can’t say, however, that this was Merlin in a past life.

He was quite familiar and was more than likely an entity mate of mine.  I was similarly reminded of Diego Lunamas in his fey sweet-eyed beauteousness.

I then flew back through the growth where I saw the Hispanic man who had been kicked out of the bar.  He was standing outside a thatched hut.

This man was so exceptionally good-looking.  He no longer looked like his Hispanic self when at the bar.  Then he had had a striking resemblance to Diego Lunamas.  Here he seemed now Balinese, possibly Sumatran, though on the outside chance he could have been Filipino.

He held something in his hand that looked like a knife.  However, it was not a weapon as such.  As he stood there, his back to the hut, he was unaware of the intense light flashes taking place inside his hut.

This to me suggested that the extra-humans were inside the hut.  It was possible that this man had alternately just died and had emerged from the hut, his final astral projection, though not yet aware that he had died.

I then moved inside the hut where I was able to get a handle on what was taking place.  The door to the hut was a drape of green banana leaves that were regularly replaced.

Lots of bamboo shoots were used to anchor and set the frame of the hut.  The slight man had been desperately trying to cut through the door of leaves in a bid to get outside.

Each time that he would cut his way through one drape of leaves, to get through the door, another would manifest beyond the other that already existed there.  He could never seem to cut his way free fast enough.  It proved a futile attempt to get out.

Each door was made of a different type of leaf and reed but all of them were green.  The hut was eight feet square with a conical roof.  As a matter of fact, it was more so pyramidal.

I floated close to the ceiling of the hut as he desperately tried to break out.  I am not at all sure that most people were able to observe me in any of these giddy dream experiences.

The loin-clothed local did not quite comprehend the nature of the shiny object that he used to try and cut his way free.  Soon enough, the hut was burnt-out with a few burnt-out frame beams standing.

The remaining beams were charred with black ashes everywhere.  It was obvious that in his bid to escape he had not made it out.

Here, it seemed as though I was experiencing a series of vignettes – vignettes into past lives – all of which were interconnected.  A very intense experience of soul journeying these dreams would prove.

Again, I saw the man who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas.  I flew out to the tree, with the two frond-like leaves, on which I had been earlier.

I, soon enough, came down off the tree on seeing these green gourds that were cut open down on the ground.  From the inside, a thicker version of what looked like coconut milk spilt out.

The milk was being bled into appropriately placed containers.  On closer inspection, I realised that the gourds were grown below the surface of the ground.  The liquid looked much like cassava root milk.

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From there, I flew ahead to another section of the great arboreal growth.  Now I came to a clearing which was set in Japan.  I intuitively knew that this dream occurred in Japan.

For me, this was readily discernible owing to the strong past-life resonance that I experienced for being in this locale.  There I saw a series of cultured rivulets that were part of a water fountain.  The fountain was part of an extensive irrigation system.

The cultured rivulets were stone affairs in which flowed green fluid rather than the clear transparency of water.  As I had flown over this site, I saw from on high that everything was completely white.

The trees and every aspect of the landscape were completely white.  I knew that it was not a snow-covered landscape.  Rather, this was the result of some sort of attack from the black-clad and visored extra-humans with the conical, black space capsules.

This I knew meant that they would soon be returning to the area where I was.  Closer to hand, I hovered above the Japanese village.

fan dance

I saw here lots of Japanese women who were performing a ritualised dance.  They ritually sang and danced using fans.  As they danced, they were a study in grace and reserve.

From there, I decided to fly on in search of the source of the oddly green river.  I rose in the air as I flew by following the incline to where the fountain began.  This led me in flight into a hilltop complex where the fountain began.

It was a large compound which included a temple, shrine and living quarters.  Here there were more women who, though not ritually dancing, carried fans and were just as reserved.

At once, I alighted hurriedly moving through the compound.  I was as if possessed.  I knew at every turn which corridor to follow.  On my arrival, I let out a cry upset at what I had found.

I couldn’t believe what these people had done.  They had desecrated this important bit of their culture and heritage.

Of course, this was an astral projection to a past life milieu.  Everything was at once familiar.  My sense of smell was acute.  All the writings I fully understood though they were in Kanji and Sanskrit.

In that past life, my former self had had a hand in establishing the temple and its shrine.  Now some time later, however, they were performing these rituals in appeasement of the new overlords.

Of course, the new overlords would have been the extra-humans.  I was really upset… I was really hurt.  They shook the fans as they danced and this was supposed to have mimicked something about the extra-humans’ culture with which I was not familiar.

To atone, the Japanese humans had set up several altars to the extra-humans.  Truth be told, they worshipped the extra-humans as their deities.  The reserved women had the same milk-like substance which I had earlier seen being harvested.

Said harvesting area looked to be in Bali more than anywhere else.  The harvested milk-like drink was stored in very ornate vessels that were decidedly Japanese and examples of ancient Japanese pottery.

In particular, there was a large dark-wood altar – Butsudan – that captivated me.  Inside the Butsudan were several wooden carvings which were in the likeness of the visored extra-humans.

I grabbed one of the carvings, enraged, and began banging it against the other carvings.  In short order, I had desecrated the imposition that the extra-humans’ presence represented.

I began furiously yelling at the Japanese locals for having sold out.  What really surprised me was just how enraged and powerful a persona I possessed.  I was intensely warrior-spirited.

I seemingly was a member of a Samurai sect which meant that there was fierce pride and honour at stake here.  This was such a gross betrayal.

“Where was their loyalty to traditions and history?” I rhetorically asked.

As I bashed away at the carvings, I heavily panted.  I felt rather passionate, on my return, about the fruits of my past-life labour having been defiled once left behind on my passing in that former lifetime.

I addressed them in Japanese, no less.  It was quite something.

*It much reminded me of that dream encounter with ‘Francesca,’ on January 1, 1989.  I had then encountered the fiery redheaded Briton who had been a former life of mine.

I was quite the strong-personalitied dramatic woman who was quite sparkling-personalitied and with great presence.  END.

In that former Japanese life my body of work was clearly dear to me.  I couldn’t conceive of how these people would turn their backs on the efforts made on their behalf.

With that I took leave of them and went rushing into the shrine’s private apartments.  I ran up the stairs then stopped and walked along the unusually narrow hallways.  The proportions here were decidedly Japanese.

On the walls were engravings that bore inspiring words and poems.  All of the art was spiritually focussed.  Too, there were lots of long narrow rugs on the wooden floor of the hallways.

butsudan

An extremely ancient Butsudan sat in the private apartments where once I had lived in that former life.  The Butsudan’s two silver latches were complicated to open.

In fact, they were not readily opened based on the way that they appeared.  Nonetheless, from memory, I effortlessly opened them on the first try.

The shrine was so immediately familiar.  I couldn’t believe that it still stood there.  My fingers actually trembled as I made to open the latches.  The Butsudan was also covered in wooden engravings.

One set of the latches ran across the midsection of the Butsudan.  Still, the other latch system came down vertically at the bottom.  So excited was I that I began levitating whilst opening the Butsudan.

I first opened the one at the midsection, then the other, after which I flung open the door excited to once more see the Butsudan’s coveted scroll.

Just inside the door, there was a dark-brown leather flap with engravings on it.  Raising the flap finally led the light to be cast in on the most time-yellowed Gohonzon imaginable.

It was truly antique and I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.  The structure was so very powerful.  On realising what it was, I shuddered and began quivering throughout.

Immediately, my connection to Buddhism in this lifetime was being validated.  Of course, having seen Diego Lunamas in the environs of prior dreams made perfect sense.

He had also been on the palatial grounds of the temple as I had hovered in the air.  On opening the shrine, I alighted and collapsed on the floor in lotus position before the Gohonzon.

I keenly focussed on the Gohonzon though mindful of the fact that the black-clad and visored extra-humans would be returning soon.  Here in this most awakened of dreams, I began chanting Daimoku.  I cannot stress enough how intensely lucid a dream experience this was.

As I chanted, I became aware of my vibration rapidly intensifying.  I remained reverential before the ancient Gohonzon, with hands clasped, yet I found it hard to believe that I was having the experience.

More than that, the flow of energies from the time-yellowed Gohonzon to me was as real and intense as the intense light flooding the tiny private apartments – an apartment where once I had lived in a former life when Japanese.

There was the sillage of sweet sandalwood incense ghosting the air.  For some time, I chanted aloud then concluded with a long, slow, piercing utterance of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo.

With that, I shot to my feet and fled from the room going down the hallway and turned to the left.  In my haste, I had left the Butsudan opened with the Gohonzon exposed.

However, there was a strong sense that it was to have been left opened.  The light and energies from the Gohonzon needed to be obstructed no more.

I then arrived into the large palatial living quarters that were quite open.  There was a low mat, a futon actually, to the left of the door on entering the room.

To the right of the door, half of the wall area opened up to a view of the beautifully terraced gardens outdoors.  I knew that whoever presently lived there was coming.

japanese garden4

I could sense the person’s approach down on the grounds to the right.  With that, I floated down to the ground level and effortlessly moved through the pane of glass.

I simply upped my frequency and willed myself to become light-bodied.  Thus, I was able to effortlessly move through the thick floor-to-ceiling pane of glass.

I went to the left of the building, slowly moving through the night air, on the terraced grounds of the temple compound.  At that point, I noticed that there was a man approaching.

About my neck, I still wore a brown scarf that had covered the Gohonzon.  On opening up the large Butsudan, I had removed and placed the scarf about my shoulders.

As I flew with the scarf, I realised that I could be apprehended once spotted with the unique telltale scarf.  The man waited for me around some large wooden pylons that served as the opening in the fence.

It was, in fact, a gate system.  It led from the private inner courtyard to the outer courtyard where others could gather.

There were several wooden stools on which one could sit and reflect on the beautiful gardens.  Architecturally, this place was simply inspiring.  It was truly Zen here and was both uplifting and conducive to serenity.

On coming around the pylons, the man turned out to be none other than Kaarlsohn Frieden.  From above in the air, I was stunned to have both seen and found him here and excitedly beamed down at him.

Gay couple cuddling in bed

He wore only a large top that fell to just below his arse.  Floating down, I alighted whilst the brilliance of a full Moon night seemed to magically shift to intense daylight.

The lighting here was truly ethereal.  The energies here were wonderful.  Here on the grounds of this compound, the energy was very densely negative-ioned.

Way down the hill, whilst in flight, I had noticed several children playing.  They were all Japanese.  I had landed by a series of stone shrines that had been strategically placed about the gardens.  A stone table sat close by that looked several centuries old.

I simply couldn’t believe that I was having a dream encounter with Kaarlsohn.  Here was I so lucid and he was so real.  Truly, this was an astral plane encounter of the highest order.

On ambling over, I warmly greeted him.  I chose not to try and get rid of the scarf.  I was, though, concerned whether or not he would be mad with me for being there.

He called me over.  Kaarlsohn’s stubby thighs were strong and athletic-looking as though he were in his twenties.  Understandably, he did look older than when I knew him.

On the inside of his right thigh, I noticed a large thick vein.  As he looked at me warmly smiling, I stood to his left.  Kaarlsohn  was so warm but, more importantly, I couldn’t get over how real an encounter this was.

As he was only wearing the large unisexed top, and nothing beneath it, I got a good drift of his sex’s strong musk.  It was a bit overwhelming but I kept focussed on his clear smiling eyes.

Looking into his eyes, I spoke to him making sure to be simultaneously telepathic – there is greater power of persuasion when thus focussed,

“Oh my god, Kaarlsohn, I’d give anything to be alone with you.  To be intimate but not necessarily sexual, mind you.

“I’d do anything to relax and recline with you, sensually.  I’d really love to laze about with you… caressing.”

At that point, I placed my arm about his lower back whilst we unflinchingly looked into the other’s eyes.  He smiled sweetly blushing.  I then caressed his arse and felt its firm roundness beneath the sheer light fabric.

Then Kaarlsohn surprised me by saying, “Well, I like to do that, from time to time…”

He slowly, suggestively arched his brows high up his forehead.  It was a gesture that was reminiscent of Merlin when he wanted to be intimate.  What was really telling though was Kaarlsohn’s enunciation when he had uttered those words.

By ‘time’ he meant reincarnational time and not time relating to his present incarnation.  So that he meant at the level of soul, he did not mind having a same-sexed or bisexual focus ever so often when incarnate.

I looked at him and was blown away by his mischievousness.  With that, we both playfully laughed at his teasing winsome handsomeness.  Here his voice was not as strong a bass as his voice is in this lifetime.

Beyond all that, the level of love, warmth and intimacy between us was astonishing.  It was a rare pleasure to be so genuinely intimate with another soul.  This depth of openness and acceptance simply blew me away.

Then as if all that weren’t revolutionary Kaarlsohn initiated sexual play.  He fondled me whilst undoing me with the most sensual kisses all over.

By this point, we were now sitting down on the table in lotus position ravenously groping each other.  From time to time, he would stop kissing me to directly look into my eyes.

On those occasions, it was as though time itself stood still.  My senses were so heightened that I thought I would simply die of joy during the dreamtime.

Kaarlsohn’s eyes were so real and focussed.  His eyes’ intensity was only distantly frightening as they were so potent.

Lips passion-reddened, moist and apart revealed his quivering tongue.  He quickly breathed in shallow breaths in between groaning.  His groans were filled with yearning and called out to me.

Truly aroused, he seductively invited me to come out of myself to join him in ecstasy.  His hard, firm hands were tightly wrapped about my throbbing cock slowly kneading and massaging it.

What he was doing was not sexual.  Rather, he was performing energy work.  With each groan that called out to me, he was inviting me to do the same for him.

So I did in kind.  Kneading, gently and just as painstakingly slowly, I massaged his thick, large, foreskinned cock.

There was nothing more potent and shamanic than the energies that passed between us.  It was electrifying.  It was magus.

I did sense that there were a couple of bruises on his cock which I had passingly noticed.  I thought that, perhaps, they were from an outbreak of herpes.

He then said, as my cock grew more tumescent,

“This is a really nice cock, you’ve got…”

As he gently massaged me and pulled back on my foreskin, my cock kept stabbing into the centre of his cupped right palm.  As I danced and flew without moving, in spirit, a more sensual solo variation could not have been danced by Evelyn Hart.  Indeed, he was as if David Peregrine to my Evelyn Hart – in the sensually exquisite pas de deux, Belong.

