Two Albrechts But What A Giselle!

March 10, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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Being of Service… Fulfilled.

December 1, 2016November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Ten days after that operatic flying dream – part of which I am now convinced were glimpses into a past-life passed at the courts of King George III and King George IV during the Regency years – which is herein entitled: Time-Travelling late-Georgian/Regency Dandy, https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/26/time-travelling-late-georgianregency-dandy/ I would dream these next three dreams. They were beautiful dreams and there was also a tie-in to dreams dreamt years earlier whilst Merlin was then incarnate. Those dreams were also shared herein and are entitled: Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans – https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/20/ensouled-proboscis-simian-humans/ . These were rather ravishing dreams and as was the custom that time, there was also some sexual play engaged during the dreamquest.

These dreams were lucidly lived on Wednesday, January 27, 1993. At the time, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house. Moreover, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty and are yet to be found in volume XIV of the dream opus. Dream with the greatest of wonder and awe because regardless others perceptions of you, it is just that – another perception and has no basis in the truth of who you are at the fabulously beautiful core of your being.

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In the cobblestoned square of an old city’s campus, it was heavily raining. Also, I was part of a great entourage. This place felt like England as it was moored under a flock of grey, rain-soaked, stationary, low-hanging clouds.

Indeed, it was depressingly sombre. I was with HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales was about but they were in separate entourages.

We were to attend a church service but in separate entourages. All of this was done on Princess Diana’s insistence. She was very forceful and had quite the temper when she needed to have the final word.

There was going to be no compromises in her position. She was, in fact, rather stubborn. This gave the sense of her that she would not age very well. We were in a courtyard before coming out to be seen by the press.

Firmly, she insisted that they do everything separately. She was a vocal, strongly male-energied powerhouse. As well, she refused to stand in back of him. Moreover, she definitely was not going to be anywhere near him.

The staging was such that they would never be captured on film in the same shot. Somehow, I was serving as a valet in HRH Prince Charles’ entourage. We headed, it seemed, along Hoskins Avenue on the north side and eastwards to Toronto’s Queens Park Circle.

In the circle, stood an incredible Gothic cathedral made of red clay. This was an architectural wonder, it was so massive. Built of the same red stone as the Ontario legislative building is, the structure was rather impressive.

This building was so unique and extraordinary. To experience this building was as exciting as experiencing a great work of art. This was architecture that was rousingly uplifting.

Also, this structure was several times larger than the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, in New York City – the largest in the world. There was a wonderful wooded area which encircled it.

From amongst the towering trees, the spectacular work of architectural art triumphantly soared. The door to the cathedral was easily thrice as high as the doors to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

Moreover, the gargoyles here were supremely realistic. A superb masterpiece of Gothic architecture this cathedral was. Marvellous flying buttresses, which were even more impressive being in this tone of stone, girdered the magnificent Gothic structure.

Not unlike Notre Dame Cathedral, it sat in an island of sorts. This place was easily four times larger than Notre Dame Cathedral. Since it was still raining rather heavily, I held an umbrella for HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

We had had to go to the church on foot. When we got to the traffic light, it took forever to change. This soon made HRH Prince Charles irritable and he abruptly took off. He did resent being publicly humiliated by HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales who had had them proceeded on foot – in the rain no less.

Her whole scene publicly was about emasculating him; she was intent on showing him as a man with no control or power. Totally at the service of the women in his life, as it were, was he.

Obviously. from their interactions, these two did not like each other. He suggested that we return to the residence where both entourages had started out.

The residence turned out to have been a very beautiful Gothic palace. This palace was a long, dark-stoned mossy complex. Soaked for eons in seasonal rains, the palace had a moss-blackened exterior.

The weather here was interesting because the rains never really let up. Quite simply, the rains progressed from downpour to downpour and were sustained by ubiquitous drizzle. Grey and autumnal, it was beautifully relaxing, humid air.

HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales wore a light grey, London Fog coat. This was an exceptionally tailored coat. Holding the umbrella, I was always on the prince’s left.

We then came back to the very stately furnished apartments at the Gothic palace. HHR Prince Charles was not cohabiting, at this palace, with HRH Princess Diana.

Once we were alone, he asked if I would give him a back rub. Seemingly, he suffered rheumatoid aches because of the rains. He began absently talking and clearly was in a deep funk about his relationship with HRH Diana, Princess of Wales.

When he asked for the back rub, I thought it strange that he had said please. He then let me know how much he appreciated me. I was good for him, to have around, said he, and he wanted me to know how much he appreciated my being there.

What he really appreciated was my loyalty to him, said he. Then he told me that I did have healing hands. On coming inside, we had been properly soaked to the bones by all that rain.

His cheeks were red; a very ruddy complexion his, I noticed both when holding the umbrella for him. I knew that when we got in, that we would both relish a glass of sherry, to warm us up.

I was really concerned for him that he would catch a cold.

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In what proved the second dream, I got into this tiny cab; it was in the middle of the street and I got in on the driver’s side in back. I had gotten in whilst traffic was dashing past. I had trouble getting the door to close after me.

Once inside, it was much smaller a cab than even it had looked from the outside. Black plush leather wonderfully complimented the deluxe look and feel of the cramped interior.

The driver was French and this clearly was in Paris. We were caught in busy afternoon traffic. In a bid to cross the street, lots of people kept getting off the sidewalk and stepping into traffic.

For my tastes, it was far too chaotic with the traffic a gridlocked and bottled-in mess. For that reason, pedestrians would simply step off the sidewalk and into traffic without looking for advancing vehicles at their rear.

At the time, it was summertime out with lots of bare-armed, floral-printed dresses wafting by. Open-toed and heeled shoes busily paraded the crowded wide sidewalks.

If only to protect against Sun damage, several persons wore hats. The ladies were very conservative and proper. Rather than the 1990s, one had the sense that this was Paris of the 1920s to 1930s.

From the textures, styles, even to the hairstyles, it was definitely not contemporary times. Even the ambiance was more so 1930s Paris. On a cobblestoned road, we began going around a circle but not the Place de L’Étoile.

Then the cab driver stopped without having gotten me to my destination. Soon, we both got out with me being understandably pissed off at him. We then abandoned the cab and proceeded walking through the traffic-choked street.

This was when I saw a dashingly handsome Black man walking with a White woman. He was on her left, his moustache a distinctive, well-groomed signature. He wore a white shirt and these wonderful khaki slacks.

He was simply handsome… extraordinarily so. The Sun simply loved this man’s face. His skin, bone structure, eyes and teeth simply made the light glow that much more beautifully.

Goodness, this man was dizzyingly good-looking. Smooth, jet-black skin, it looked as though it had been pounded by some shamanic West African tanner/sculptor.

This man had all the elevated sophistication of Duke Ellington but was, of course, considerably darker than the Jazz genius. The moment that I saw him, I knew instinctively that he was the man whose faded photograph I had seen in that unoccupied house back on February 16, 1989.

Perhaps, this was myself or Essence Twin, living a very urbane life in 1930s Paris. Nonetheless, I totally connected with him; he was as familiar and connected as James Tramble or, for that matter, Merlin.

On seeing him, I became at once thrilled and uplifted. Soon, it was obvious that they could not see me. I was as if travelling back in Time and getting a glimpse into that past life. Just as now that organic bungalow was also seemingly last occupied in the 1930s.

The driver then slapped me from my euphoric daze when demanding that I pay him 160 FF. More to the point, the bum had not even gotten me to my destination!

Then again, in terms of having served as an astral guide, he had handsomely performed done his task. After all, had we stayed in the cab and driven on, I would never have seen that man whom, at the level of soul, I so intimately knew.

“What?! Are you dreaming? I’m not going to give you no more than 60 FF. Even that is too much, you still haven’t left me anywhere near rue de Grenelle in the sixth arrondissement.”

He was short, dark-haired and moustachioed. A swarthy, provincial Frenchman he proved. I most certainly did not give him a cent – let alone the rest of my time.

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In what proved the third dream, several trunks were standing about the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house; several of them were standing on end. A little lapdog busied its short-legged self by scurrying about the house.

Everywhere, there were trunks packed and in the centre of the rooms. In the study, there were candles; so, I went there and began closing the windows.

As I went about closing the windows, I wondered how one could have gotten so lapsed as to have not kept the place closed and more secured. For fear that it could start raining at any time, I then began closing the doors.

Besides which, it was coming on to nighttime. The study was filled with innumerable volumes; the books were bound in rich leathers and cluttered everywhere. I really enjoyed being in the room when drinking the vista of its wealth of knowledge.

As I had closed the window, I saw Yvette Morehead’s sizeable brood outside on the steps of her house playing. Max Worsthorne was up in his house whilst looking down at me. He was very stout and handsome.

When I went to close the rest of the doors, I noticed that the papaya tree – which I had planted in childhood – had grown quite large. I came out to admire the fruit tree that I had planted and, on stepping onto the steps, saw Gowan Dalrymple outside in the yard.

He went into the old kitchen and was wearing an overall. He was so handsome and alluring-eyed. I was really warmed to have seen him. Soon, I decided to seduce him because he was one of the warmest sensualists that I met during my teenage years.

We were quite hidden from view; thus, I went into the kitchen after him and closed the bottom door after me. Whilst I was in the old kitchen with Gowan Dalrymple, Max Worsthorne could not see us.

I did, though, recall those memories of seeing him naked when a child and what an oversized cock he had. Stooping to my knees, I began giving Gowan Dalrymple a blowjob.

He had been standing there waiting; his readily tumescent cock disturbed the draping of his overalls. Opening up the blue denim overalls, I got out his cock. Before going down on him, we made very long, intense, soulful eye contact.

His were such warm, smiling penetrating eyes – they certainly are in the waking state. The thing about this experience was how awakened it was. I could smell his breath as he yearningly breathed past parted lips.

Everything about the encounter was real; the encounter was astral planed. Going down on him, I could taste the slight briny sting of his precum. His balls smelt really loud – like a man ought to.

Even whilst on my knees, I spent most of the time whilst performing fellatio, looking equally unflinchingly into his eyes. During our awakened astral plane encounter, we had hardly said a word to each other.

Gowan Dalrymple shuddered throughout as I gave him the slowest, most nerve-wracking blowjob. The sexual play truly was a sensual massage that transcended the physical bounds of his senses.

Whilst performing fellatio, I was simultaneously massaging myself to an orgasm. This, though, occurred without him or me masturbating my cock. This was a purely spiritual experience.

What we shared was essence contact… in the true sense of the word. The massage of his warm, moist, throbbing cock against my lips and into my mouth was sensually overwhelming.

This was a peak experience; it easily transcended that blowjob that I performed on the actor Mel Gibson in the dream of June 21, 1992 – the summer solstice. The feel of this motion was sublime; it was akin to the arousal of spirit one feels for watching Evelyn Hart pour her soul into an emotive port de bras.

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Photo Credits: Ulm Cathedral, Germany

Diana, HRH Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Soeul, Korea 1992

1940s Citroen CVB

Model by © Francisco Martins Photography.

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Crawl the Fuck In Your Casket!

October 27, 2016November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah whatever, get out of here!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was one of the most pleasurably rapturous experiences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that, I took my leave of them both.

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

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

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

___________________>0<______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Art: The Mary Rose and Fleet

Artist: Jean Walker

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Prosecuting the Past whilst at the Deathscape.

August 14, 2016November 13, 2022 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Since having shared these dreams two years ago, I have been corrected by an authentic Michael Channeller as to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’ true role in essence; she is a young soul sage rather than young soul king – her first husband, John F. Kennedy was a young soul king and he was reborn to an aristocratic family in France and I do believe reborn male. Contrary to the word on the faux-Michael ether, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis – whom I encountered one glorious summer afternoon in 1983 after ballet class at Harkness House with David Peregrine and his lovely sweetheart and former classmate, Jackie Sloane – who both perished in the Canadian Rockies when he piloted some years later in 1989, Ms. Kennedy Onassis vibrationally seemed every bit the king soul. Alas, that may well have been her well-fortified social persona and false personality then experienced. Of course, it was at Harkness House where Rebekah Harkness’ cremains perpetually rotated in a golden urn designed by master surrealist himself, Salvador Dali.

Since these dreams were shared, I have elected to have channelled the overleaves of the following persons: Salvador Dali and Maria Callas. Too, I am adding here, Frederick Hinneault’s overleaves, though, they have been previously shared in this blog. Frederick was a the most glorious Cree feather dancer who introduced me to the world of powwows in June 1994. I met Frederick after having had the most lucidly awakened flying dream to a past-life whereat I witnessed a young shaman coming of age during initiation ceremonies. Well, you can just bet that after so high a spiritual dream experience, I chose to do no such thing as time-waste in the presence of dense-energied, somnambulant and decidedly spiritually unsophisticated coworkers. So off I went to Club Vancouver bathhouse on West Pender Street where there I met the genuine article, Frederick. After having made a sweat lodge of his tiny room, we spent the rest of the summer holding hands and travelling about B.C. Alberta and Washington. Firstly, though, he took me to a lookout point high above the Cypress Bowl lookout where in a bath of cloud-untrammelled sunlight, we laid naked side by side in the long grass, holding hands and he got out his whistle that called a majestic eagle; this was one of the most magical experiences of this incarnation.

Frederick, at the time, was full blown with AIDS. What was most revolutionary was being in the company of two-spirits. This was the first time being in the company of Gays who were not possessed of racially predatory animus. That first weekend, just past 1994’s summer solstice was my true arrival and connection with Canada and what she represents. I finally felt no longer as an outsider. I will always have the greatest respect for all First Nations peoples from Baffin Island to Patagonia.

These were truly operatic dreams, drink anew of my chalice and may you, satiated and inspired, slip into lucidly awakened dreamquests of your own. You’ve a wealth of knowledge and beauty which passively lie awaiting your inner focus deep within the aqueous folds of self.

Sweet dreams you… ever, we will be kindred spirits – you and me – sharing this magical quest of self-discovery, self-actualisation and self-empowerment. I am honoured by your continued support and for that, I love you more! (August 2016)

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These next dreams occurred two days apart and dealt with the same individual. I have recently written of her and shared a dream of her, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. At the time of these dreams, which are currently being chronologically transcribed, Mrs. Kennedy Onassis was a recent astral plane habituée.

As such, these dreams – and the last in particular – vicariously gave insights to her deathscape on becoming an arrivée astral plane habituée. I dream it, I share it and pass no judgment on either self or the subject(s) of any dream ever had.

As with all astral plane-focussed dreams, these were rather intense experiences. Especially so was the fourth and final dream of the second day of dreams shared herein.

The first dream was the only dream that day and it sets the mood for the nature of the second dream to come of Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis. That dream occurred two days later and was more thorough and insightful. At the time of the first dream, it was Saturday, July 9, 1994 and the Moon then transited both Cancer and my second house.

Two days later, Monday, July 11, 1994, there were four dreams and as on the July 9, 1994, the fourth and final dream that day focussed on the deathscape for the arrivée astral plane habituée, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. As is her wont, Luna had beguilingly slipped from Cancer to Leo and correspondingly from my second to third houses.

The final was an intensely volatile dream that was all about emotionality and karmic dross. Having passed near two months earlier, though I was not much-focussed on her life in the waking state, it is not surprising that one would vicariously tune in to the deathscape goings-on of one the century’s most iconic figures, Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis.