At this point, I lucidly became aware of my intentions prior to sleep.  I had specifically meditated asking to have memorable experiences, on the astral plane, with those whom I have shared positive past life experiences.

Whilst I looked hypnotised into his large clear eyes – which here were a brownish-green, I recalled having shaped my dreams.

The light here was so intensely brilliant.  Much of the light here was being initiated by the love that this man’s very august soul was imparting to me.  A truly energising magus dream experience this was.

*What is most phenomenal about this soulfully intimate experience, of all the people I know, Kaarlsohn is the least homoeroticised.  He is also the most macho of men.

Too, I had neither spoken to him in ages nor had I recently thought of him.  Yet here was this major totemic encounter.  It truly proved healing and insightful a dream encounter.

Whilst in the midst of our intimacy, I let out a sigh and suddenly found myself being slapped back into my body.  At having had my astral projection aborted, there was weightiness at my solar plexus as I suddenly awoke.

I had been slapped awake by the shrill cries of raccoons outside my opened bedroom window.  They were having yet another nasty fight.  They had come out of Stanley Park to forage for food.

I had been terrified on hearing the grunting and screeching, whilst in the midst of my potent astral plane encounter with Kaarlsohn.  I had assumed that it was the sound of the extra-humans advancing on us.

Now, I realised that these so-called extra-humans were, in fact, astral guides.  Rather than being a negative force, the sentries were there to assist with proper astral protection.

I had been projecting the disturbance outside the window onto the visored and unseen astral guides.  Raccoons are visored, as it were, with their distinctive black band across their faces at the eyes.

As was the case, the raccoons had been fighting for some time and continued fighting for much of the night.  In fact, they fought till daybreak.  They prowled the West End in search of food before scurrying back to Stanley Park at twilight.

**What’s really interesting about these astral plane rendez-vous was that both Diego Lunamas and Kaarlsohn Frieden I met during my stay in Winnipeg.  With both men, I had enjoyed an ease of communication and instinctively knew that we had had past life contacts.

Diego I had introduced to Nichiren Buddhism.  Kaarlsohn had already been practicing when I started.  Kaarlsohn proved a good companion with whom to chant Daimoku.

Rarely have I felt this satiated on awakening from the dreamtime.  Though understandably aroused as all hell, I cried for joy at the beauty that I had just experienced and chose to remain lying in repose within the pyramid.

The reason for some of the cicadas having been alive was that they represented the ever present “now” of the soul which does not experience time.  Initially, the cicadas had all been alive but then some flickered out of existence.

Those cicadas that remained were quite a few.  They surely represented the potential of future lifetimes.  However, the remaining cicadas that were still alive were not in the majority.

The cicadas initially were all alive because to the soul they were being experienced simultaneously – past lifetimes, future lifetimes and this lifetime.

The sum totality of my lifetimes, as symbolised by the cicadas, was a swarm of creative energy which was magnetised to this great arboreal giant.  Of course, the arboreal giant represented the soul to which ultimately all cicadas – in order that they may experience transformation, reincarnational metamorphosis – are anchored.

The tree to which the cicadas were anchored also represented the physical plane.  A physical plane into which the lifetimes of the reincarnating soul, as symbolised by the cicadas, had to manifest in order to become self-actualised and fulfilled both spiritually and creatively.

As much as the arboreal giant represented the soul quality on the astral plane, simultaneously, it represented the physical plane into which the soul was reincarnationally focussed.

Since I was on the astral plane whilst dreaming – where time as such does not exist – the cicadas were all-extant.  The totemic cicadas represented every lifetime’s dreamer self which is never extinguished.

Thus the dreamer self forms a conduit, like the black teleportation-like capsule, to having connective glimpses into past or even future lifetimes.

I suppose too that, at the start of this lyrical dream adventure, the black conical capsule in which one sat and travelled was a symbolic icon of my pyramid.  Of course, when lucidly dreaming these truly marvellous dreams of uplifting adventure, I was sleeping in my pyramid.

This was a truly illuminating dream experience.  To have experientially undertaken this astral awakening was very rhapsodic, in each lucid moment, as it swept me along.

A sensory feast this was.  A feast on which my very soul was made pleasurably besotted.  A truly magus dream odyssey this was and one which validated anew that dreams truly are the poetry of the soul.

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As ever live as lucidly awakened when awake as when self-aware in the most fuck-all glorious lucid dreams.  I love you more.  

 

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

Shamanic Dreams Aplenty.

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Two weeks before Merlin’s passing, at a time where my focus in the dreamtime was rather intense, I dreamt the most uplifting of dreams.  As it was leading up to Merlin’s transition or ascension, there was a massive opening up of my consciousness.  For having served Merlin in such an intimate and compassionate role and thereby healing his spirit, there was much spiritual growth and resultant advancement for me.  Merlin used his illness to serve as a mentor to me and thus teaching me so very much in the process.  The dreams were dreamt, on Saturday, November 4, 1989.  The dreams that day spanned two sleep cycles and proved both intense and illuminating.

AlsatianSavesTroops

I was quite consciously aware that I was dreaming and had slipped into sleep from a very deep, expansive meditative state.  On coming to, I was walking along in a street; it was quite sunny out.  There was a brown dog that appeared.  The dog came over to me, from off to the right, from behind a rock.  I felt that it looked ready to attack me.  The dog was a very short, smooth-haired creature.  Truth be told, it was a beautiful dog.  When the dog came over, I declined the gesture of friendliness and did not put out my hand. 

I knew then that I could not be sensed to be fearful because then the dog would sense my fears and thus defensively attack.  Reassuringly, I spoke aloud and guided myself through the scene by saying, “Be calm and be understanding; just reach out to it.”  So I did and extended my hand.  However, the dog was a very contained creature.  Though its mouth was clenched shut, the dog bore its teeth at me.  The dog then opened its mouth to bite at my hand; I countered by forcefully stabbing and ramming my hand into its mouth — much as though I had just stabbed it to the hilt with a massive sword.  I then started forcefully twisting my fist against the canines.  As I twisted against the canines, I rotated my right hand counterclockwise. 

Such that his left cheek was rotating skyward, thus the dog’s head was being uncomfortably twisted about.  Clearly, my actions were hurting him.  His neck was wringing.  I was in control and he could not really do me a great deal of harm.  Further, I guided myself with assurances that I was in control of the situation and not the dog.  I was sending it focussed energy and telling it to calm down and not to be in attack mode.  However, the dog still would not desist and persisted with resisting my directives.  All of this, interspecies communication, I telepathically undertook. 

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I realised then and there that this was getting tedious.  Besides, I was not here in the dreamtime to do battle with some mutt.  So, still with considerable force, I hurled the dog to the left.  As I hurled it, it became transformed and was now a square which seemed to be made of glass or hard plastic.  The transformed dog also seemed to be shimmering.  Next, it started moving around in the air.  After I had thrown the dog away, from off my right fist, it was transformed but remained a separate entity.  I then followed it with my mind and sight.  The transformed dog-cum-geometric airborne object then moved about at my command. 

Initially, it went off to the left where it was going to crash into a wall.  Even though this was the former difficult creature, it was now too beautiful.  In its transformed state, I could not let it be destroyed.  I was also pleased and amazed at what I had affected with my mind.  So I drew it away from the wall, from which it had abruptly veered off, and instead moved to the right.  I then brought it a little closer and then moved it about some more.  Next, I decided that, maybe, I should just let it go down; however, at that point, I thought aloud, “Wait a minute here.  I’ve got control here with my mind. 

flying-dream

“Now it’s time for me to fly!”  Immediately, I abandoned the construct.  I gladly left it hovering there in the air.  Next, I simply shoved off from where I was and started flying.  I said aloud, “Yeah!  See, I can do it!”  I roared with sweet pleasurable laughter.  Next, I began moving, not directly upwards but, out before me in a low gradual rise like an aeroplane at takeoff. 

My arms were outstretched, perpendicular to my torso — palms faced down and were winged up and back, a bit, creating the right aerodynamic drag.  With that, I started moving at such great fantastic speeds that I immediately came to the end of the road.  Before me, the land began falling away.  Here before me, I came to a most beautiful, beautiful, beautiful sea.  I was above an inlet in flight and the hills were very green and the sand on the shore was beautifully white.  The sea was a beautiful blue and it was so tranquil and wonderful. “ Whoa, I’m going to be travelling over the ocean.  What happens if I start losing control?” 

I then, though, reminded myself not to be fearful.  At the same time, I was quite aware of my body, lying here on the bed and the thrilling feeling I was having whilst in flight, resonated throughout my body.  “My goodness, I’m projecting my consciousness; this is what you’re doing… you’re flying.  You’re advancing with your psyche… here in the dreamtime.  Do not focus on the water; it’s a wonderful scenic aid.  Go on Arvin, just focus ahead.”  Immediately ahead of me, at the great speeds that I was progressing, I saw a light.  A beautiful, beautiful, white enveloping light it was. 

light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel

I then began shoving my way through the light at great, great speeds.  Now, I was going at fantastic speeds whilst in flight above the expansive sea.  This was so very thrilling and incredible; however, I really did not want to go all the way.  As it were, I did not want to come out on the other end of the light — to explore beyond that.  In point of fact, I was quite aware of my body lying in bed and I was lying on my left side.  I was saying to myself that I was not even in the meditative state that I had actually hoped for.  To fortify myself, I had grabbed the large quartz crystal.  However, before I had gone to bed, I had really wanted to masturbate.

Thus I realised that I really had to come out of this experience and masturbate, after which go to bed, after meditation as I had intended.  So I did get up. 

*Not that it was shallow of me to have abandoned a great cosmic experience, to go wank off, but I do think that it was actually good of me to have ceased being astrally projected when I did.  However, the need to survive was sustained by being grounded to my sexuality.  As I progressed through the light, I knew that the further I got, the more likely it was that I would not want to return.  Once I got onto the other side, I felt quite strongly that I would experience something much on the order of Tuesday, December 26 “Boxing Day” 1972III.  I just knew that I could not go all the way.  For one thing, Merlin needed me here, to see him through to the end.  For another, I had to come back and not go all the way because there was no one at the apartment with me.  Should I slip in too deep and imperil my life, in some way, there needed to be someone here with me to safely bring me out.

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I was growing more and more relaxed — feeling like I just did not care to any longer be focussed in my body.  This was why the thought of sex was so important.  My sexual focus had actually allowed me to stay ensouled in the body and not altogether spirit away from my life.  However, it was definitely that close.  I did experience rapture — on an order of the cosmic.  I was probably guided to my sexual centre by the soul and Merlin.  Of course, Merlin wanted me not to expire prior to him — as we had agreed.  Truly, it would really have been a great cop out, were I to have passed on prior to him.

So for once, as it were, my masturbatory obsession saved the day.  I do too believe that the attack dog, whose animus towards me I was able to have skilfully diffused, represented the amount of treachery afoot in the waking state at exactly two weeks prior to Merlin’s passing.  END.

                                                B

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I was in an area that looked like a cemetery.  There were these little girls who carried these objects that looked like fans.  They each had a little stick at the end of which was a handle; really, it did look like a table tennis racquet.  At the end of it, the rod was bent down and then went off.  The queer rod was shaped like a little crown or a maple leaf.  What’s more, it was golden-coloured.  They were white girls under the age of twelve.  Too, they were both redheaded. 

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They were holding up the object before them.  Incidentally, I had one as well.  Somehow, I did not know what it was supposed to do.  The trees were large, like silver maples, and there seemed to be some large, centuries-old moss-covered tombstones about.  They both held out their arms in one direction.  They were behind me and we were facing in opposite directions.  They directly pointed the forking golden sticks ahead of themselves.  Still directly pointing their golden sticks ahead, they then came over to where I was. 

Immediately, when we were in close quarters and they were directing their sticks, one of them struck gold — the stick in her hand started shaking.  She let go of it and it fell to the ground but then straightaway up-righted itself.  The golden, wooden forking object then started moving towards this energy source.  The other girl laughed and went and put hers down.  I was amazed on recognising that there really was a definite energetic force present.  Likewise, I went and also put down mine.  As I did so, it was pointing up under the tree.  Straight away, you could see the manifestation of a sphere that was glass-like but it was shimmering. 

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I could visually make out that there was the outline of a rainbow that encircled the sphere’s rim.  Through the eye of this opening, the space simply shimmered.  Fantastically, it was absolutely wonderful to watch this manifestation.  The shimmering sphere was about four-to-six feet in diameter.  There was a gardening hose close-by.  As the watering hose rotated in the direction of where the circle was, the aperture became even more outlined when the water from the hose struck the space wormhole.  When the water hit and penetrated the shimmering portal, this was when the rainbow was created.  Thus, it became even more outlined and visible. 

Remarkably, it was a predominantly golden-coloured rainbow.  Quite magnificent and quite wonderful a sight it was.  Moreover, it was truly powerful.  I went running off to the source of the hose — it was being moved because of the water pressure.  I picked up the hose but then I put it back down.  There was then a guy and a girl and as they put the hose down, I was trying to see if there was going to appear anymore signs of the sphere.  However, they had messed up the hose; the hose had gotten knotted which precluded any water from being discharged.  Incidentally, it was a black hose. 

The girl, who had moved the hose when I had seen the wormhole-like dimensional portal, quite reminded me of Artemis de Bolanos.  In the sense that she looked somewhat like Artemis, I was led to believe this.  She was also flaky like Artemis.  However, it was not Artemis.  I promptly took my leave of them and moved on.  These girls were rather small and looked like the classic faeries.  They were unusually pale.  On closer inspection, they had unusually large, dark eyes that were almond-shaped and went upwards at the outer corners. 

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Their hair was so intensely red that it seemed, in fact, to glow and to be as if iridescent.  They also had no eyebrows which only highlighted the wide-open expanse of their foreheads.  Where the third eye resides, it was quite unusually expansive in that part of their foreheads.  In fact, that part of their face seemed slightly concave, however, only slightly so; in that sense it did resemble the indentation of a radio telescope.  Though they seemed like prepubescent girls, they were fully grown.  They may well have been several decades old; however, they did not look old.  Moreover, they exclusively communicated telepathically.  However, there was no getting around the fact that they were EH (extra-human or extraterrestrial). 

One thing about them was most telling — my pronounced ease for being around them. 

*Much like natural redheads, in the waking state, these persons’ vibrations were considerably more attuned and intense than others’.  One always has the sense that most redheads are ‘broadcasting’ when in their presence, in the waking state, so strong is their psychic abilities.  The golden rainbow spheres were portals which were used — as their desired EHVs (extra-human vehicle or UFO) — to move through and forth from their world, in which I incidentally was a visitor, and others.  They seemed as though intent on showing me how to call forth an EHV to relocate from their world.  I happen to think that though I awoke to masturbate and not go all the way, on returning to sleep, I did return to being focussed in the far-off locale, to which I had ventured in the A sleep cycle.  This incidentally is not uncommon.  Hence the locals’ desired to show me how to safely get back, through the golden shimmering portals, to my dimension.  The trees here were phenomenally huge and had the same intense negative ions as were those experienced in the valley, of the far-off world, had during the dreams of Thursday, February 16, 1989(168).  END.

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The third dream in this cycle — I have chosen not to include the second dream here — found me with a group.  The group was a Rock ‘n Roll band.  They had finished a show and were taking off their makeup.  They had backup singers with them.  One of the female performers went and was washing her hands.  Just like the seeming little girls had worn, she was wearing similar garb.  Their clothing seemed to be from earlier times as in the Middle Ages to the Nineteen Century.  She washed her hands in a common open trough — some of her clothing she had taken off to remove her makeup. 

I felt as though I could have started seducing her, if I wanted to, but I chose not to.  She had matted, reddish hair that was up in a bun.  Her hair was strawberry reddish-blondish like the two girls in the earlier dream.  These redheads were of obvious Druidic heritage.  Meanwhile, the guys in the band were coming back.  They wore makeup that was painted in streaks — more like the way tribal and Amerindian warriors adorned their faces with paints.  They were white.  None of them seemed interested in fucking the women. 

They were then going off, to a club, to hang out.  I went off with them.  On arriving at the club, I found it quite interesting.  There was an advertisement about enlarging your balls.  The thing to do was to put your testicles in cow dung.  That is clearly ridiculous — you cannot put your balls in cow dung.  The ads showed the vat of dung, which was steaming.  The dung had to be steaming, affecting the notion of it being steaming warm, as when coming out of a cow. 

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The balls distended outside the body so that they could be kept sufficiently cooled and not become warmed by one’s internal body heat.  Straight away, I knew that that was a bogus remedy for having your balls enlarged.  The club had this wonderful entrance.  From the ground, the entrance took you down below the surface and into this darkened cavernous area.  Once inside, it was quite interesting.  People were going in and out.  The bouncer/maître d’ had huge balls, his actual testicles, which he held — one in each hand. 

*I dream it, I report it.  Who knows how this testicular adventure arose for having been auto-erotic on briefly awaking — well, not too briefly.  END.

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He was juggling them around like a lewd stripper would her ample tits.  They were individually wrapped with a green straw-like fibre.  Thus the balls could be pulled and stretched.  I found it all remarkably funny.  His cock comparatively seemed nonexistent next to the humongous balls.  He was the usher/maître d’ who let people into the club.  The club was called The Hell’s Gate.  He would be looking over the women who would come in and decide if any of them were exciting enough. 

Naturally, it was a bawdy house of ill refute – a bordello.  There was a lot of wholesome fucking going on inside.  The joint was jumping.  Truly, it was very funny. 

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In this the fourth dream, I next found myself in the streets at nighttime.  This was after the rock band had disbanded.  There were people in the street whilst other persons were watching them.  Also, there were other cars around.  They were large unusual-looking cars.  I went in and I joined a guy and started voguing on him.  He was very jet-black and had large full lips.  We were voguing a kiss and then another. 

I would then go down, as if to go down on him, whilst sensually dancing on him.  Our movements were very stylish and very beautiful.  There were two other couples, on my left, as I faced the guy dancing.  We were the best dancers, of course, and the most original.  Our dance was strictly erotic.  As a matter of fact, our movements came pretty close to fucking.  Our dance was more suggestive and engaged than a tango.  The magic we weaved, was absolutely wonderful. 

Quite a crowd was soon gathered around us.  Anyway, I went down into the club, The Hell’s Gate.  There was Louise Donlon [Denise Donlon] — the woman who does the NewMusic for MuchMusic — she is gap-toothed.  This club was obviously over in Britain, perhaps, Ireland.  She was interviewing musicians over there. 

*Ms. Donlon is, of course, married to legendary Canadian singer/songwriter, Murray McLauchlan.  END.

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I was fixing the cuffs of my jeans, rolling them down, to put them inside my penny loafers.  These were a tanned, almost teak-coloured, beautiful pair of shoes.  As I adjusted them, Denise was interviewing some musicians.  People would go off and become lost to sight.  This was in a large tent area.  They would slip outside after being interviewed.  Also present was, Nina Hagen, the German eccentric Punk/Rock/Opera singer with the vulgar-looking mouth.  She had extra-long red hair. 

She asked Denise if she was still writing and what had she written lately.  Nina Hagen said that she had done this song; the song was about the planet and her concern for its fragile ecosystem at present.  Denise then started playing a guitar.  Nina got really excited and told her that it was good and excellent.  She also told Denise that she was happy for her.  She seemed almost a bit too hyper-excited.  Then she abruptly stepped backwards and disappeared through the folds of the tent’s white-cream, silk-looking, heavy canvas flaps.  As Nina disappeared, on the other side, she was heard singing her song and carrying on — like the right eccentric loon that she is. 

On leaving the tent, I moved on and went inside the club.  A girlish woman — these women were so diminutive that they seemed like girls though not — was being chased; it was part of a contest.  Everybody chased her with pretty-coloured balloons.  She was trying not to get hit by one.  Eventually, she did get hit by one but she went and hid behind something.  There were a lot of girlish women there with big bums who were very short.  Some of the patrons were in the earthen floor itself with only their torsos sticking out.  For having such huge bums, these big-arsed girlish women seemed like they would topple over backwards. 

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However, their supra-mammaries created a good counterbalance.  They reminded me of Galina Yordonova — the former Bulgarian ballerina who ended up coaching Evelyn Hart at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet — with their petite-framed bodies.  These women were almost as if pygmies.  They were not dwarfs but just tiny people.  These persons were clearly of extra-human stock.  They had on black lace and they were shaking their boumpsies (bums) and dancing by themselves.  They were like go-go dancers who danced in a group, on the spot, on the floor.  I was moving around and thinking that it seemed like a very exclusive club. 

I had hoped that they did not exclude certain people, based on race or did not play certain music, based on race.  At heart centre, I knew that this was not the case at all.  I then left the lobby but was still inside, en route out, when I realised that there were a series of funerals going on.  At the time, I was with an irascible English aristocrat whom I had to tell, be quiet.  The funerals were all happening underground — at least, it seemed very much so to be underground.  Rather, if they were above ground, it is possible that they took place in a catacomb or caved sepulchre.  Everybody seemed to exist in a caved city.  There were little trees, like miniature cypress trees, that divided off the lots. 

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As I was moving along, I was asking the man to please be quiet.  There was obviously a very solemn affair afoot.  There were people standing around and they were saying en masse, “For thee, thy name sake…”  They were speaking very olde English at the funeral.  A little girl knelt down and put down a flower and she was holding a kerchief to her face.  She was crying and bawling.  I wondered if that is how I was going to behave at Merlin’s funeral.  A bit overwhelmed, I then moved on only to encounter another funeral. 

This funeral had less people in attendance.  This one was also wrapping up.  Both were obviously funerals for someone white.  There were mostly whites there.  People had on cardigans and sweaters because it seemed a bit chilly in the air — like an underground habitat would naturally be.138

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After having audiocassette-recorded these dreams, I placed a call through to Merlin over at Wellesley Hospital and chatted.  As had become habit, he would call to awaken me, I would then call back after having recorded the dreams.  As I would be taking him the morning newspapers and other items that he requested, I went about feeding the cats and doing some other chores about the house.  Whilst getting ready to be with Merlin, I went poring through our music library for something to play as I showered.  Finally, I had found it, it was Itzhak Perlman with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra playing Brahms Violin Concerto in D Major Op. 77; on the Angel label it was a coveted recording of both mine and Merlin’s.  Whilst I sat in Merlin’s favourite rocking chair, I sipped on tea made with the leaves of soursop.  Months prior when visiting St. Kitts and Nevis, I had managed to stealthily bring back some of the leaves in my luggage.  This fruit tree’s leaves induce the greatest serenity and dream lucidity when ingested as a tea.

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Of course, it has since been discovered that the soursop is said to be a thousand times more potent than the drugs used in chemotherapy.  That aside, I sat perfectly poised, slowly rocking back and forth whilst listening to and being enraptured by Mr. Perlman’s unique brand of shamanic magic.  Eventually, as the album played on repeat, I showered and got ready to go in and be with my lover.

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As ever my groovy shamanic kindred spirits dream like it is the most magical thing in the universe… well why not… it is after all.  Dance and fly in the dreams like the magical shaman that you are and hiss and piss on any fool’s grave who would have the temerity to have messed with you… cause life is not a dress rehearsal and loving self means protecting self from all ill-evolved dreck.  Thanks for your ongoing support and remember, my magical dream memoirs are available where all discriminating bibliophiles get their fix.  I love you more.  

 

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

Nancy Wilson… and more.

Wilson, Nancy 20/2/1937<O>13/12/2018

Michael: This fragment was a third-level mature artisan – second life thereat.  Nancy was in the passion mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she was in the emotional part of intellectual centre. 

Body type was Solar/Saturn. 

Nancy’s primary chief feature was self-deprecation and the secondary stubbornness. 

The fragment Nancy is fifth-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence five.  Nancy’s entity is seven, cadre four, greater cadre 1, pod 129. 

Nancy’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior. 

Nancy’s primary needs were: expression, expansion and power. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 

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What a truly great voice.  Though over the years, I had attended many Nancy Wilson concerts, one in particular remains the most memorable.  It was the late set at the Blue Note Jazz Club in New York City’s West Village.  A Saturday night performance, it was at the end of the run and Ms. Wilson was in fine form.  With me that evening was Milan Newcombe, the rather eccentric lover of mine who had the most magical residence in Toronto’s Kensington Market.  

Milan and I met about a month before the 350th anniversary celebrations of Montréal in May 1992.  The day of the anniversary, there was a parade through the city’s main artery at night time; quite a unique and spectacular sight.  We stayed that weekend in a loft at the corner of Ontario and St. Laurent Streets and that night, I wore a pair of six-inch, black patent leather Bally talons hauts, a pair of extra short blue jeans that nicely sported the goods, a large, white pirate’s shirt, a confident smile whilst holding hands with the coolest motherfucker I had met since having met Merlin – Milan made a most pleasurable adventure of living. 

Jazz singer Nancy Wilson celebrated her 80th birthday on February 20th, 2017

Having just returned from a weekend in New York City with Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem, I was crawling the halls of the St. Mark’s bathhouse at Wellesley on Yonge, in a bid to get over decidedly banal sexual relations with Frans.  A great human being to be sure but sex should not be as ennuiyant and tedious as needlepoint.  Well into the late hours, after a few hookups, a long lean body caught my eye as it lay there, waiting to either prey or be preyed on.  

An hour later we emerged into the gritty, callously unforgiving light of daybreak and hopped on our bikes.  Together we rode west along Wellesley, cut through University of Toronto campus and onto Spadina, rode south on said avenue to the most magical lair imaginable.  There above a series of Chinese shops, Milan owned the two storey apartment that was filled with an assortment of Bohemians – or at least trust fund types, bored out of their skulls whilst waiting to collect their inheritance.  

Milan possessed the largest music library, I had yet or since seen.  Moreover, within that library were the most extensive recordings of harpsichord music.  If that were not specialised enough, Milan owned a harpsichord which, after we had riotously slapped, nipple-bitten, punched and me gourmandise his pygmy fin whale schlong: girth and length that makes your upper lip sweat and eyes roll back like Whitney Houston in full song, he would spend the next hour playing what proved the most captivating instrument.  Always at such times, I would become sponge-like and expansive, feeling as though in between wakefulness and sleep with a plethora of the most lucid past-life dreams flooding and surfacing my conscious mind.  Not surprisingly, that harpsichord proved a touchstone to our past-life connections and specifically to the life as court musicians in London, England during the reign of King George III and the Regency when Milan, Merlin and I plus a whole host of others whom I have known in this lifetime were greatly, creatively fulfilled.  

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Newcombe, Milan 08/02/56 Toronto <O> Toronto

This fragment was a third level mature sage – first incarnation at this level, likely to repeat the level – in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance.  An idealist, he was in the intellectual centre, emotional part. 

Milan’s body type was Saturn/Venus. 

Milan’s primary chief feature was impatience and the secondary arrogance. 

The essence twin is a sage, also discarnate.  An artisan task companion he’s got, who is incarnate. 

This fragment is second-cast, cadence sixth in the greater cadence, entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, node 414.  Milan is in the same entity as Arvin and Merlin, sharing a strong connection through the arts. 

The three primary needs for Milan were: freedom, power and communion. 

Q: Past lives of note for Milan:

Michael:       This fragment has had many lives in the theatre and in performing, as would be expected, due to his soul age, mature and role, sage. 

He has been a well-known courtesan in nineteenth century France, to a second-in-command lieutenant to Napoleon Bonaparte and was involved in many secretive meetings to which she was privy, due to her ability to keep silent. 

She, however, was found guilty of espionage, at a later date, and hanged, at the age of 24. 

This sage has also performed with students of Hippocrates in the fifth century Common Era in Crete and also became interested in herbal medicine at that time. 

Lives in the performing arts total 24 altogether and have been both notable, such as in China in the eighth century as a puppeteer or in the caves of Borneo when he was a painter of walls with what would be called ancient hieroglyphs. 

This fragment was also present in the sixteenth century in Venice and was a student of a lesser artist, not sure about the name. 

Q: Past lives with Arvin:

Michael:      First of all, let us comment that these two fragments did have an agreement which had to do with the validation of personal expression. 

Number of past incarnations total twenty and include:

  1. These two fragments were present in the “George” life; King George III of England, when the sage was a fellow musician and trumpeter. The sage was competitive with the artisan and envious of the artisan’s natural talents.
  2. They have been married once before officially in an area of the Middle East, eleventh century BCE, when they were in an arranged marriage having to do with land and money exchange. They did get along reasonably well due to the entity connection but did argue.
  3. Makers of small ornamental objects in the first century Common Era, Crete. Both were female and cousins.
  4. These two fragments completed a sequence having to do with abandonment/abandoner in the São Paulo incarnation. The female artisan seduced the sage and then subsequently refused to continue in the relationship which led to emotional turmoil for the sage.