Sweet dreams as ever. Rather than the standard one photograph per dream entry to this blog, the break between both days’ dreams will be a second photograph.

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I was, in this the first dream, in a park like New York City’s Central Park with Pandora da Braga on my right. From across the vast plain came a large steed from a low, heavy mist atop a knoll.

Here the light was rather diffused and potent. The horse was a possessed powerful creature. Rapt in focussed canter, it barrelled across the green grass towards us.

Atop it rode a large-boned woman who was a fierce warrior-spirited individual. She turned out, no less, to have been Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

She rode in traditional riding gear: black cap, white riding breeches and black riding boots, all of which was topped off by a red riding jacket. Her gloves were short and made of thick black leather.

This woman was arrestingly powerful.

Pandora and I were stunned into silence. All the shrubs wore various-sized beautiful white blooms that simply zinged with life.

All was ordered and serene here and it clearly was a reflection of this woman’s afterlife passage – the deathscape. The Earth simply quaked beneath the power and grandeur of both she and the steed.

I mentioned to Pandora, after she had ridden past, that I had seen her, back in the early 1980s, on two occasions in the Manhattan. She was, to be sure, a very robust, dominance-goaled kind of person.

Hers was a very powerful warrior-energied complex.

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Whilst speaking with a man, in this the first dream, I assured him that I could never bed Aaron Wookay because of his pheromones – body odour.

I do believe that it was, in fact, Aaron Wookay with whom I had been speaking at the time and made the slip of saying what I had. There was certainly a glaringly pregnant pause at the end of it all.

As we spoke, in the middle of the late-afternoon street, a very tall warrior-spirited Karl Weller walked past with a guy on his left. He was dressed all in black clothes and as I sped up after him, I said aloud to my companion,

“Now there is a man that I could bed…”

I intimated that I had already had an encounter with him in the waking state. This was in fact true. I then got him into a black limousine and together we headed for my place.

En route there, at night time, we stopped outside a Dairy Queen. The store was tiny and right at the corner of one of the city’s intersections. Getting out, on the left side of the car, I went inside where I ordered large slices of a white cheesecake with soft ice cream.

When I returned to the limousine, he was immediately in bed lying on his back on some blankets. He took a bite of the food and, at that point, I began groaning.

His entire body then lapsed into an adrenalin quake as he had his first all-out experience. He was full of nerves and caution. Wanting to leave, Karl Weller then hurriedly got up; I was quite disappointed.

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In this the second dream, Isha da Braga insisted that I deposit some cash – 10$ or 12$ – into her account because I had owed her as much. I was really pissed off because I knew that I had already paid her whatever monies that I had owed her.

En route to the bank, I stopped off at her condo to which I had a pair of keys. Slowly, I stirred the pot of stew that she had started before heading to work. The stew simmered on a low fire.

Soon, I encountered Pandora da Braga who also needed cash. I then became an issue of how to move around cash, via cheques, from one or more of my little-funded accounts to get to float until the next payday.

With that, I headed off to the bank to begin my unscrupulous activity.

*This is something that I have never attempted and would never think to attempt in the waking state. Why? END.

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Soon, in this the third dream, I got sidetracked. I went off and had a hot encounter with a guy whom I now think was Frederick Hinneault. We were, in an old building, writhing away on a table.

Splayed and utterly contorted, we were going at each other like there was no tomorrow. Too, it was also hard to tell just who was fucking whom.

A tall Black security guard, whilst on duty, happened on us. Pretty soon, he interrupted us and joined in when he oughtn’t to have done so. He took off his thick, brown leather belt and began beating me with it.

I was truly incensed and let him know that I could damn well file suit against him for having struck me. After all, it was not a part of his duties to have done so.

He was surprised at my response. Seemingly, he was a novice in his crisp, brand new khaki uniform and hat. He was rather handsome a fellow. Nonetheless, I was still upset with him.

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I would, whilst focussed in this the fourth dream, have an encounter with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. At the time, I was going along a corridor in a palatial residence. Seemingly, this was an eighteenth century château.

Whilst she was dressed in clothing that was late 1950s-60s, A-line conservative and nothing flashy, I walked after Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis. There were several other persons about. Impatient, she was not at all in a very good mood.

Rushing back, I went to the off-white blue hallways to the other wing. We were two to three storeys aboveground. There, I saw a dark-haired, strong-featured woman and intuitively knew her to be Maria Callas.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Maria Callas were in the midst of a nasty feud. Conversely, it turned out that to get her attention I would have to quickly act.

Pulling out a shotgun, I shot into the ceiling in order to wrestle her attention. The gunfire stunned Maria Callas; at that point, I then bolted and went back to be with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Coming to her aid, I held Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis by the forearms as she was slumped in a chair. She had been truly traumatised by the gunshot going off so close to her.

In light of what she had endured on November 22, 1963, in Dallas, Texas, her reaction was not surprising. This soon served as a glimpse into who had really killed whom.

From what I learnt here, it turned out that not only did Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis get rid of Christina Onassis and Marilyn Monroe, she also used occult means to get rid of Maria Callas by way of literally bewitching Aristotle Onassis.

I was being told this by a voice which I heard speaking to me. Interestingly enough, the voice sounded like a gruffer version of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s famous breathy register.

This insight was all being telepathically shared with me. However, this house was definitely on the astral plane in which Maria Callas was confronting Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. As it were, both astral plane habitués were prosecuting their relations in their respective immediate past lives.

There was no getting around the fact that Maria Callas had the upper hand here. There was a sense that, try as she might, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis simply could not get out of this confrontational drama; it was, as it were, fated based on who owed whom karma.

Maria Callas was truly operatic. Not the kind of person that one would want to have as a foe was she. For having predeceased Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis as well as Aristotle Onassis, there seemingly was much that she knew of what really happened whilst she was alive.

This woman, Maria Callas, was truly operatic. Her rage was such that she seemed to create an emotional tornado. Even when she spoke, her voice operatically boomed.

This was drama that was supra-Wagnerian. The palatial, soothing blue-interiored dwelling’s walls violently quaked as Maria Callas fumed and berated Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis from her wing of the château.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis looked extremely spent, haggard and aged; she had been completely vanquished by Maria Callas’ rage. If these karmic debts had really been incurred by Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, it then stands to reason that on reflecting on her just-concluded life, there would be some degree of remorse and inner pain as part of her deathscape on becoming an arrivée astral plane habituée.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was deeply troubled here. Though she was every bit the lady in her own right, for having been wronged, there was a great impactful power that Maria Callas exhibited for having been wronged.

The whole affair had karmically left her completely in a funk. All of these done-in women were strong-willed individuals who had, in some way, posed a threat to her sense of self.

Not only did she not suffer fools gladly but from the evidence here, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis did not suffer threats to her power in any way. Once so threatened, her only response was shrewd and calculating.

They were simply removed from the environment – struck down. For Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, with a Scorpio rising, it was all too possible that this sort of tactic would have been deemed a viable and appropriate response to such a threat.

Here in the dreamtime, for being alone with her, I came to understand what would have motivated her to have taken such actions. This was the only way to stake her claim on history and not just near history but millennial history.

At all costs, a statuesque stalwart of power and regal dignity, she had to survive to the end. To have been respectively displaced or denied by Marilyn Monroe or Maria Callas would have eclipsed her and made her but a footnote in history.

This is how she saw it. Christina Onassis did nothing but try to have her displaced and dishonoured by way of a divorce; this, too, could not be suffered. She won. In all things, she won.

As that dream on July 9, 1994 attested, she was the born warrior-spirited leader who was never felled in battle. Victorious to the end was ever her approach.

Indeed, coming through the mist of time, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis will transcend Time for several millennial as one of the most pre-eminent leaders of the 20^th century and not merely just an iconic woman.