This first part of this sequence took place in the 1300’s in Spain when the reverse occurred but the sexes were the same, artisan still female, seduced by the sage then abandoned. 

Had this not been an agreement, there would have been mindfuck karma incurred. 

(KB: this was an important set of incarnations) 

 Q: Past lives with Merlin and the ET:

This fragment was present in the life aforementioned in the fourth century in an area of Tibet and was the mother of the task companion, former-Merlin but separated when the scholar, former-Merlin, was quite young due to religious training. 

There have been an additional four of note including one in the ninth century in China when these two fragments were enemies and came quite close to incurring karma; through combat, not agreed upon in advance, as well as one in the first century Common Era when they were married to the same male fragment; Common Law, Palestine area. 

This sage has also shared three past associations with Arvin’s essence twin which have included living in a small village in western Canada in the 1400’s both male.  They were childhood friends. 

Additionally they have fought side-by-side “on stage” when members of a travelling theatrical group in northern Italy in the sixteenth century.  The essence twin died of a fall which the sage tried to prevent but was unable to, happened when both were teens.  

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Milan was magical; his home lit throughout by candelabras and the salon an exacting reproduction of an 18th century English salon.  One of the most beautiful things about sleeping over with Milan at his magical lair, was that many were the nights when I would – whilst lying next to him in bed, pleasured and satiated – spontaneously astral project.  During these marvellous OBEs (out-of-body experiences), I would get up out of my body, turn around to look at our smiling pleasured faces harmoniously lying in bed fast asleep, see the cord of silvery white light that attached my astral body to my physical body.  This cord more so resembles a caravan of tiny balls of light that are unbreakable and which attach at the solar plexus of both bodies – astral and physical.  Milan was the most sensual lover and the greatest kisser.  

This song was Milan’s favourite tune and Nancy Wilson his favourite Jazz singer – just as Natalie Cole and Betty Carter mine and John Hirsch was Ella Fitzgerald’s undisputed biggest enthusiast.  Until having met me, Milan had never listened to Jazz or explored the genre.  However, like all persons in the positive pole of their goal of acceptance, he embraced, appreciated and explored the newfound treasure that for him Jazz would prove.  With an intensity never before experienced, Milan insisted on venturing to every Jazz concert imaginable.  To that end, we took several trips to Chicago, New Orleans and, of course, New York City to nurture our souls and forge to greater depths the bond we shared.  Whenever the loving was good and god do I love a cock… especially his – hey, three billion women can’t be wrong, Milan would then play some Nancy Wilson.  Our love faded on my relocation to Vancouver – he hated grey, dreary and rainy weather, I was come undone one early morning whilst meditating in the pyramid in Vancouver, Milan appeared to me and said so long.  I knew that he had died that day – another lover passed of AIDS.  I will ever experience the sweetest memories when listening to Nancy Wilson.  

Sweet and very blissful dreams indeed be yours Nancy: griot, linguist, shaman and truly great performer.  

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, dream without giving a damn… cause you can and all the more reason to push off and start flying.  

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

Past-life Dream Set at Spencer House.

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These dreams are from the upcoming third volume of my dream memoirs.  I share them here and now as within there is at least one dream which is set at Spencer House, which I finally visited in this lifetime on the occasion of the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing.  

The dreams were recorded on audiocassettes over the course of a decade following Merlin’s passing as he had requested that I stay tuned on his passing as he intended however possible to get through to me from the other side.  250 audiocassette tapes later, at the end of that decade in among them were the most glorious dream encounters with Merlin on his passing.  These dreams in their rich pandimensioality were dreamt in lucid astral plane realism in late October 1991.  

As this is an excerpt from the as-yet published third volume all the dreams are in italics and everything else in normal script.  Observations after the fact about dreams are not in italics and conclude with END at the end thereof.  At the time, though I did not know it, the dream was set at Spencer House.  

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Before ecstatically flying off in search of lives up ahead, it is oftentimes good to know where one has been.  These next dreams occurred during the second or ‘B’ cycle of sleep and dreamtime that day.  Prior to sleep, I had been meditating with crystals in the pyramid and was inordinately focussed in my intention.  After having adequately fortified myself, I was clear in my intentions to dreamquest in search of past lives.  Thus, I would vicariously revisit two past lives which were complementary.  During the first life in question, I was male and Merlin was then present with me and female.  We were musicians at the court of King George III where also present was the Prince Regent and future King George IV.  The second life seemed to have been longer-lived and in that one I was female.

The dreams of both lives overlapped and it was good to have acquired the past-life information of those lives through Michael channeller, Sarah J. Chambers.  Of course, there was a dream of a third past life, it was that of my immediate past life.

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This having been the first dream, it was an extremely involved odyssey.  A dream it was in which I had gone off to a performance, at nighttime of course, but it was as though it had been onscreen.  Before the performance had begun, there had been a comedian onstage.  There had been many wings to this performance because it had been set in a house.  In fact, it was a period piece.  The people who had been watching this had been, as it were, very much so out of time.  This was set in the late eighteenth century.  There had been a very nasty racist, in fact, send-up of ‘the savages in the jungle’. 

This was all in British accents and very eighteenth century language. 

*As I had meditated before sleep, I had opened myself up to experiencing insights into past-life reincarnational monads.  As it had turned out, I would end up gaining much insight to my reincarnational past.  This was set in the parlour of a very affluent Georgian residence.  There was a white comic onstage, not unlike Tom Kneebone — who was possibly one of the most loathsome pieces of bigoted shits that I have ever met.  Otto Dix arsehole that he is; Tom was a vile, pinched, sphinctered nobody-arsed faggot.  Whilst looking at the comic onstage, I realised that one of the reasons why I loathed Tom Kneebone — on meeting him — was because he bore such strong resonance to the past.  The comic was uncannily like Tom Kneebone.  By that I mean that my visceral connection to the very racist performer was because, he was me in a former life in Britain — lived at court as a white male performer.

Of course, it was not Tom Kneebone but he had the same racist, pinched, WASP lack of tolerance and awareness as the Otto Dix arsehole — such an ill-evolved piece of shit that one.  END.

The comic was entertaining the guests in this salon.  He was doing this whole thing about, ‘the Pickaninnies’, ‘the darkies’.  Also, he had had to have an accompanist to show the ‘natives’ and their gargantuan, elephantine dicks.  Clearly, from the way that he had been holding it, the cock had not even been yet erect.  He was all bulging eyes that had rolled with wide-opened mouth.  Everyone was just spellbindingly charmed by his wicked witticism.  I, however, had not been in the least entertained by it.  In fact, I had felt greatly embarrassed to have seen him. 

This was like having to have faced embarrassing skeletons in one’s reincarnational closet.  After his routine, it then led into this performance that they had been putting on.  In point of fact, the performance actually was quite funny.  Everyone would leave the salon and then come back in but they would all have on Regency dress and wore makeup specific to that era.  At one point, all the women had come back in.  From where I had seen the performance, through an open door, there were people off to the left in a smaller room who were not performing.  They were crowded around on divans.  There was a large open space on the floor where the exquisite rug sat. 

There was one woman there who had had a bad sniffle; she had kept on sniffling and was near consumptive.  Why does she not just get up and get lost?  I was quite impatient with her.  At the time, I was closer to the main players.  These were people who had been sitting in the salon in front of me.  There was a whole cluster of them immediately before me and to the immediate right of the large white doors that led you from room to room.  Exiting that particular room into which I had looked, where the performance was taking place, were more doors.  The door half, which was close to us, was open and served as the wings to the stage. 

Up in front of the mantelpiece was where the performers had come on to perform their scenes.  They were quite funny.  There were parapluies that had wonderful little floral designs on them.  The performers were made-up in such a way that their faces looked like bouquets that resembled large English white and faded yellow roses — very oversized roses.  The faces of the persons were very much in keeping with the zeitgeist of the late-Georgian era.  This was the look that was proper in that time.  As a result, the souls that had been incarnate at that time, were wearing those faces.  At two separate occasions, everybody seated in the salons had had to get up and leave then come back in. 

The last time that they had come back in, all the women were dressed in long, flowing tangerine-coloured dresses that had dragged on the floor.  All the dresses had little flowers on them.  The tangerine colour was muted by a sheer fabric of white silk overtop the tangerine bodice.  The silk had left it a seemingly faded colour.  All along the grid patchwork were these tiny roses that were the colour of the fabric underneath the tangerine-coloured material.  The look was very beautiful.  As they had spoken, there was wonderful repartee going around the room.  This one woman was croaking away, saying, “Oh why don’t they go to church, anymore? 

“Doesn’t anybody go to church anymore?”  She had gotten up, going around the room, to make the point.  She had then come back and sat down on the arm of the chair.  Her husband was very stout and he had remained seated there in an armchair.  One chap, who was on one of the chaise longues where some of the other spectators were seated, was bantering away.  He was very dynamic, in a sage-souled sort of way.  The costume changes between sets went on almost forever; at such times, the salon would become abuzz with lively discussions about whatever socially or politically was au courrant.  Of course, that had meant anything that was superficial and that they, at their level of society, had found très amusant. 

This particular costume change was quite long and some of the players, who were going to have been participating in the next piece, were seated on that particular chaise longue.  They were talking, amongst themselves, when this one man had said, “Well, I certainly hope that you don’t go, looking like that…”  His was a very cutting double entendre because, though the dowager was quite the frump, it was really a comment on her horrid-looking face; this, in an age, long before plastic surgery could have come to the assistance of women of her class.  The woman’s face was very puffy and dowdy and, also, full of makeup. 

She, so without a clue, had replied, “Well, what’s wrong with me going like this?” 

“In a dress, there is certainly something wrong going like that.”  This was very, very witty racy banter and much filled with double entendres. 

The poor frump was daft and had not quite gotten it.  She was wonderfully being sent up by everyone.  “Oh dear me, I never quite seem to know what to wear.  The fashions changing all the time, I can hardly ever keep up…” 

This had only made for more cutting, though hushed, laughter.  I do not even know but it was at this point, as she had spoken, that I had seen her in close-up.  I had wondered if, perhaps, she were not Francesca — the name of a past-life of mine lived in Georgian England.  Just as in that last dream encounter with Francesca, during the onset of menopause, I experienced the same visceral connection with the subject.  Then, as now, I was seeing her face in keen close-up.  Now, I was experiencing her at a much later stage in her life.  She was a late septuagenarian.  Still, though, she was very much so into the heavy makeup but at this point, she had suffered from senility and was pronouncedly neurotic. 

Afterwards, everybody had looked out at me and asked me if I had ever seen the performance presented like this before.  One of the things that they were talking about was an expedition that had just returned from, ‘Deepest, darkest, Africa, in the Jungles.’  This was, in fact, a production of Romeo and Juliet that had been set in colonial Africa.  They had openly wondered, specifically of me, if I had ever seen so racy a production.  All these people were very sophisticated, sagely persons, of whom it was safe to say, they were all very much so artisan-like — in essence, they were the glitterati.  More to the point, they possessed goals of discrimination and predominantly were in repression mode. 

“Well actually, I had seen the original classic production.” 

“Yes but have you seen any modern updates of it?” she had asked, by which she meant a production from the Georgian era. 

“Well, no.  Well I did but it was when I was at school, in Sandy Point.” 

Of course, they did not get it at all and found my accent far too queer for words.  Besides, it was all very post-modern as far as they were concerned.  At that point, the lights in the salon went down, in this beautiful, large high-ceilinged place.  A movie screen then appeared and Diana Ross was going to be the mother to Juliet and the Juliet was a beautiful, beautiful, long-haired High-Yellow heroine.  She had seemed East Indian but was not.  She had gotten up and gone running to the window because Romeo was calling her.  Clearly, it was a filmed version.  She was wearing a black and white checkered dress that had no sleeves. 

The dress really was more like a jumper — an A-line dress.  She was so gorgeous; the young actress was stupendously radiant.  Presently, she was praying and the camera was a slow, sweeping crane shot that had kept on rising up and away from her left profile.  Filled with so much earnestness in her face, she was quite beautiful.  A teenager, she was quite the stunning little actor.  The actress was not Diana Ross‘s daughter, Tracee Ellis Ross but someone who had a stunning High-Yellow resemblance to Diana Ross with those stunning eyes and with very, very gorgeous long, long wavy hair.  To just above her arse, her hair was thick and beautifully cascaded down.  She was very gorgeous. 

When she had run to the window, she was as if a ballerina by the way that she had held out that beautiful, delicate tiny face.  An exquisitely beautiful face it was that sat on that long neck of hers.  Looking out the window, she had dreamily called down, “Oh Romeo.  Romeo.  Romeo.”  Truly, it was sheer spellbinding magic. 

A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama                                       

In this the second dream, I had gone off and was walking in Crab Hill, Sandy Point.  Whilst there, I had seen these unfamiliar persons.  One of them had had one of the most interesting faces.  She had a very unusually large face and very beautiful teeth that were somewhat compacted.  She was very lovingly dark-skinned.  She was unusual-bodied; her head was very, very large and her body, in comparison, very squat – unusually so.  To be precise, her body was like a dwarf’s.  Her legs were very stubby and bulky. 

My goodness, this woman could run.  She had had a great deal of physical power.  A lot of Earth planets that were fixed, to be sure, were part of her makeup.  I found it very, very interesting to have watched her.  On having passed her, I had said hello and noticed that she had shut her eyes.  That was when I had realised that this woman had almost never looked at anyone.  Then, finally, I had commanded her attention and directly looked into her eyes.  To have looked into her eyes was tantamount to looking into her soul. 

Her eyes were so large.  Hers were as if seeing, up close, the eyes of a giant cetacean.  Yet, these stellar eyes were on a human face.  These eyes were extremely large with the lids half-collapsed over them.  The brown of the eyes was dappled and mixed in with some blues with little streaks in the blues.  Talk about beauty.  Nonetheless, they were very, very old-souled and very, very powerful eyes.  At the time, I had thought of how much they reminded me of the eyes on the totemic cranes that I have seen throughout my life. 

She had just laughed and turned her head away.  She was a woman of substance and great grace; not unlike Jessye Norman°, in that sense, was she.  I had specifically focussed on her right eye.  Hers were not unlike the dappled blue-green colour that Owen Hawksmoor°‘s eyes take on, of course, when he is wearing his coloured contact lenses.  However, her eyes were quite gorgeous.  Predominantly brown but there were lots of brown and red streaks in the white of the eyes.  These were from very large bulbous blood vessels.  The whites of them were very white, almost caramel-coloured on closer inspection, from the timeworn passage of their agedness. 