Into the future and legend she will forever ride a valiant steed, though a dark one, a figure of power, strength and dignity. Indeed, a bloody-talonned warrior this one.

Leaving her, I went running back through the halls saying that I had to get to the ministerial offices. I wanted to get there at once, in order that the records may historically be set straight.

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Photo credits: Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis fox hunting in Virginia.

Opera diva, Maria Callas.

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Past-Life Dream Set In Intrigue-Filled Dynastic Egypt.(Redux – Happy Mother’s Day!)

May 7, 2016November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Harella da Braga, my mother, and I never enjoyed good relations. However, I have never borne her a grudge for the failure in our relations. I am reposting this dream because it speaks to who my mother was. Harella was a woman of great strength, inner beauty and she was, without a doubt, nine parts intellect and you can’t get any better than that in my books.

One of my favourite memories of my mother, Harella, was of her dancing: lips pursed, head held high, lids collapsed and flying-without-moving to this Diana Ross and the Supremes gem. I felt her beauty of spirit as she danced and weaved her magic about our Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts living room. She had been very sick and bedridden in August, 1974 and on her recovery, there was something different about her; it was as though she was intent on doing all the things she had never done before. Definitely, dancing to a ‘worldly’ song like, Someday We’ll Be Together, counted among her newfound departure from the norm.

Harella was a fantastic cook whose sauces were always rich, soulful and gloriously sweet like that sexy wobble she affected when in high heels going to church. There was no bigger showoff than Harella come Sunday in her faux fur hats and matching leather handbags and high heels; no one sexier strolled the streets of Sandy Point on Sundays because no one was more confident than her that she looked damn good… and did.

What I love about this Nina Simone gem is how beautifully it captures the essence of my relationship with my mother, Harella. As the house in which we lived was said to be haunted by jumbies (ghosts) I slept in bed with this enigmatic woman who was not the least bit fond of me each night well into the tumescent-craze dawn of pubescence. Chiefly, I relished sleeping with her because I was ever fascinated by the fact that my mother could come to the dinner table hours after having awakened and casually start recalling her dreams in lucid detail. In the cover of dark West Indian nights, being enveloped by my mother, Harella’s, warm rich voice as she reanimated the magic of her dreams, was being mentored into finding my own bounty of dreams. I just knew that regardless of the fact that she was not especially fond of me, somehow, for sleeping with her, I would grow into a dream shaman in my own right.

Thank you, Harella, for having so richly gifted me with this immense love of yours.

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This dream, set in dynastic Egypt, deftly betrays what a powerfully focussed and strong woman Harella was. The dream was first that day.

I was seated on a wonderful divan in a beautifully opulent place. Instinctively, I knew that this was in Egypt. It was during the height of pharaonic Egypt.

There were two stout women here with me who were light-skinned. Hard to tell whether they were Mitanni or light-skinned Blacks. They were cooks and were fussing over me asking me to eat up.

I ate from a plate which had these different shoots on it. One of them was papyrus shoots, some bamboo shoots and a wild Nile delta mushroom. It was strictly vegetarian fare.

As well, there was a purplish tuber like baby eggplants. I ate with a fork which was very heavy-looking. Clearly, I did possess some rank at birth. I would point out the items I wanted to eat next and would then have it fed to me by either woman.

At one point, I was told by one of the women,

“Yes, you even remember what your favourites were last time.”

At this point, into the room walked a tall Black woman of Ethiopian features and complexion but who was not too dark. Definitely, she was from the Upper Nile region.

I can’t quite do justice here as to how supremely regal this woman was. She was quite simply the most regal and powerful creature imaginable.

The two eyes that this woman wore were large, brown and soulful. You felt her soul itself looking out and into you.

I did not think of her as having been Merlin in a past life. However, it is quite possible that this woman’s soul I knew quite recently as Merlin during its last incarnation.

When she entered the room, the women looked at each other and one of them said in a sotto voce,

“Ah yes, she’s brought him with her.”

There was a Black man, who was a little darker-complected, there with her. Seemingly a relation or priest, perhaps, he might even have been a eunuch.

He remained in an outer room. She was quite simply the Queen, the Pharaoh’s wife.

On entering, she began walking around us and speaking. She was very stylised in her movements. She wore a tunic of gold thread and strips of gold filigree.

In places, her dress looked metallic. In its sparse, linear, understated opulence, it seemed not unlike something that Cynthia McFadden would design.

The dress throughout was festooned with the designs, all in gold, of open papyrus leaves. They were very tiny and sat inside of little squares.

In one square there would be a papyrus applied, such that it would be very iridescent, whilst on the next square it was very dull with a matte finish look to it. The resulting effect was one of row after row, square after square, of papyruses.

Each square was exactly half an inch square. The detail on this dress was absolutely golden. It was supported by half-inch-wide straps which, of course, had the same square papyrus design.

Next to her flawless complexion, she was simply statuesque. Her neck was easily six to ten inches longer than the infamously long neck of Ann Cokossi, Princess of Togo – the regal lady’s neck was longer than Iman’s. Iman was clearly descended from the same stock.

It was not Iman. She did have long hair that was finely braided in the fashion of a Maasai male’s. The hair was swept up off her face and into a very intricate arrangement.

There were several beads throughout her stylised hair and some of them were cowrie beads. There were other shells and some precious stones as well.

Her makeup was exquisitely applied and clearly was a several-hour affair. The eyes, of course, were the most detailed.

I really did not get a sense of it being the famous Nefertiti Akhenaten. However, the man that she was with was undesirable and totally untrustworthy.

I got the sense that it was someone related to me, as in myself, in a past life. He never did enter the room.

Whilst speaking with the woman who sat there on the chair feeding me, the queen kept on slowly gliding about the room. This woman was like the Queen Mother or, perhaps, the dowager.

Whilst she spoke, I was beginning to become refamiliarised with the palace intrigue.

Throughout the salon, where we sat, there were a whole series of spies. Soon enough, I could discern the holes throughout the walls so that the spies could get a good command of what was going down.

There was a great deal of subterfuge here. There was a whole caste of spies. There were spies who were in the service of the priesthood. Spies of the Queen’s and still there were spies of the Pharaoh’s.

Still there were spies of the harem among which were a subclass and more powerful caste of spies for the eunuchs. In addition, all the different levels of the royals had their own battery of spies.

All about the room, every one of those holes had a designated spy who reported back to his dynastic figurehead in the hierarchy.

This was a very brief dream, I must add here. However, it was very lucid, real and totally lived-in a dream.

I had a sense of being there in time. It was not just an observer dream. I was really in the body of that royal child who could have been no more than six years old.

This occurred at night time and it was somewhat damp in the room though simultaneously briny from the arid desert air. The whole language was about intonation and innuendo.

As a matter of fact, the whole language was so ritualised and stylised that it was more slow and subtle than is movement in the Noh theatre of Japan. This was all about gestures and the myriad gestures that could be implied from the relations of one gesture juxtapose to another.

It took me awhile to get the knack of it. However, I became totally lucid as to what was going down.

It all came back to me. Indeed, even at the age of six, I was already quite proficient in the nuances of this very complex court language.

As she spoke, the Queen’s arms and other parts of her body would be perpetually in motion. It was danced – this language. The whole language was codified and layered beyond anything wildly imaginable in this day and age of superficiality.

This was deception on the order of high art. What was spoken was mere camouflage. The spoken word was not even an nth of the layered language.

Along with it, what her body was doing and the subtlety of movements indicated what was really implied by what was said. More to the point, it was what was not implied by what was not said.

By comparison, the most sophisticated Parisienne would be considered a primitive communicator.

This was all very complex court politics, indeed. Then, at one point, the Queen went and stood thereby freezing her movement and this is what one had to try and discern.