Boy, this woman had a lot of strength of character in that body.  Hers was a solid, solid body.  Following after this guy, I had then come back over this little barbwire fence.  We clearly, I realised, cannot go getting ourselves scraped.  As we had been passing, there had been a window to our right that had looked into a house.  Whilst looking at the screen, on which Romeo and Julie was supposed to have been playing, we had gone and sat down.  Protesting, I had said that this could not have been the case because it would only have meant that I had missed so much of the performance.  In all this time, of having gone and wandered off, one would have missed too much of the production. 

At that point, there had been someone on the screen performing a Shakespearean soliloquy.  This clearly was an updated version of the text.  I had started watching it and got back into the film.  The one thing that I had not liked about it, was that there had been lots of flies on the set.  After having been made uneasy by the bugs, I had gotten up and walked about for a while.  When I had gotten back into looking at the production again, it was as if looking at it from the Georgian salon again.  However, now it was slightly different.  To myself, I had remarked that it had seemed so much like Toronto. 

That was because this production, like Toronto does in summertime, had all these damn flies.  All the people around me in the Georgian salon had not gotten what Toronto had meant at all.  As well they understandably would not have, they had looked at me very strangely.  There were flies in the air which I had kept on swatting out of the air.  There was a whole scene in progress, when I had decided that I would just have to have seen the production again or, perhaps, get it on videocassette.  At that point, I had simply missed too much of the production.  I had realised, too, that I could easily have seen it when it made it to the Revue second-run cinemas about Toronto.  At that point, I had turned and left. 

*This heavy-lidded young girl could well have been me, Theresa, in my immediate past life.  That life was lived in Brazil and I had a goal of dominance.  Of course, on Tuesday, September 17, 1991(39), I would dream of Theresa in her adult years.  Similarly, she also could have been Merlin reincarnated.  In December 2006, Merlin was reborn female in the Netherlands; however, at the time of the channelled session, the female reborn Merlin’s ethnicity was not shared.  Thus, this could well be Merlin reborn in early 21st century Netherlands about whom I was dreaming.  END.

I had next, in this the third dream, been up on this rise with Isha where she and I had been doing something.  We had discussed the fact that I had needed more money.  I had told her that my PIN number, for some bank card that I had had, was 8411.  She had called up the bank and was being pushy with them.  Isha was telling them that she had been very ill and incapacitated.  For being bedridden, they would therefore have to let her have the money in cash with me acting on her behalf.  She had assured them that I would be right over and to let me have the funds.  As she had spoken on the phone, this black woman and her white husband had come by. 

The man wore glasses and they were, very much so in love, embracing each other.  There was a little girl with them to whom I had meltingly said, “Come here sweetheart.  My goodness!  You have American money and you have a 10.00$ Canadian note there, I see and a 20.00$ too.  Why don’t you let me have an American bill?  And some of those Canadian bills because you’re not going to need the Canadian bill.” 

“Why?  It’s my money.” 

“Okay then, fine.  Come on over here and give me some sugar,” I tried charming her as she had been off to my left.  On having wrapped my left arm around her, I had kissed her on the cheek saying, “Return the kiss, please.”  We had kissed and had done so, on both cheeks, in the French style.  I had looked down at her parents and they were quite sweet and in love.  At the time, I had been thinking of Pandora.  I could not, though, have made out the mother’s face all that well from the table; I had been seated there with Isha.  A square, black metallic affair with a glass top the table proved. 

As a result, the table was covering the face of the woman and I could not make out who she was.  At the time, I had thought of Pandora and her present beau.  This child had then appeared but it was like a doll; she was so tiny and was, in fact, as if a pygmy.  She proved to be Barry Thomas‘ younger sister.  Every time that she had bawled, her neck had extended and craned up into the air and was pinkish-coloured like a white doll.  She, though, was actually a black baby — you could tell from her facial features.  She was very much so alive but she was in this rubbery body that was like a doll’s.  I had put her up on a mantelpiece to sit because she had been so damn noisy and obstreperous.  

Penina had come and disputatiously confronted me about what I had done to the poor little girl.  Whilst Isha had been on the phone, I had gotten up and gone to take a pee.  On entering into the bathroom, I had been shocked and horrified.  On looking in the mirror, I had noticed that Isha had cut my hair.  I had let out the most enraged scream, “Isha!  How could you do this to me?”  What had happened, was because of the way that I had been lying on my back, she had managed to cut off all the hair on the side of my head up to the top and on the other side as well.  This was the most ludicrous haircut. 

In the back, leaving the length in place, my hair was still long.  “I don’t want my hair looking like some bloody Mohawk warrior’s,” I shrieked.  To have seen the roots of my hair, which were unpermed, I was truly pissed off.  Having my hair chopped off, was not something that I had wanted and I definitely did not want this frigging fascistic cunt fucking with me.  I had been truly incensed at her.  Truly enraged, I returned to confront her and found her lying down in bed.  Immediately, she went on the blind defensive, “I don’t see anything wrong with it.  Besides it’s already done and you might as well cut off the rest,” she had laughingly dismissed me. 

“Isha how could you do this?  This is exactly like when you destroyed my writings.” 

Impatient with her indifference, I had launched through the air at her and begun beating the living shit out of her: hitting, slapping and kicking her.  Grabbing anything that I could find, I had beaten her with it.  All the rage that I had felt at her, for destroying my writings back in the mid-eighties, had come flooding out. 

*Back then, when she had been confronted, she had launched into a clawing defensive attack on me as we rode home in a blinding rainstorm from Solomon King‘s wedding in Rochester, New York.  END.

Earlier, I had gone to get my brush, to brush my hair and, on not having found it, had borrowed hers.  On brushing my hair, I had noticed that the brush was really scraping my scalp.  On having looked at things in the bathroom mirror, I had been left horror-struck.  On seeing what she had done, I had sucked my teeth and decided then and there to kick her arse.  I had known then and there that this would not have happened had I taken her to task, blow-for-blow, back in 1985.  Also, I had seen this brown bag, a large, black canvas bag and a shoulder bag — they were all mine.  In the travelling bag were these two tickets because I was going to be travelling.  I had really been upset and pissed off at Isha as she had laid there under green sheets. 

Penina had come into the room and tried intervening on Isha‘s behalf.  Penina had tried to get me to accept the fact that what had been done, was final and to just get on with things.  That had only more infuriated me.  Turning on her, I had screamed, “Oh Penina, why don’t you shut up?  You’re so damn stupid!  Of course, you would agree anyway.” 

This woman had then shown up who was Jewish and it had turned out to have been, Ariel Gothberg.  She had worn this dark purple turtleneck bodysuit — over that, she had worn a brown very, very thick, woollen jacket.  The jacket had lots of gold zippers that showed down the front and the length of it.  The jacket had no collar.  On either side of the sleeves, there were gold zippers that went midway up the arm.  There were two on the breast, one zipper each, over each breast for pockets.  They had little golden tassels that held the zipper.  The outfit was quite nice and was in brown and black. 

Ariel Gothberg had looked quite smart.  I had asked her what she had thought of my hair looking like that.  “Well it’s your hair and it’s natural.  I think the natural version looks kind of nice, anyway.  Well, you’ll decide what you have to do with it,” she had then gone off, up these stairs.  Yeah, right; fuck you, you bitch, I rudely dismissed the thought of her.  Whilst there, she had joined two or three other smartly dressed persons.  I had come around and begun leaving then went out into the outdoors.  There, I had stood by a shed whilst talking with somebody about things in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands.  Just then, a large plane had gone by directly overhead. 

At the time, I had thought this plane too unusually close to the ground.  We also were close to the ocean.  The building was a long white shed, like a greenhouse, beyond a sandy slope.  Generous clumps of long grass held the sand from drifting too much.  We were standing just beyond a stand of palm and sea dates trees.  The ocean was rather tranquil and gently breaking.  The ambiance here was rather beautiful.  I had then seen a large plane come by that was like an American Airlines plane; except, on the back of it, it had had this large caboose. 

This was a large unusual extension that had flared out.  To say the least, this was most unusual and there seemed to have been no exhaust.  The bottom of the craft was very silver.  Also, there were the red and blue stripes along the sides like an American Airlines carrier would bear.  However, nowhere were there any demarcations, indicating that it was an American Airlines craft.  Unusually so, the craft was very long.  Long and sleek, like a Boeing 727, except that it had had no mid-fuselage wings;  way at the back of the plane, there were some smaller wings.  As it effortlessly sailed through the air, I figured, oh dear no, it is going to crash.   

As it had flown by, it had bizarrely veered off to the left and head first.  Next, it had shot up into the air and then come down.  I had screamed aloud, horrified for the passengers aboard.  Immediately, of curiosity, people had begun running towards its obvious crash site.  To check things out, I had gone running around the corner of the building.  There was smoke in the air but it was general pollution from the community; also, there had been no smoky fireball as with an obvious crash. 

“Oh dear.  I think it crashed…” I had helplessly said to a man who had reminded me much of my uncle Michel King, rather than his brother Marcel King°

 “No, it didn’t,” he had confidently said.  Another plane had then come in and that was when I had suddenly remembered that I had had a flight to catch.  At that, I had gone running, hurrying out of there, and gone around the building.  This was a wonderful large hangar-like building.  In this building, there were many persons.  I had seen several travellers there.  Once outside, I had had to go up an immensely long flight of stairs to have gotten up to where the plane was.  On the outside, it was a pure white aircraft with two propeller engines on each its wing; the propeller engines were running at the time that I had arrived. 

The wings were extended; they were actually quite long.  I had demanded that they cut out the engines so that I could safely make my way to the man who had been at the gate.  He was an older, dark-skinned man in uniform.  He could have been Egyptian, Hispanic, East Indian or Arabic.  I had had to pay him to get aboard the plane and it had come to 14.00$ for the flight.  Incidentally, as he told me that, I had recalled that the PIN number was 8411, which coincidentally does add up to 14.  I had given him a 20.00$ bill.  He had told me not to worry, that it was already running late, and assured me that I could get my change on board the flight.  I had boarded the plane which, oddly enough, was unusually low to the ground.  On having entered inside the plane, it was as though you were outside again and had to go up a further flight of stairs — just like the ones that had earlier gotten me to the tarmac. 

A truly dream surreal moment this proved.  Penina had been concerned because, on this flight that had just come in, there was supposed to have been a little boy that we were supposed to have met.  He had been coming from Nevis.  I had told her that I still was really frigging pissed off — at having had my hair cut off by Isha — and could not have cared less about any little boy.  So we had gotten into the plane and it was again unusually interiored.  There was a wide enough single aisle with all the passengers in seats that had faced each other.  This had immediately reminded me of when I was a child, prior to having taken my first flight, I had always envisioned the seating arrangement on board an aircraft to be like this.  There are, of course, no such seating arrangements in conventional aircraft. 

As we had moved down the aisle, we had passed a number of little boys.  There was a little boy on the right of the aisle and I had thought that, perhaps, that was him.  However, we had gone down with Penina having followed after me.  There were, incidentally, lots of potted plants here on board the highly unconventional aircraft.  The aircraft was white-interiored, as outside, and there was a lot of sunlight coming through the top of the aircraft which was completely glass-topped.  The ceiling was really like a long trough in a greenhouse because there was a drain in the ceiling that had run the length of the aisle.  Lord knows, we were definitely well beyond the Kansas City city limits.  Also, it had been very humid inside the craft. 

Many, many potted hibiscuses were present and some of them were in bloom.  Just where the stem had exited from the pot, one plant had fallen over and broken.  On righting the pot, I had felt for it.  The plant had sadly kept on dangling over.  I had called the boy’s name which was something like, ‘Orello’, to which he had immediately answered an alert yes.  He had been way in the back.  I had pointed him out to Penina and told her to go and take care of him.  Furthermore, I had told her to get off the plane with him because she was not supposed to have been travelling anyway. 

I had then gone up to the front of the craft and there I noticed that there was a large opening.  Here at the front of the craft, it was as though one was in a hangar or large indoor room.  Whilst other people were lost in reading, what had clearly been scripts, there was a girl doing some homework.  The studious girl was very stout and wore a school uniform.  Early teenaged and definitely black, she was very light-complected.  A tall, gangly white male had come in; this man was very much so old.  He was incredibly gentle and soul-soothingly so.  He was as if a gardener or caretaker. 

He had sat next to me and warmed me further when he asked, “Do you have piece of paper, please?  Just something to write on.” 

“Well, I don’t even know…” I had really wanted to help him out and been of service to him.  He was so sweet-spirited like Catherine Angelica (‘Lica)  or as Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon°, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother seems — that kind of evolved grace of spirit.  I could not immediately find anything and, in the meantime, the girl had not been prepared to part with any of her school paper.  There, I had told him, pointing in front of me to a little desk on which were some clothes and my bag.  I had gotten out my bag and started talking to him.  He was very, very wonderful and very old-souled in feel.  He was very healing to have been around.  He had reminded me of James Tramble or Merlin’s guide as I had seen in those dreams — the tall shaman. 

He had commenced writing on this piece of paper and he had asked me my name to which I had replied, “Arvin da Braga.” 

“Oh really?” he good-naturedly replied.   

I had then given him my statistics.  Continuing on, told him that I was born on August second, nineteen sixty.  We had talked on some more and then he had asked, “And what about your friend?” 

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“Oh Merlin?  Merlin Ben-Daniel.  Merlin B.”  When he had asked me my name, I had initially said, “Arvin M.  M, as in Merlin, spelt ‘lin’ not ‘lyn’ and which, incidentally, was my lover’s name.  Merlin; spelt the same as my middle name.”  As we had spoken, I had grown more and more intensely lucid and light-headed; it was as though I was channelling.  “Merlin B.  B, as in Bechbache, which is his mother’s family name.”  We were talking about Merlin and he was doing this write-up about Merlin and me. 

He had then turned to me and said, “Well anyway, I’m leaving you now and I want you to write this down.” 

“Is it a number you’re giving me?” 

“Just some important information.  But you must remember it and you must never forget it.”  What he had said was, “Proper posture leads to purpose and prosperity in time.”  He had said it with the greatest enunciation and slowness. 