This was because the every placement of every limb and muscle, on her body, carried great impact by way of what was being communicated. This was very much so an African tongue being spoken here.

At times, it was slow whilst at other times dizzyingly sped up and rapid fire.

*It seemed more closely to resemble Jazz vocalesing à la Betty Carter sophistication though, truth be told, even Betty Carter’s skills were primitive by comparison. I can’t impress enough how truly complex was this language and mode of communicating. END.

Yet I got the complete picture of what she was communicating. The Queen was speaking of the child – my six-year-old former self. I feigned ignorance at the time though it was obvious that I was the subject of discussion.

This had to do with the care of the child.

“How was the child coming along?” she had inquired.

I could very well have been her child. It was obviously the custom for royal children to be separated, from their mothers at birth, the higher placed they were at birth.

I was here in this dream, of a past life experience, in the care of two women who were as if wet-nurses/governesses to me.

At another point, the Queen had produced this papyrus fan from beneath the delicate folds of the heavy-looking dress.

It was a plain fan made of papyrus. However, it was covered in hieroglyphs. This was also a very ancient fan which she had inherited.

The fan was being strategically used, as part of the deceptive code, to foil the spies all about the room. When coming closer to us, the Queen had smiled a very bland smile in my direction.

This was, of course, so that nothing whatsoever could be read into it by any of the spying factions. The Queen slowly leaned in to look at the food that I ate.

Inspecting it, she offered the gesture of showing her trust in the cooks by taking a piece of shoot from the plate to eat.

This was all theatre for as she had slipped the food to her mouth she waved the fan over her mouth whilst saying, in rapid-fire sotto voce, a couple of very strategic sentences. It was absolutely sublime.

It was directed at the dowager Queen Mother who, for being more practised in the art, feigned utter ignorance of anything so paranoid as subterfuge. It was priceless!

This was clearly the height of late young soul to early mature soul intrigue. Though she could never have been overheard in saying what she had, the fan was placed to prevent the visiting Queen being lip-read.

These spies, after all, were very expert. I do recall one man having been seated across from me earlier. He was a spy and basically he was visiting to learn the every minutia of my mouth mechanics during speech.

It was all very subtle, though very archly shrewd and deadly, the way in which he came to do his job and record my mouth’s every idiosyncrasy during speech.

The queen had performed, in that one gesture, such a winning sleight of hand. She was letting the Queen Mother know that she trusted her by actually tasting the food that she was feeding the child – me, in that past life.

It seemed, after all, to be an impromptu visit which means that the food could well have been laced with poison for unsuspecting me. I suppose that if it were necessary, I could have been eliminated by the dowager Queen Mother or the Queen herself.

When she had directly stood in the centre of the room, earlier, the Queen had picked up her right foot off the floor. She had very subtly managed not to have shifted her weight or allowed for any movement whatsoever in her upper body.

The Queen then began doing what seemed a predecessor of the frappé and began horizontally waving her foot from the ankle. The movement betrayed a gesture akin to ‘no’. This, of course, did not in the least betray everything that was going on elsewhere in her body.

As there were so many items of furniture about the room, it was obvious that from where the holes were placed in the walls that one could not make out the codified foot movements.

This was so mind-bogglingly delicious. The foot being incorporated, in the language, was a most clever invention.

The moment at which she picked up her foot, it was as though I had sat up awake in bed. It was that vividly recalled from past life experience.

‘Yes!’ I thought to myself and laughed a small breath which the dowager Queen Mother, to my side, immediately stifled with a sharp intake of breath.

One clearly did not laugh in the Queen’s presence. The subtleties of the language here, in this point in dynastic Egypt, were phenomenally stratospheric.

This was communication taken to heights unheard of since, in any court life, on this planet.

There were times as she slowly moved about the room that the Queen had ritually placed the fan to her beguiling face, to fan herself, whilst letting out little phrases for us to hear.

On one occasion, her back was to us and her arm in back made a series of quick gestures that were not unlike sign language. Meanwhile, the fan was to her face giving us a double stream of code to simultaneously decipher.

To the point of being frightening, the Queen was very deceptive. It was hard to ever see her eyes. The Queen used language such that the eyes could never have been seen.

More could be read from her eyes adding to what she was saying. For this reason, she almost exclusively kept her lids such that it kept her gaze cast out and down to the floor.

Her head, of course, was never lowered and the rapid eye movements which she employed were also very strategic. When she spoke, one was never to make eye contact with her.

It would imply too much simply because we were being spied on. This was indeed a very restrictive existence.

There we were, in a fish bowl of sorts, being spied on by sharks who completely surrounded us waiting their turn to hungrily make prey of us. Since she was the Queen, one could never look at her eyes.

However, I was possessed of more than my six-year-old self making me a very probing and curious soul. The Queen picked up on this and was acutely made uncomfortable by it.

It was as though there was now some new development in my maturation which spelt trouble. Naturally, you just knew that there was any number of long discussions to come as to what to do with this ‘one’ meaning my poor, possessed self.

It was as though, for having stepped into my former self’s six-year-old body, I could have spelt his very untimely and not accidental death. Regardless, this woman and I were deeply connected.

I could sense from her a real familial, maternal even, bond. The Queen was very much so in tune with me. There was an element of this communication which was low-level telepathic.

Indeed, there were times when she had thusly engaged me. It was chiefly done for putting me at ease. It was also how she had to stay bonded to me for having had me taken from her, of custom, at birth.

What was really interesting here was that the concept of reincarnation was definitely fully accepted and religiously incorporated in the schemata of dynastic life. The dowager Queen Mother and governess, too, were both convinced that I was someone in the royal family who had reincarnated.

My choice of food favourites were validation enough for them. I was very much so favoured by the Queen. She was warm towards me.

However, she never physically expressed this. There was always, however, a very strong psychic fusion between us with most of the energies coming from her to me.

She was connected to me – this much was unmistakable. I never did see the eunuch who had accompanied her, however, he was very powerful an influence in their lives.

For this reason, more so than the placement of the spies, the Queen never once was demonstrative of her feelings towards me. She did let up on reaching towards the plate of food.

One had the sense, of the eunuch who had accompanied her, that he was the one person who had connections to all the spying factions within the inner royal circle. He waited outside in the antechamber and his presence was more closely being paid attention to, than even the Queen’s, at times.

There had also been musicians about the room playing music. This was simply to drown out the conversation being heard by the battery of spies.

The musicians were placed along all four walls to really drown out the conversation. This then precluded conversation from making it to the periphery of the room and the spies just beyond its walls.

This was a very palatial suite. It was dimly lit and sparsely decorated yet in the finest style. A very comfortable and socially elevated milieu it was. A most elevated dream experience.

*As it is the forty-fifth anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I had asked prior to sleep in a lengthy meditation, to become opened up to experiencing aspects of a past life experience between Merlin and me.

I asked only that it be of a positive nature and that it be in no way an unpleasant experience. The last thing that I wanted was to have some dream which mirrored the less pleasant aspects of Merlin’s end-of-life experience.

Voilà, there it was – a most vivid, awakened dream experience. I have no idea which person here could have been Merlin.

I fully identified with the six-year-old and, indeed, I was experiencing the dream inside his body and, at times, from a detached perspective. Then, too, I did identify with the much-feared eunuch outside the door.

So I don’t know if he was me or, perhaps, even Merlin. The very loving energies of the Queen Mother could more easily have been Merlin, in a past life, than the Queen herself.

**The musicians about the room, against the far walls, were all distinctly Nubian. They were exquisitely beautiful and the quirk that they each had was that they were, for obvious reasons, each of them both blind and deaf.

This, of course, did not detract from their stellar musicianship; at times they did sing. However, for being both blind and deaf they could not be expected to be picking up on any of the codified language and body signals that formed this most layered of spied-on, palace intrigues in dynastic Egypt.