There was a woman who had stood out in my mind as he had spoken.  She was very much so like Francesca who was down below and outside an opening in the airplane.  She was inside the building at a window, looking up at me and saying, “I will be with you, don’t worry.  And I’ve remembered it.  I’ve recorded it.  And I’ll keep reciting it to you if you need me to.” 

The gracious gentleman had then left.  His was not unlike the yogic centred serenity of Yehudi Menuhin.  At that, I had had a sense of motion and that we had travelled.  The sensation was not for very long but you just knew that we had covered massive distances in what had seemed a mere breath.  As I had watched him write with the greatest of care, he was right-handed.  At one point, he had stopped and disruptively said as I had spoken of Merlin and me, “You’ve a very distinctive accent and it’s so layered.  You can see so many languages in it.” 

“Well, yes that’s because I’ve lived all over the place, actually.  My upbringing was very middle class in the West Indies with maids, in fact.  I like speaking this way because it’s who I am.  It’s about intellect.” 

“Right you are,” he had said whilst warmly smiling. 

We had then gotten to where we were going but he was no longer with us.  We had deplaned and come down the flight of stairs.  Everybody had gathered about this courtyard and was walking around.  Most people who had deplaned had been white.  All the kids were in the rear and we were separated — the kids and I.  I had then left everybody and started walking ahead because I had wanted to go and get Penina.  She had shown up and was running to go and get Orello now that he had arrived.  She had on this long, floral-printed dress that had proven to be a jumpsuit that had turned into culottes. 

Her outfit was brown, yellow and green which were all one-inch slats of colour.  The jumpsuit was a predominantly off-white, faded yellow number that had these yellow, brown and green horizontal slats that were crammed together and haphazardly spaced.  They had created a wonderful motif on the fabric.  Somehow, it seemed that I was supposed to have been deplaning.  Seemingly, I had to get aboard a larger plane and continue on with my flight.  For having interacted with Penina, I had missed the connecting flight.  This had mightily upset me.  Initially, when she had come aboard the first flight with me, I had turned to her as we had progressed down the aisle and asked if she had remembered to get all my bags. 

A second flight, not unlike an American Airlines carrier, had come in through the air and landed.  This had proven my signal, to have started moving and get aboard the initial flight.  When I had deplaned, I was supposed to have gone to another flight.  For some strange reason, everybody was marching in a circuitous route.  They had gone down this street and turned off to the right; they then had gone down this wide boulevard into another courtyard.  That courtyard had contained another plane which one had to board.  A sareed, East Indian woman had looked back at me and energetically said, “Hurry, hurry, hurry because the engine has already started.” 

“Don’t worry…” I had evenly replied.  She was a really sweet gracious soul. 

You could have seen the engine and when it had started, the wing that had been turned horizontally then swivelled and turned to the vertical position.  This was set in a compound that was surrounded by a large white fence.  Going up to the courtyard, the steps were white and the interior of the building and all the low-lying buildings around were all pure white.  The look was that of permanent whitewash paint. 

“…I’m coming.  I’m supposed to be on this flight,” I had called out. 

When I was making my way there, there was a large wooden gate that had a glass in it.  One of the things that had kept me distracted, was that I had gone into this room, where Penina had been and wanted to look at the Romeo and Juliet drama again.  Instead of having been able to get it on television again, there was a video music station on.  The music video was set in a large room.  Irene Cara was singing a song in said music video.  Natalie Cole° was there, as well, as some other black entertainers.  She was in a living room in that segment of the video, which was for a love song.  Natalie Cole was participating in the video but not singing.  Irene Cara had worn a black tunic overtop black narrow-legged pants. 

Natalie Cole had worn black and white; they were very much so enjoying themselves.  Soon, I had caught myself when being distracted and had gone running out of the place.  I suddenly remembered the petite, beauteous East Indian woman; she had a striking resemblance to the author and socialite, Geeta Mehta.  She had been telling me that I was supposed to, in fact, have been getting onto the other flight.  So off I had gone, running down the road; it was a narrow stretch of earthen road.  Even though it had long been closed, I had opened the door to the craft.  The stewardess was slowly closing the door when I had leapt through the air and pulled it forcefully open.  At the time, the engines were already running — all of them. 

They had had to stop the engines so that I could make my way past them and safely get aboard the flight.  I had shown her my ticket and very cleverly said, “Here’s my ticket.  I’m supposed to be on board this flight; thank you very much.”  Again, the interior was much like a waiting area and a greenhouse at that.  There was a sense, once again, of light coming through the glass-topped ceiling of the craft.  The craft’s interior was all whitewashed.  There were lots of persons, mostly guys, standing about.  The first thing that I had noticed, was that they were all dressed in white and were dressed in clothing from another age. 

They were dressed as in the latter half of the eighteenth century — the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart§.  I had passed the flight attendants; they were off to my left and up towards the cockpit.  There was the familiar large open area, as well, off to the right of the skylight.  There was a narrow door that had gotten you back to the main cabin of the plane.  The 18th century persons were in the open, which had an earthen floor.  Here, it was very humid and damp.  These were all young and white males, who wore white clinging tunic that went down to just below the knees.  They wore tight breeches, really tight, with white stockings that came up to above the knees. 

They wore white shoes; large ones with white buckles.  Large-sleeved white shirts, most of them, although some wore shirts whose sleeves were those of the conventional style of the waking state.  They were, all of them, very young and very dark-haired.  These persons had the faces that were exactly peculiar to their age.  The hairstyles, the makeup and the expressionism; it exactly was what the aristocrats of late eighteenth century Vienna looked like.  On having entered this craft, I had immediately noticed that there were little rooms as in a salon in eighteenth century Vienna.  There were these white doors with glass panes for two-thirds of them.  There were little concert hall boxes that were set up; all this occurred inside the cabin of the plane no less. 

I could distinctly have heard the engines whirring away, outside the craft, whilst drinking in this most unconventional of plane interiors.  We were going to take this flight and whilst in flight, there would be a performance.  Everybody was an actor and like that man on the chaise longue, with the wicked tongue, also very much so sage-souled.  I then went and took my place.  There was a box where the performers would sit, as in an opera house, but it was on the ground.  This was not a Boeing 747 series type airliner.  The opera house-interiored craft had been lined with red carpeting and red velvet.  The seats were all one embankment and quite plush. 

There was a doorway there with a man who had been crouched down.  He was dark-haired and had a mole just below his left eye.  He was most handsome and looked like the soulfully august aristocrats, of the court of King Joseph II of Hapsburg-Lorraine, in the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart.  His face was very, very unusually large.  He had worn a ponytail that was tied back with a black ribbon.  Just inside the door to my right, he had been crouched down.  I had looked off and on having seen him, had smiled.  He had looked up at me and was quite smitten by me. 

I realised that I had found my place and had come in to the box to sit.  We were obviously about to witness a drama that was clearly Romeo and Juliet that was set, in the Mozartean era, in the city of Vienna, Austria.  I had gotten so energised for having been in the company of these people, whom clearly I had known at the level of soul, and thus had squealed and laughed aloud.  Also, my response was in anticipation of the great fun that we shortly would share.  At that, I awoke in bed. 

*I was not chagrined to have awakened at that point.  Already, I had been refamiliarised with all these persons.  There was something very much so familiar about the handsome-moled man.  We did look at each other as I took my seat and I was passingly reminded of Merlin.  Beyond the eighteenth century energetics that he wore in that life, he was familiar, intimate and a companion.  That was all I had needed of the very layered, very enriching and very, indeed, pandimensional aspects of this dreamquesting odyssey into a past life.  This was very real and I was very much so in my element.  That dream initially was definitely set in the Georgian era and the people there were all familiar.

They were all white and very much so alive.  I guess that this was an astral plane projection in time, to experiencing aspects of past lives.  I was able to have used the astral plane, to have transited the spiral arms of time and enter two different time frames in which I was clearly incarnate.  Also, it was very much so the eighteenth century and the height of the colonial era.  Here was someone who had just returned from an expedition to deepest, darkest Africa.  Down to the accent and the language as it existed then, they were very much so British.  The most important insight that I learned, for having revisited that lifetime, was the lasting effects of racism to which I was exposed, engaged in and was much informed by.  To say the least, in this life, I am truly repulsed by racism’s ubiquity and its effects.

This explains why I am so passionately impatient with and can see and understand, so clearly, my hypersensitivity to racism.  I see it for what it is and where it comes from.  The second flight’s exposé into Mozartean Austria was, I am certain, more about getting insights to a past life of either Merlin’s or someone with whom I share as strong a soul connection.  Perhaps, it was someone on the order of my essence twin.  I am not convinced that this was Merlin, in a past life, even though I did not see the eyes in close-up.  I knew them not to be his eyes.  The eyes are always the dead giveaway in these instances.  Though packaging changes from life to life, the eyes do not; except to change colour and grow older and softer with the reincarnational maturation of the soul, the eyes are always recognisable as self’s in past life dreams.

**Further insights that I would like to add at this time, I do believe that the latter dream of the Mozartean era, harkened back to when Merlin and I were incarnate together, again lovers, and were court musicians.  This, however, was during the court of one of the English rather than Austrian monarchs.  During the reign of George Hanover, King George III, which was during the 1700s to early 1800s, Merlin and I were then incarnate.  Also, the Prince Regent and later King George IV was also familiar to both of us.  The latter monarch would have been instrumental in the flourishing of the arts, which is why Merlin and I had creatively blossomed in that life.  King George IV, when the Prince Regent and during his brief reign, had been a great patron of the arts — life at court would have been artistically fulfilling and that it clearly was.  In any event, I also sang during that life.  Usually, my performances were to smaller audiences of aristocrats; Merlin, then female, played the harpsichord and was my accompanist.

I guess that the Francesca lifetime could have been a complement to that lived at court during King George III’s reign — whose father was rather German and caught up in the Austrian succession intrigues during the early 18th century.  There was a late Georgian to early Victorian sensibility to the first dream; it featured a septuagenarian Francesca who rather than me in a past life, was Merlin when a harpsichordist and my then lover.   These are insights gleaned from Michael Overleaves by Sarah J. Chambers who, prior to passing in 1999, channelled the Michael.  What’s more, at that time, also present and likely participant in this dream was the Duke of Bronté.  Of course, said duke was also the 1st Viscount Nelson, none other than Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson.  Naturally, in the late 18th century, Horatio Nelson had spent much time at court whilst trying to get  himself positioned after the American war of independence, which left the admiral and many others out of work.  At the time that he spent at court, both Merlin and I, knew and socialised with the young, dashing admiral – the 2nd Earl Spencer was the Lord of the Admiralty, which would have made him an invaluable contact to Earl Spencer and a frequent guest to Spencer House.  No doubt, it was his tales of his adventures and especially his time spent in Nevis that served as a source of wonderment for me.

As Merlin and I were then cohabiting as lovers and professional associates, it is likely that I then expressed some interest in going off to an exotic isle like Nevis.  Indeed, perhaps, the reference to deepest darkest Africa was really to the West Indies.  Either way, it is obvious that the fascinating Duke of Bronté, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson planted a seed, which would lead to my choice to reincarnate three lifetimes later in Nevis.

***I should also think that the man with the extra-large head and the striking, large mole below his left eye, should have been more readily discerned.  Merlin’s dear friend, the actor, Joe Morton°, is the one who would fit this bill.  Indeed, Joe does have just such a large mole below his left eye.  The only difference between these two — Joe Morton and the moled actor in the dream — was their disparate races.  The white male’s in the dream was the exact same large mole at the exact same position as is Joe Morton’s.  Further, this Caucasian male’s teeth exactly were like Joe’s as they are in this lifetime.  Again, apart from their disparate races, there was one other difference between Joe Morton and his past-life counterpart.  Joe’s mouth and lips are bigger and fuller respectively and Joe’s comparably was, to say the least, a more elastic and expressive face.

To say the least, that was rather insightful a past-life dreamquest.  Joe, of course, is in the fifth/sage position in his cadence which not surprisingly would leave him inclined to being so sage-like and regal in essence.  Naturally, this regal energy is due to the power mode energy, which innately infuses all fifth-cast fragments, especially in cadences 1, 5 and 7.  Joe, of course, is in the first cadence in his greater cadence.

****I should also like to add here that the large-moled gentleman may well have been in London; at that the time of mid-to-late 18th century, there was a large Austro-German community in London.  King George III was, of course, German.  At that time that Merlin and I were then incarnate, we were rather familiar with one such German patron who happens also to be an entity mate, Arianna von Reinhard.  Wealthy, the German patron of the arts very likely could have funded a trip to Austria and German, during which time Merlin and I could have been on a concert tour to royal courts of those countries.  Who knows, perhaps, at that time, we even met and attended concerts for stellar creative genius, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart§.  END.  

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At the conclusion of audiocassette-recording these dreamquests to past lives, in late October, 1991, I got about the business of choosing an appropriate musical complement.  Naturally, I would end up playing some Joseph Haydn° symphonies.  Back in 1987, whilst being a muse to Olaf Gamst, I was introduced to Joseph Haydn in great detail as he was a composer whom Olaf favoured.  When sitting for the artist, often were the times, when he would play selections from his formidable Haydn collection.  Without doubt, I would come to favour Haydn’s London Symphonies.  That is why, I had crawled through a couple of secondhand record shops in a bid to build my own Haydn collection.  To that end, I got out an old recording from 1977; it was still in fairly good condition.  Released on the Philips label, Neville Marriner conducted the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.  

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For the rest of the day, I repeatedly listened to Symphony No. 104 in D Major Op. 21 ‘Londoner’.  This symphony truly made my spirit soar and allowed me to remain resonant with the past-life to which I had so lucidly dreamquested.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, sweet dreams and my dream memoirs, the first in recorded human civilisation can be found online at Amazon and wherever discerning bibliophiles satisfy their insatiable need.  

ASVMOA II

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

The Remains of Armistice Day.

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Strangely, though the major part of Armistice Day celebrations were long concluded, there were still more persons moving westward towards the Cenotaph than easterly towards Trafalgar Square.  My companion, a spectacled, freckled guy in his early 30s, was keen on having me come back to his flat in South Bank – We were headed towards Charing Cross Station to take the Bakerloo Line towards his place.  

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Stalling for time, as I really was not feeling him, I firmly suggested that we go tour Banqueting House as I had never been, which was the truth.  Of course, it did not help that the only thing at Banqueting House was the great ceiling art and the throne; the rest of it was just as empty as clearly, James, my “Mate” was dense.  Long years ago, a channeller of dubious skills stated rather imperiously that I would meet someone named James, who would prove rather loyal and a long-term affair.  