I should think, too, that this was at the heights of the Middle Kingdom before the advent of Akhenaten’s ascension. This sort of intrigue, and frankly rut, is precisely what he was likely sick of and seeking to escape when initiating his monotheistic religion.

Of course, with so much centuries-old intrigue, clearly he would have been seen as the ultimate obstruction – a heretic who had to be annihilated at all costs and things righted in his demise. This, of course, is precisely what did take place.

Again, despite the vogue since the nineteenth century to make a truly African civilisation anything but, everyone one and everything here was distinctly African: the music, the looks, the sense of fashion, styles and hair styles.

The Queen’s eyes were not only phenomenally powerful but her head had that distinctly African/Black high-foreheaded look. The Queen’s neck was almost giraffe-like.

She made Iman look no-necked by comparison. END.

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Photo: Supermodel Iman.

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Finding Centre (Redux) A Life at Court.

March 23, 2016November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

The Sun is the source point for the causal and astral planes. The Sun’s rays, indeed all stars’ rays, are the conduits along which the soul reincarnationally interpenetrates the planes.

This I learnt whilst in flight, directly above Sol, in the black void of space which was a very massive and heavy dimension onto itself.

A star’s electromagnetic frequencies, vibrating outwards, serve as the facilitating conveyance that enables the soul’s light energies to effortlessly move back and forth between the planes.

During this entire experience, I was so expansive that I felt as though limitless. I really had no sense of being in a dream body in a projected out-of-body state.

Rather, there was no body, there was just pure intellect. Absolutely liberating and superb was this dream experience.

Whilst I was on a nighttime sidestreet, I saw Dean Pulliam. With no one about, he slowly rode on a white bike; he was cruising.

As I walked fast to catch up to him, he saw me and stopped, looked back then turned left onto a paved alley. With that he rode off in a mad dash avoiding me.

I then got on a white bike myself and saw two 1970s, brown Pontiac Camarros or Firebirds. They came down the alley towards me cruising along at a leisurely pace.

The first made a sharp left, at the back of a large house, going into an open yard. The rear car made such an abrupt turn that it skidded and then broke loudly screeching.

They proceeded to the right of the house, in the alley, going towards the front. Thinking that this was certainly unusual, I stopped to look.

The front car then stopped and out came a dark-haired handsome man. He was screaming at the driver of the car in the back,

“Why are you following me?”

The other driver was a silent, deadly heavy type. Getting out, the man said nothing in response whilst emphatically slamming his door shut.

Next, I was in a house at nighttime, as a thorough review and investigation was underway. They were trying to find out why the devil the man was being pursued. A very beautiful candle-lit salon it was here.

There were lots of crystal wares with marvellous-looking rich spirits filling them. Food was exquisitely prepared and presented before the regally dressed guests who themselves were a fairly urbane lot.

The same dark-haired man was the centre of the drama here. He was being celebrated as this apparently was the eve of his wedding. Beautifully dressed, he was draped with a blue and gold sash.

Six-foot-plus, he was handsome, in a vaguely regal manner. He took a handful of spaghetti, from a gold-leafed bowl, ritually tossing it to the kitchen and the chefs there.

Everyone gloriously roared whilst enjoying the drink of this man’s magnetic personality. He was rather powerful and intimidatingly so to boot. He was also a tad unpredictable.

*Obviously, this man was a Knight of the Order of Garter. Perhaps, he was a royal prince whom I knew during my incarnation at the court of King George III. At the time, I was a male singer at court and my accompanist was then female and Merlin – my task companion; she played the harpsichord. END.

At that point, he hurriedly took his leave of the party. Here there were lots of dark woods – exposed wooden beams, panelling and parquetry. There were lots of details in the woodwork.

I then went to a rear salon of the house when the man’s pursuer showed up. He banged on the front door demanding to be let inside. Pandemonium soon broke out as everyone in attendance panicked for their lives.

Rushing from the salon, I made my way to a rear door. Here the doors were rather large dark wood and easily eight-foot-plus in height. There were a series of hunting bas reliefs in them.

A stout older man, a cardinal or bishop – some such clerical figurehead, went to the door to try and get rid of the man. No such luck as the pursuer simply forced his way into the residence and overpowered the fairly frail and old cleric.

Again, not wanting to become ensnared in this scenario in any capacity – especially the detrimental, I bolted. I did not care to be savaged by this man. If he did not find the princely bachelor, of whom he was in hot pursuit, I felt that he would simply target me or anyone else.

This man seemed possessed of an equally deadly rage and appeared to be equally, predictably violent. I then went to hide behind one of the tall oak trees outside; it was fairly dark outside.

Alone, I began willing my vibration to intensify. In this way, I had hoped to make myself light thereby being rendered invisible. As the process began, at will, I instantaneously began seeing my aura.

It was a large oval orb that fanned out, a good four-feet-plus, about me. I then became light, fully invisible, in order to avoid a messy confrontation with this boor of a thug. However, the pursuer had been able to catch some aspects of my aura as I hid behind the tree; though he had not captured me in the process.

All the colours of the rainbow were visible in my aura. The white light shone so brilliantly as to have appeared as if platinum. Being in this state was truly blissful. It was as if being totally at peace, levitating and yogically centred. Harmony…

Whilst the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house, I rather intensely, lucidly dreamt the preceding dreams. Sometimes, the only way to escape chaos is by spiritually ascending to a higher octave – if only this were readily possibly in the waking state.

The dreams in question occurred, on Thursday, March 2, 1995. As such, they are the first and fourth dreams lived during that sleep cycle.

I would just like to add here that I never believed this to have been King George III. Of course, after much research I have come to realise that it was the then Prince Regent, George Hanover who would become King George IV.

To the point of being almost frightening, this man was immensely mercurial-energied. What’s more as Merlin and I, plus a whole host of entity and cadre mates were present at court at that time, I have had many dreams which are focussed at that time.

Too, I’ve recently done both King Georges’ Overleaves. Also, it should be noted that a couple of dreams had of that past life involved the first Viscount Nelson who was at court. At the time, Horatio Nelson was known to both Merlin and I and he was a rather engaging personality whose tales of his travels were rather fascinating.

I think that it is safe to say that Admiral Nelson’s accounts of Nevis were the trigger for me in that past life at court which eventually led to my choice to reincarnate in Nevis in this lifetime. Too, at least one sibling, Pericles da Braga was also known to Merlin and I. He was then a tailor of high-end clothing whom we favoured and he also would have known Admiral Nelson.

I will say this much about the Prince Regent; he had a wicked wit and his arrestingly cutting observations were much feared. He was utterly unpredictable. The Prince Regent also appears in the previously submitted dream:

https://dreampoetica.com/2015/03/02/skeletons-in-the-reincarnation-closet/

The future King George IV is the witty, sarcastic and dashingly polished man who sat across the room from Merlin (then Francesca) when she was older and at that point, I was also the snobbish male bore and lover of former Merlin (Francesca) who much reminded me of the late Canadian actor, Tom Kneebone – a man whom I truly loathed. Of course, knowing that I was equally as bigoted a boor as was Tom Kneebone suggests that this is why I found Tom Kneebone such a vile piece of work – I positively could not stand the man. Of course, I was merely responding to aspect of a past life which I found mirrored here in this incarnation in Tom Kneebone’s vile bigotry.

In any event, King George III, King George IV, Horatio Nelson and Joseph Haydn’s Overleaves I now know; as court musicians both Merlin and I in that past life lived at court in Regency London/Windsor knew all these persons and they do factor both in the dreams Finding Centre and Skeletons in the Reincarnation Closet.

Also known at that time was George Frideric Handel whose overleaves appear in the original Michael book by Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro: Messages from Michael.