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Somehow, this nebulous bit of arcana seemed to be the only sane reason why I was suffering this oaf overlong.  His constant bitching about “Nutmeg,” as he referred to the Duchess of Sussex, was not winning him any favours in my books.  I had hoped to have found much more archival fare associated with the spot where HM King Charles I was executed.  Alas, there was nothing save a throne and an impressive ceiling.  

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With the toilets at Banqueting House fully occupied and alarmingly foul-smelling, back outside we dashed in hopes of finding a toilet.  A pub, whose name I did not even catch a few door towards Trafalgar Square, proved the right spot.  He ordered a couple of lagers – I never drink beer, and off I went to the toilet to relieve myself.  I waited overlong, waiting for him to possibly come in then use the stalls so that I could make a mad dash for it.  No such luck.  However, on rejoining him, he lustily talked about what he wanted me to do to him.  Never one to miss an opportunity, I suggested he go unclog his plumbing so that I could give it to him good, long and hard when we got back his place.  

Naively quick to take the bait, out I dashed into the larger-than-usual crowds when he eagerly bolted to the toilet; once outside, I then caught the tail end of the latest regiment to go moving from the roundabout as they made their way from the Strand and onto Whitehall.  With that, I swiftly made it across Pall Mall, crossed Canada House and made my way to the new entrances to the National Gallery – this James clearly was not the one.  

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Taking the time to avail myself of the museum’s free wi-fi, I sipped on a boost of Pret A Manger’s little magic, yellow potion, Hot Shot.  I then decided against the Bellini show – Italian art is way too religious for my liking and it strangely enough has never once addressed the fact that the Church of Rome has, in its role as civiliser, proven the most disruptive terror group this planet has thus far known.  For me, there is something alarmingly dangerous about a culture, which would completely and utterly eclipse this rather crucial aspect that has decided their place in the world – but enough about that for now.  

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Having dodged James, I decided to do the Courtauld exhibition as it would beat having to attend the museum on this trip.  Whilst standing in one of two long queues, along came Ms. Thang, who simply looked at us and grandly walked up to the next sales rep as though she had exited St. George’s Chapel on Ginger’s arm on the gloriously sunny early afternoon of May 19, 2018.  

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As I was next in line, I just as imperiously declared to her and the rep, “Take you, the weave and that blasted fake channel handbag to the back of the line; there are not two lines of invisible persons waiting to buy tickets.”  Before she could turn nasty with me, the lovely Dravidian lady informed her that I was next in line and, more importantly, she intended to serve me next.  Fake boobs that looked like flotation devices and feet that were too big to fit any glass slippers and, of course, there was a bulky turtleneck to hide the Adam’s apple.  

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Though “she” was prepared to do drama, I came to do me and look at art and that I did.  I was really wowed by some of these works, which I previously had not seen.  

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Naturally, this Degas masterpiece only warmed my soul.  Straight away, I was left humming the music from the grand pas de deux in Act II of La Bayadère, which I could not wait to see at week’s end.  

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Shades of Canada’s Group of Seven, to be sure.  I like the fact that the artist did not include the entire tree in the portrait.  

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Ah yes, and who doesn’t love the sublime soulfulness of a Gauguin tableau.  

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Trees, trees and even more trees.  What’s not to love!  

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After having been greatly inspired by the Courtauld Impressionist show – well worth the price – I bailed outside; there were too many parents using the free admission to the museum as a place to come in out of the elements and babysit their way too young children.  Once outside, I hailed a cab, though, not the above – wrong day and time of day.  This cab proved one of the most memorable journeys.  As The Mall was closed, we took the roundabout from in front of Trafalgar Square and headed along Pall Mall.  I wanted just then to get to The Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace but did not want to use the underground; it was way too glorious a day out. 

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Finally, I laid down the law to the driver, who was a burly soul and looked like the quintessential slave soul.  Soon enough, we got into a conversation when we began chatting about Canada, which I shared that I would give anything to flee in hopes of living in London.  Soon, the topic turned to sex and whatever one would have to do to get by.  Ha!  Said he, he would give up this gig of 22 years and counting by marrying a fat, ugly rich broad to which, without so much as missing beat, I chimed in, “Don’t stop there, if you can find rich, fat, ugly and toothless, now you’ve got it made.  To paraphrase Frank Sinatra from The Best Is Yet To Come, you ain’t been blown until you’ve had a gum job!”  Never in long ages had I heard a grown man laugh so hard and for so long – a fellow cab driver going in the opposite direction even honked at him and asked what was so funny. 

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After having sat in traffic for far too long, though the metre read 12£, he asked for a 10£ note and thank me, saying he ought to have paid me for the company and humour.  With that, I dashed past St. James Palace en route for The Mall which, of course, was closed.  Finally, I made it up to the Queen’s Gallery and took in the Russia: Royalty & the Romanovs exhibition, which did offer some truly inspired gems from the Royal Collection.  

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Well, of course, he ruled something.  

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I was reminded in this portrait of Tsar Nicholas I of the 1970s when the goods were readily on display; however, along came AIDS and all that display and ogling readily evaporated.  Instead, men were morphed into true peacocks with long blow-dry locks, which really did become tiresome after a season or two.  Now, of course, it is the great and truly civilised age of the Internet, which lest you forget, is saturated with more than 80% pornography.  

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The Vladimir Tiara which is not dissimilar to the Cambridge Lover’s Knot Tiara, which always looked truly handsome when worn by the ravishing, Diana, Princess of Wales.  

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Set in the green drawing room at Windsor Castle, where on May 19, 2018, Alexi Lubomirski took the official photographs of the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, you cannot possibly begin to imagine the overwhelming scope and grandeur of this tableau.  Truly, one is left in awe of the fact that HM Queen Victoria was a tiny acorn who matured into a mighty oak who, through her womb, extended her empire far and wide across the continent.  This was a ravishing exhibition and one of the most stunning paintings that I have ever seen from the Royal Collection.  

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After all that inspiring art, I needed to ground anew; thus, I opted to take a brisk walk, cutting through Green Park where the light fast shifted and danced below the horizon… never to be experienced again.  With that, I hopped onto the Piccadilly Line at Green Park Station and made my way back to Russell Square Station; there, I resorted to my hotel room and took a lucidly awakened, dream-sodden nap before getting on with the final celebrations of this poignant Armistice Day.  

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Before making it to Barbican Station on the Circle Line, I had had the most awakened flying dream, which had me spirited across the spiral arms of Time to a past life in London.  

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To reflect, celebrate and give thanks, how could I not indulge in an evening of music and song with the London Symphony Orchestra.  

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Nice, plush comfortable seats with a troika of gay Jewish dancer/actors seated ahead of me.  The evening was beautiful, the singing stellar.  

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As there was an empty seat on either side of me, I offered to move to the left and afforded the lovely young couple from Paris to sit together – she had been sat a row ahead and away from her spectacled, fey lover – he had more than a passing resemblance to Merlin.  Leaning in, I whispered to him, “The universe always conspires to accommodate lovers…” he blushed, they both blushed sweetly and were pleasant company that added a certain magic to the evening.  Here’s to lovers… indeed.  

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En route back to the hotel… a little late night smoothie snack was in order.  As ever, sweet dreams, don’t forget to push off and start flying and as always, thanks for your ongoing support.  

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

Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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After having waited months on end, the day of the royal wedding arrived and there was I sporting a killer headache – one of which I have not had in long ages.  What with the inordinate negativity of trolls online and the utterly disgraceful meltdown on the Markle relations on the father’s side of the family, I just wanted the bloody wedding to get going.  Moreover, I was hosting, in my art-filled home, a right English royal wedding breakfast: six different teas, smoked salmon, scones, Johnny cakes (a West Indian variation on scones) champagne, jams including, of course, guava jams.  As busy host, I missed a lot of the goings on as it unfolded live.

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Rising at 0300, I was up and ready, making the first teas as guests soon thereafter began arriving for the 0400 starts of the live broadcasts.  Naturally, we looked at the BBC coverage whilst multiple broadcasters were simultaneously taped: PBS, CBS, CNN, ABC & CBC.  Pandora my lovely sister was in town with her urbane hubby and overnighted at my place so that they would not have to travel far at 0300.  Also present was Dr. Lucian Mann-Chomedy, who left his sprawling mansion atop the hill in Hamilton, to be with me; he is a world-renowned expert on Voltaire.  Eventually, along came siblings Rio, Penina and Isha with legal professional, like Pandora, Hyacinth Fitzroy-McIlroy.

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Though I wanted to take an Advil, I knew that copious amounts of champagne to follow would preclude doing so.  Alas, I drank fresh-squeeze orange juice and lots of water.  Finally, the fare catered by Daniel et Daniel arrived at 0459 sharp – I am better at working magic in the bedroom rather than the kitchen, so why sweat it!

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In between fussing with the catered fare, I caught a glimpse of George and Amal Clooney looking like the power couple that they are.  What a gorgeous colour and her hat was fabulous.  I especially loved the Valentino worn by Sofia Wellesley with her diminutive hubby James Blunt, a man whose devastating wit makes following his twitter account a must.  There was Oprah Winfrey looking regal; she is of course a member of entity seven of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414, which would make her a cadre mate, along with other notables who are also cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s, like: Sir Anthony van Dyke, Sir Peter Paul Rubens, Jim Henson, Vaslav Nijinsky, Rudolf Nureyev, Natalie Cole, Grace Jones, Annette Bening, Warren Beatty, President Barack H. Obama, Joshua Redman, Katherine Hepburn, King Richard I, George Benson, opera singer Maureen Forrester, Painter Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Giovanni Canaletto, Camille Paglia, Cassandra Wilson, Art Blakey, sculptor Henry Moore, River Phoenix, Halle Berry, Victor Brauner, choreographer Merce Cunningham, Charles Mingus, Esperanza Spalding, Alvin Ailey, Zora Neale Hurston, Lena Horne, Jazz drummer Tony Williams, Otis Redding, Vasco da Gama, Roy Hargrove, Toller Cranston, Oscar Peterson, Jennifer Holliday, Roger Hodgson, National Ballet of Canada founder Celia Franca, Constantin Patsalas, Charles Baudelaire, Liona Boyd, Tina Turner, Marvin Gaye, Youssou N’Dour, writers Gabriela Mistral & James Baldwin and comic genius, Robin Williams.  Of course, many of these overleaves are to be found across the six-volume opus of Michael Overleaves appendices which accompany my dream-filled, and sex-besotted memoirs a first in all of human civilisation… because someone had to do it first and naturally yours truly has got to represent for the old 1/7/414!  Enough of digressing and coming off like that blasted ham, who in true American fashion, the right rev’ron thinks that his grandstanding noisemaking at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex was a hit – sorry it was not; it really did a number on my headache.

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I especially loved it when the royals began entering from the Galilee Porch into the chapel and took their seats.  HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal’s reaction to the guests assembled across the aisle was priceless.  Indeed, Ms. Markle had really sprung the big guns, namely Ms. Winfrey on them.  There sat Oprah at the very back where she got a good view and strategically enough, she uncomfortably sat across the aisle from that flat-arsed, no-calved pretentious bigoted boor, HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  She is such a pitiable lost soul, she with the million and one tiaras (google image her); she and her tiaras, looking like a third-tier drag queen who’s not done too badly for herself on the pageant circuit.  God when will people like her realise that on this planet melanin trumps blood.  Oprah’s presence was a none-too-subtle missive, keep up with the racist charades and there will be an Oprah interview.  Seriously, that Blackamoor brooch last Christmas worn to the Buckingham Palace as Ms. Markle made her debut was as coincidental as if HRH Princess Anne Princess Royal were to have worn a swastika for the inaugural Christmas at Buckingham Palace when Princess No-Calves’ coke-headed son brought along his Jewish wife for the first time.  Poor thing, what was she to do, to look right across the aisle at St. George’s Chapel, there sat Serena, reminding her of one of two of her black sheep named Serena & Venus; to then look left, there sat Oprah, looking as though famished and ready to feast.  Matters not, from here on out the Princess Rhino will have to curtsy to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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Wonderful it was to see Jack Brooksbank greet his mother-in-law, Sarah Duchess of York, who thanks to HRH Prince Henry of Wales’ insistence was invited to attend the wedding of the year.  Whilst many came and went past the tomb of HM King Charles I whose art collection retrospective at the Royal Academy ranks among my favourite exhibitions, there stood George and Amal Clooney holding court; at one point, they were joined by the dashing Dan Snow with his statuesque wife and sister to the very eligible Duke of Westminster who is godfather to HRH Prince George of Cambridge, who looked smart in his Blues and Royals uniform as page boy which smartly matched those worn by both his father HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his uncle the groom, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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Loved watching the always elegant Victoria Beckham being greeted with a bear hug whilst in the company of her husband David Beckham and a decidedly matronly looking Sir Elton John and his partner, David Furnish.  Serenely composed was the twenty-three-year-old Indian charity worker, who looked exquisite in her saree.  Though I had envisioned her in saree, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s friend, the actor, Priyanka Chopra looked no less lovely in her lilac suit with matching hat.  By far, one of my favourite royals was the very expectant Zara Tindall whose husband now looks even more handsome after corrective rhinoplasty.  Whilst the Chicagoan made an arse of himself in the pulpit, there sat Zara who with a look made us all roar with her wary side eye.  Seven years earlier, I was equally charmed by her beauteousness as she smiled whilst slipping a breath mint as the soloist sang and the bridal party, TRH Duke and Duchess of Cambridge et al, were off in St. Edward the Confessor chapel at Westminster Abbey signing the registry.

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Indeed, Central Casting could not have scripted a more gloriously perfect day.  There is a special magic to the isle of England; it goes without saying that it is vibrationally harmonised with much of the West Indies.  I truly do feel at home when in England; of course, much of that is because I passed a ‘high-point’ life there in late 18th century London and Windsor and as well Merlin was then present with me.  One thing that I have come to realise that many past-life dreams afford one the perspective of the former incarnation.  As a result, as is always the case when happening on a place where I have been before and had past-life dreams thereof, I am always mildly surprised to find that the waking state reality is a 180° reversal of the past-life perspective from the most lucid dreams of questing to previous lives.  For instance, Windsor Castle in past life dreams where there is much wood fire smoke, horse activity and the fashion are specific to that time frame, the castle always sits on the north bank of the River Thames with the majestic Eton College Chapel lording over the southern bank’s landscape, looking pretty much like Valhalla rising from the mist.