One interesting side-note to all this; when a child growing up in the northern shadow of Brimstone Hill Fortress in Sandy Point St. Kitts, in preparation of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II’s state visit to the newly independent state of St. Kitts, Nevis and Anguilla at just past my 7th birthday, they played Handel’s Zadok the Priest on ZIZ radio station.

As long as I live, I will always remember how startled and out-of-body I felt on hearing this glorious music for the first time in this lifetime. Of course, I would have heard it performed live at the coronation of King George IV whilst at court in London, England. I had actually felt dizzy and laughed teary eyed; to me, it was the most gloriously exciting discovery to have made musically. This music still remains the most glorious sound imaginable.

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Hanover, George III 4/6/173829/1/1820

Hanover, George IV 12/8/176226/6/1830

Nelson, Viscount Horatio 29/9/175821/10/1805

Haydn, Joseph 31/3/173231/5/1809 Vienna

This is a fourth-level young sage in the observation mode with a goal of dominance, a realist in the emotional part of intellectual centre with a chief feature of impatience.

This fragment was the composer George Frederick Handel.

*These Michael Overleaves are found in the Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro book, Messages from Michael.

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Art: King George IV when Prince Regent

Oil on Canvas

c. 1800s Henry Bone

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The Prophet/Seer of Philae.

October 13, 2015November 14, 2022 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

These next dreams were rather lucidly focussed on the astral plane. Clearly, it is safe to say that I had straddled the spiral arms of time and visited a past-life milieu and encountered a most fascinating individual.

I don’t for a nanosecond think that this man was a past incarnation of mine. However, his skills as dreamquester were truly phenomenal.

Too, I think that it is safe to say that he had been tuning in to one of many Lunar rovers currently on the Moon. This was an immensely insightful dream.

At the time, I was recently habituated in Montréal and the dreams were had the day after the morning after my first birthday celebrations in Montréal where I passed the night in a hot ménage-à-trois with Eric Dubois†: a second old soul scholar in acceptance – yum zum and Jean-Yves de Gamache†: a first mature artisan with icky internally abrasive overleaves and a martial arts expert – run! Sensuality and acrobatics made for a memorable combo that night.

Thus whilst sexually spent but grounded, the Moon traipsed through Leo and my third house on Sunday, August 3, 1997. The dreams were readily audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and thirty-three and are to be yet found in Volume XXIII of my XXV volume dream opus.

As ever, thanks so much for your patronage of this groovy utterly unique wordpress joint… Spread the word and love.

Sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying. I love you more.

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At night time, in this the first dream, I saw a large book which was channelled insights along the lines of Michael – the causal plane-channelled entity. The last paragraph on the left page dealt with the true historicity of Earth.

There was a visionary who was able to crack the code from seven thousand years ago. He was extant in 5000 BCE. He was able to cast light on something which had a date from the 20th century.

His was a revolutionary discovery as it was about something connected to the Moon or another of the planets. Perhaps, this had to do with the Pathfinder gear on Mars.

He was able to do this, for looking intently at the planet, by picking up information that transcended time. I, for one, was somewhat at a loss as the planet in question was quite intensely blue-white.

Perhaps, this is how the Moon looked back then… who knows. Indeed, perhaps, the Moon was once a water world unto itself.

Too, maybe the post-industrial revolution age had caused a distortion in Earth’s upper atmosphere that created a vastly different appearance of the Moon. Perhaps, Mars did look this way as recently as 50,000 years ago but that this was being distorted in the channelling to indicate 5000 years.

This was the hazards of channelled data no doubt.

*Although, with the recent findings on Mars, it is very likely that the time in question was really five thousand years ago. The recent discoveries point to Mars having been, in recent times, a water world.

Further, since the Temple of Isis was built by the Ptolemies it is safe to assume that this likely occurred during 500-50BCE rather than 5000BCE. END.

However, the planet in question did though look very much so like the full Moon. He was able to hone in on the planet when full and use his exceptional visionary skills to ‘see’ things across time.

I thought from his magnetic personality that this man was undoubtedly a priest soul. When ‘seeing,’ he could move forwards and backwards in time.

For so doing, he was able to pick up on something on the planet which had a date inscribed on it. The object was some sort of machinery.

In great detail, he had described the vehicle which was in essence a lunar module rover. The date ascribed to it was from the 1970s.

The description was truly phenomenal. What was interesting about it all was that for being an habitué of the 20th century myself, I knew that his channelling was accurate.

He was seeing something that would have been left on the Moon between 1969 and 1973. Clearly, he was on.

This man was quite revered during his age. To him, it meant that on ‘that world’ it was the year nineteen seventy-something.

This to him meant that it was an advanced age. This, however, led to the concept that all time is simultaneous.

All that one had to do, to ‘see’ into and through time, was get into the right expansive state of mind. For that reason, I wondered what it would be like to see 1900 years into both the future and past of time from the present age.

This would, of course, have been possible using the high psychic shamanic skills that the visionary used. As I thought this, the last paragraph of the left page suddenly came to life.

The page bled intense pure white light. Soon, I was up on a plateau looking down at either the temple of Queen Hatsheput or the massive temple erected by Pharaoh Ramses II.

Needless to say, it did look as it did during the life of the great visionary. This man was truly shamanic and, of course, also a dream master.

The structure was in much better shape than at present. There was a prediction, soon after my arrival here, of a massive earthquake that would unearth one of the greatest finds in history.

This find would cast light on the true heritage of the so-called ‘red-skinned Egyptians’. With that, there was then great activity.

Looking below, some three hundred feet or more, I saw the earth as a massive quake occurred. By this point, I had been hovering in the air above the plateau whilst the prediction was being made.

For that reason, I was not affected by the massive earthquake. The steps of the shrine and much of its façade explosively crumbled.

From the earth bled blinding white light as on the page, earlier, as things became actualised. Then a great warrior in full archetypal battle gear rescued a tiny dark stone.

The stone was a sculpture which looked as though made from no stone ever seen before on Earth. I intently listened as the stone was said to be a statue of Isis.

Then it was mentioned, by the seer, that all past totems attributed to her were incorrect. This little bird was like a tiny falcon or eagle.

The iconic statue was then victoriously held aloft by the priestly archetypal warrior. The seer then announced that with its release, all the years of bondage would end.

With that, I began reciting the Egyptian names in their true tongue which sounded distinctively African. This I did whilst the black stone totemic bird was raised aloft by the warrior-priest.

Soon after, it was released by the warrior-priest and came to life as it was tossed aloft. This was a truly magical moment.

Into the blinding light, the awakened bird directly flew skyward. The light originated from the spectacularly white Sol.

Indeed, it was not hard to have looked directly at the Sun; it was as if some seven times brighter than the full Moon but platinum-white rather than its current blinding intensity.

Simultaneously, I experienced the most exhilarating release as the bird was set free. Even though I was hovering in flight, it felt very much so as if I was travelling seven times faster than when in flight just a couple of feet above the glistening surface of the ocean at high noon.

This was such an intense experience that the dream simply bled fast forwards into the next.

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Photo: Temple of Isis, Philae (Aswan) Egypt.

Apollo 15 Lunar Rover Vehicle NASA.

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Pink Chair II.

September 7, 2014November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Conté Drawing

3.5 x 4.0 Feet

Provenance: Artist’s private collection.

Though this drawing of me was completed before I left Toronto for Vancouver in 1994, I never did see it until returning to living in Toronto, from Montréal, in 2004. I loved it and still do. The work is my favourite George Hawken and, of course, as it is a one-of-a-kind and not in my possession; this, of course, makes it that much more covetous!

What I especially love about it is that whilst living in New York City in 1983, I dreamt of the drawing and didn’t, at the time, realise that it was me; the eye-colour in the drawing is the same as a very exotic-looking female past-life of mine about whom I often dreamt back then – especially when studying classical dance in Winnipeg prior to that (1980-82).