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My first visit to London was so thoroughly confusing, everything proved back-to-front as it had always appeared and been experienced in the most lucid dreams.  In such dreams, horse drawn carriages are everywhere with the loud smell of smoke, horse dung.  Strangely enough, in many of these dreams, my breath tends to be foul with drink, though, here in this lifetime, I hardly ever drink.  This past spring, as I moved through Windsor Castle’s St. George Hall, I was surprised to find the ceiling so far removed.  Later, during conversation with a gentle-souled female manager at the castle, I was reassured when she shared that after the great fire of 1992, the hall’s ceiling was raised considerably.  I had a really visceral response to seeing the bullet that felled Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson; he, of course, has a storied connection to Nevis.  I also knew him in that 18th century past-life at court when then a countertenor and Merlin, then female, was my accompanist on harpsichord.

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There were moments this past March when in certain rooms both at Hampton Court Palace but especially so at Windsor Castle that everything was back to front and I felt what I refer to as being “In-Between” – one does not exactly feel faint but you experience a moment of feeling as though you were vibrationally tuning in between here and elsewhere in time.  Finally, with a second round of tea being served, I was able to take a breather and start looking at the arrivals; currently the minor royals were arriving.  Good it always is to see the gracious HRH Duchess of Kent in a lovely black and white ensemble; I was purse-lipped as she was being helped to her seat.  Finally, a Benz minivan pulled up at the bottom of the middle ward and out sprang two dashingly handsome men, wearing Blues and Royals uniforms.  Straight away, I was teary-eyed; of course, it goes without saying that on occasions such as this, one cannot help but think of their lovely mother, the late Diana, Princess of Wales.

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Champagne nicely chilled was on standby, awaiting the taking of vows to be popped.  I love the fact that Chelsey Davy was at the wedding of her ex, HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, along with Cressida Bonas.  I love this aspect of English aristocratic society; their weddings almost always feature exes… and why not?  Theirs are very tight, limited circles and exes are likely to be, in some cases, godparents.  When finally, I was able to watch the wedding uninterrupted, for having played host the day of, I was truly spellbound and stunned by what an absolutely beautiful wedding it was.

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was nothing short of Arthurian as she entered St. George’s Chapel alone.  At once she was magical, empowered; a queen staking her claim both on history and her throne.  Nothing was more beautiful than watching the Mulroney twins in their matching Blues and Royals uniforms, carrying her sixteen-foot veil’s train, which was decorated in the flowers of all 53 nations of the Commonwealth and California’s state flower.  After moving through the gorgeous boughs of white roses and peonies, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was then met by and escorted by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, a man with whom one always enjoys the most august dream encounters.

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Seeing the uneclipsed look of love in HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s eyes and written all over his face as he drank the intoxicating drink of his bride approaching with his father, no less, made me come undone.  Uncontrollably, I cried out for joy and began crying.  I cried out anew when with a stride no less confident than Queen Maxima of the Netherlands’, the day she walked down the aisle of Westminster Abbey on April 29, 2011 as TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge were wedded, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did an energetic shake of her head as she beamed at her lover, her champion at her warrior-prince.

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At this point, my whole body was awash in glorious ripples of adrenaline as these two souls, who happen to be both entity mates along with HM The Queen, celebrated their twenty-first incarnate relations.  The way that this man looked at this woman with open love for her, was the most soul-warming adage imaginable.  His cheeks aglow, he blushed, smiled and declared his love for his lover for all the world to see.  Long had I forgotten how beautiful it used to make me feel when Merlin would look at me exactly with the same magical glow and twinkle in his eyes.  I was so immensely happy.  The way they chatted, the way he looked at her whilst falling in love all over again, was the most beautiful sight.  Even the way that Jessica Mulroney reached across and rekindled her vows in a touch with Benedict Mulroney was wonderful to have witnessed.

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Uncovering her face of the veil and revealing the Queen Mary bandeau tiara in its uneclipsed glory, just as the first time after they had made love and reaffirmed their soul connection, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex said a warm, hi; they were two familiar souls, looking into each other and keeping aglow the fire of their unbreakable bond.  Entity mates in love is a most beautiful thing, there is no greater bond.  They way that they looked at each other, spoke to that enduring love that had endured across twenty prior lifetimes.  Now here they are, of choice, he an older soul (fifth-level mature warrior — fourth life thereat) she (mid-cycle mature artisan — third life thereat); there is nothing that this formidable team cannot accomplish.  As it is her third life at the level, expect her to be accomplished, ambitious, daring and a force to be reckoned with.  Like his second-level mature artisan mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has an innate sense of theatre, which was dramatically on display as she walked the aisle to stake her claim on history and validated that she had twice previously been a high-ranking member of the British royal family.  Truly regal was she as she walked the aisle to take her vow and return to life, for the third time, as a member of a much-loved institution, the House of Windsor.

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Seated there in that beautiful blue dress, I was reminded of Lynn Woodman, actor Wayne Robson’s wife in the way that Jessica Mulroney’s smile and eyes warmed me each time.  Of course, horrified was I last summer just before departing for London, England to learn from Xerxes Hamelin, my ex-wife and now transgendered to a bald and bearded marvel of modern medicine that their only son Louis had died at Christmas 2016.  Straight away, all those dreams of Lynn looking forlorn on grey-skied, rainy days and always on a bridge before a swollen river made so much sense.

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Britain Royal Wedding

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Britain Royal Wedding

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As the service progressed awash in the magic that is evoked by two souls with strong reincarnational bonds, I took a look at the gathered souls.  Loved the look of Sam Chatto, he of the pronounced spiritual focus in this life as he sat two to the left and west of HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  Also, on that upper row was the young Duke of Westminster, Hugh Grosvenor, whose father, Gerald Grosvenor, sixth Duke of Westminster, like HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, was the same soul age and role in essence — seventh-level mature warrior soul.  His older sister, Edwina had earlier been chatting with George and Amal Clooney with her husband Dan Snow as the guests arrived.  Good it was to see the always regal HRH Princess Alexandra whose father, the very dashing HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent after his untimely death may well have recently been Diana, Princess of Wales — this is just a suspicion of mine and not channelled information.  I could not though help but think, whilst watching Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being wedded then later in the evening when emerging with her husband in that glorious white halter neck Stella McCartney dress, that Diana’s soul may well choose to reincarnate to her former son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and his very elegantly stylish wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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First Duchess of Sussex, where previously the first Duke of Sussex fervently supported the abolition of slavery, a cessation of the persecution of Jews, now here were these entity mates — HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and first Duchess of Sussex, Meghan, taking up the noble mantle of HM Queen Victoria’s uncle and HM King George IV’s younger brother, HRH Prince Augustus Frederick to work and help develop the potential of the developing nations of the Commonwealth.  Sadly, for most persons, these two souls chose to be part of the BRF by unique circumstances; when you consider the impact that black Africans have had on the wealth of the BRF and much of West Europe, it would seem fitting to these two souls and those in agreement within the BRF for them to have chosen to be an interracial couple.  Of course, it must not be forgotten that without exception, all Caucasian persons who are gap-toothed were in their immediate past life, black.

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When you keenly pay close attention to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s life, you will see this being validated.  This man has always had an ease and affinity for blacks whether in the diaspora or in Africa.  There was nothing more glorious than watching his soul bleed through its reincarnational awareness, when on a trip to Jamaica, once invited by a young girl to join her dancing to Bob Marley’s soulful singing, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex danced with an ease that immediately made everyone black warm to the core; in his movement, we instinctively recognised his ‘blackness’ – we were responding to the fact that this was someone whose soul had been black in his immediate past life.  The way that this man slipped into the groove and wind his waist was as groovy as if hearing Marvin Gaye soulfully crooning.

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There is a purity of spirit that HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex possesses, which speaks to the very nature of his soul.  More than that, it does speak to his having inherited his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’ empathy gene.  For me a man is most beautiful when he openly displays his love for another human being; there is no denying that as they took their vows, here was a man at his most beautiful.  Throughout, there sat Doria Ragland, mother of the bride, a study in dignity, pride and reserve.  Of course, any mother who calls her child ‘Flower’ is a mother who will ever be proud of how her daughter has blossomed into her own woman.  This love saw Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become a woman of substance and a truly dignified human being.

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One interesting to note is how truly simpatico both Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall and Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex are.  Of course, the reason for that being, is that they are both exactly the same soul age and both are living their third life at that level.  What that, of course, means is that warrior soul HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales will always be warmed by and favour Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  Though both are mid-cycle mature souls on their third lives, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall is, however, a scholar soul.  Keeping her grounded and focussed with uncharacteristic drive is Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s warrior task companion.  That warrior, however, is not her husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex; it does, however, prove grounding for her, to be wedded to a warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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All warriors live by a very grounded motto: feed me, fuck me but do not annoy me!  To say the least, Lady Kamasutra aka Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is ably qualified to ever keep her husband engaged both physically, emotionally and intellectually.  Warriors make the best of partners because when the love is strong, they are the most loyal and devoted of souls.  Regardless what those on the outside may think – and god has there been a spate of dissenting opinions about their union; fact of the matter is that they are more suited to be man and wife and life partners than most persons in the public eye.

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Without doubt, no one wore a more stylish hat than did Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall.  I also loved the wonderful hats worn by Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and Lady Kitty Spencer, daughter of Earl Spencer, niece of Diana, Princess of Wales and good friend of Viscountess Weymouth who would have looked smashing had she attended the wedding.  Not wanting to be the butt of every joke, this time around, the Princesses of York wore hats that were demure and understated.  Reminiscent of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, HRH Princess Eugenie, soon to be wedded to Jack Brooksbank this autumn, wore a lovely white pillbox hat.  Ever exuberant, it was good to see Sarah, Duchess of York greeting her son-in-law at St. George’s Chapel, though, she did not sit with the royals but across the aisle with the invited guests.  Kudos to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having invited and included her in the Sussexes wedding gathering.

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After that solipsistic buffoon made a point of overstating the obvious – if I were not hosting, I would have readily tossed a box of Kleenex at the screen, it was good to have been wowed by the Kingdom Gospel Choir.  I thought that at least one of the female singers in the front row was a priest soul, along with the choir leader; if not a priest, she definitely would have strong priestly makeup in her casting.  Their presence and performance were one of the many details, which went a long way towards making this wedding one of the most memorable.  Finally, after old windbag’s grandstanding, it was time for the lovely couple to take their vows.  Yet again, I was moved to tears.  Doria seemed at times to be experiencing rapture during points in the ceremony. Britain Royal Wedding

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Like Mr. Curry’s grandstanding, there was also a moment that left me disquieted.  The moment that she entered St. George’s Chapel off the Galilee porch entrance with the other royals, I was disappointed at the sight of Lady Louise Windsor, daughter of TRH, the Earl and Countess of Wessex.  Back in Spring 2016 on a tour of the Bahamas and Cayman Islands, there was Sophie HRH, Countess of Wessex wearing the same dress that her self-conscious daughter wore to a wedding that would be globally televised.  Nothing like human society to straitjacket children into rigid social roles.  It would have done a lot of this young woman’s self-esteem if she had been bought a new dress for the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  There is nothing empowering for any young woman, having to wear their mother’s hand-me-downs.

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That aside, there was nothing more glorious than the prodigy, Sheku Kanneh-Mason masterfully weaving his magic on cello.  Later, as the married Sussexes emerged from the beautifully boughed St. George’s Chapel into the crystalline blue-skied day then kissed, the most glorious thing then happened.  As the unmistakably in love couple stood on the lower steps, the gospel choir again began singing.  As if it were not moving to watch, Diana, Princess of Wales’ older sister, Lady Jane Fellowes who gave a reading during the service, there was she bobbing and dancing whilst enjoying the gospel music.  And what glorious music it was too.

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That song, This Little Light of Mine, was a favourite of mine since childhood.  Back on Sunday, August 2, 1964, I had gotten a good spanking, on my birthday no less, from Harella my mother, whom I had always been convinced was not my mother as she was all of forty years old when I was born.  I wanted that day to wear my favourite pair of shorts to church – it was after all my birthday.  However, the shorts were dirty and crumbled and expected to be washed during the week.  Nonetheless, I threw a tantrum and got to wear my shorts after having my naked bottom spanked – therein lay the seed of my crop and riding boot fetishistic sex.  Sitting there in church, which Harella owned, I began singing at the top of my lungs, the song of protest.  Whilst my mother looked at me, utterly sure in her conviction that I was demon-possessed, I looked away and out the door to the east and the mountain ridge in St. Kitts.  Just then, the sparkling sun struck something within the growth of the foothills and it caused a blazing reflection that danced and shone even more blazingly than the sun; indeed, it matched my singing.  I knew that day that my mother would never succeed in having me sublimate my will to her and her mad and make-believe god.

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As the gospel choir sang, I began tearing up again, as the camera pulled a lovely crane shot back from the top of the St. George’s Chapel’s west door, steps and the couple below preparing to get into the landau, beyond lay the lowlands of the magical kingdom.  In that moment, I was suddenly struck by the very real sense of Diana, Princess of Wales.  Yes, indeed, her lovely boys were now wedded and to beautiful strong wives at that.  Her work here was done; now she could fly off as that crane shot implied to the west, the horizon, the astral plane, the future and to lives up ahead.  Diana, Princess of Wales had made a handsome success of life and with both TRH Princes William and Henry fully grown and wedded, her work was done.  Even, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was every bit a loving, older soul – seventh-level mature warrior and entity mate of king soul and Canadian artist, Robert Bateman.

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Without doubt, this was one of the most glorious weddings in long ages.  To be sure, it is always good to see two souls with an abiding soul connection, renewing and validating the ties that bind and truly matter.  Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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

Two Albrechts but what a Giselle!

Giselle Royal Ballet

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

Natalia Osipova Matthew Ball

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

Natalia Osipova

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

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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

Royal Academy

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

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

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

Sir Peter Paul Rubens Self-Portrait Oil on Canvas

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

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

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

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

Fortnum &amp; Mason

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

Charles II Art &amp; Power

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

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

HM King James II when HRH Prince James Duke of York

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

St. Paul's Cathedral

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

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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.  

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

Henry Moore

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

Arthur Duke of Wellington

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

Admiral Nelson

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

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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.  

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

Going Live!

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

MAASDO II

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

ASVMOA II

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

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

Do stand by as the podcast is slowly coming together.

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

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