At the time of that dream of this drawing which was yet to be – I had not even yet met George Hawken, Merlin and I were staying in the Chelsea loft of Natch and Zammy, the Artistic Director and his dancer lover, who since passed of AIDS, of Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo.

Of course, prior to leaving for Vancouver, I was happily ensconced in relationships with Daryll Newcombe, Gustavo Vadim – the masochistic art thief in Washington D.C. and Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem… plus a few others.

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An encounter with Theresa.

April 10, 2013November 14, 2022 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

Whilst the Moon transited both Capricorn and my eighth house, I would astral project across time and dream these most potent dreams, on September 17, 1991. I do believe that it was an encounter with a probable, future lifetime of Merlin’s; it was a most interesting of visits.

As always, as with such dreams, my every sense was intensely acute. I was lucidly awakened and the fluidity with which the dream progressed was bucolic in places. The second being the one in question, there were two dreams that day.

More than that, what was truly interesting was the way in which I felt on awakening from these dreams. In particular, the second dream was the one that had the most impact on me.

I was splayed, enervated and sported a tension headache. I also spent long stretches of time, with long pauses as I tried whilst half-awake, groping my way through the recording process.

Also, it is key to bear in mind that the train travel alluded to, in the first dream, is of paramount import. Oftentimes when moving across time, whilst traversing the astral plane to visit with astral plane habitués or visit past or future lifetimes, one does so in the protected confines of waking state transports such as the train.

This metaphor reflects the dream in question being rooted at the very core of the soul; hence, one has to be transported to fathoms of the greenhouse – subconscious – not readily voyaged to or attained in the dreamtime.

<O>

I was on a platform in a train station. There had been transportation going to this particular place. Getting upstairs, it much reminded me of Broadview subway station where one waits for the bus outside.

A woman in a car that looked like an old 1970s Monte Carlo, which was cream and brown, pulled into the station. Soon enough, she realised that she had made a wrong turn. She cut across a bus then came out right away, onto Broadview Avenue, making a right turn.

I had come out and began following but on foot. Coming out, I realised that she had made a left turn and gone up a back lane to go up onto that street west of Broadview Avenue where Maxwell Roberts IV^† and Heather Ronald lived.

In any event, there was a police woman on a bike who started following; I thought that she was going to go after the driver of the car. She, however, did not.

In the meantime, all these cars had come and parked on the dirt road that we were on. They parked in the middle of the road such that you had to walk around them because traffic couldn’t proceed anymore. People were walking about.

The woman, who was White, had very strongly developed legs; she wore a blue denim skirt. She walked very briskly, at daytime, ahead of me. There was a lot of gravel on the earthen road and the updraught of wind sent dust blowing everywhere.

Facing the oncoming flow of persons, from the abandoned vehicles stalled in traffic, a blond guy stood straddling his bike. He had looked at me; he was younger – in his teens really. I realised that the woman was not, after all, going to be pursued by the female police officer.

I went walking along and left this place behind me.

<O>

Next, in the second dream, I was in Manhattan where I went into this store; it was thrift shop really. I thought to myself that it was high time that I bought a piece of fabric to take home. I had had in mind to make myself a big pair of flare-legged, eveningwear pants – something that I could have to show-off my sense of style with.

I did buy a piece of very thick, green thread with which I was going to sew. There was this wonderful black fabric that had, in a grid formation, these thick welts in the fabric like corduroy does but very thick welts.

It was a dark-green-merging-into-black. In the end, I wasn’t too keen on it. I kept on looking around the store which was quite spacious; it was, truth be told, more like a Salvation Army Store.

There were, up on the second level high up, these rows and rows of dark suits which I did not care for. Too drab were they; besides which, I was looking for fabric to purchase. Above that, you had to reach up to get the clothing down off their hooks.

I then found this iridescent, two-toned, purple and brown jacket – a parker-like fabric, which had a hood to it; it was very beautiful and all the same size. Did find it sort of nice but, again, I did not go there to buy prêt-à-porter.

I wanted fabric, so that I could make what I wanted and keep that sense of distinctiveness to my style. Going up to the counter, I was asking the guy where one could get more of the choice fabrics. The Black salesclerk was saying that they did not have anything beyond what was on display.

I then began chatting him up, trying to get on good terms with him, asking where in the neighbourhood an out-of-towner could stay. Referring to a bathhouse, I mentioned that I had heard of a place in Maiden Lane.

However, he said that one only had to go down one block, to 44^th Street by the subway entrance, at Eighth Avenue; apparently, it was to the right of that on 44^th Street. This meant that I was up at 45^th Street.

Nonetheless, I thought of going down one block beyond that because I could see a big, empty lot, thinking that the block below that would be 45^th Street, instead of course, it would be 43^rd Street.

I then said goodbye to him – he was, in fact, rather pleasant. I left the store and headed across the wide avenue where the cars were flowing southward. This meant that it was perhaps Seventh Avenue or Ninth Avenue but I was more inclined to believe that it was the latter.

Whilst they waited at the north side of the cross street, on a red light, I had diagonally cut across the avenue doing a brisk walk. There was no traffic flowing on that particular side street.

I then got to this big, empty lot. At the front of it, which in this case would look out onto Eighth Avenue, there was this row of houses that were gutted out from the back.

They were already doing renovations. As Manhattan seemed in the midst of a building bust, due to the worldwide recession, I realised that these were recently bought by large development firms.

This firm, however, decided that they were going to erect a massive structure. They had demolished two of the buildings that were in the centre of the row of block-long brownstones; it would serve as the entrance to the skyscraper.

On either side of the entrance would be these five-storey, classic, New York brownstones. They would, of course, be renovated becoming very exclusive townhouses and condos.

The skyscraper would be a ten-to-twenty-storeyed, luxury, apartment/condominium, block-square building right in the heart of midtown. This was most unusual for midtown Manhattan and on the west side at that.

As a result, it would have a great deal of security features to it. The reason for it being located where it was, quite simply, it had to do with space. The Upper East Side was now too densely populated, even overpopulated, to have accommodated more luxury high-rises.

There was, in fact, a city ordinance banning further construction of high-rise dwellings on the Upper East Side. As a result, there was a mini-building boom occurring in midtown Manhattan.

The building’s façade, for the first three storeys, was already in place; it was a sand-coloured marble. I had begun crossing the street on realising that this was definitely not where I wanted to go.

I found a magazine which I began pouring through and, on turning the pages, happened on an advertisement for the company that had the fabrics that I was looking for; it said in bold letters: AD&G.

It also had a map of the environs showing how to best locate their address; this was very helpful. There was an ad for cheese, then other ads, which I looked at admiring the style and photographic compositions.

The moment at which I saw the ad for AD&G, on looking at the store’s beautiful façade, I was immediately posited inside it. It was beautiful, gloriously wood-panelled and owned by orthodox Jews and, in fact, was more so an apothecary.

There were these wonderful white bags that were glacé-looking and folded up. Inside were wonderful spices such as turmeric and powdered herbs. The variety of herbs was staggeringly impressive.

For a mere $28.00, you could walk off with three or four ounces of the cheapest herbs; they were terribly expensive. In one instance, a mere ounce of some herb or other was a cool $45.00; it wasn’t even saffron.

The merchant was a very pleasant soul; for working in such a healthy place, how could he not have been? The store did zing with an abundance of health-sustaining life. Its elevated, harmonised chi was tangible.

“Yes, I know. It’s very expensive.” said the store’s younger merchant. This man’s passing resemblance to Merlin only that much more warmed me towards him.

Apparently, the store was around since the seventeen hundreds. They had been purveyors to presidents and royalty worldwide. There was rich, dark, oak wood-panelling everywhere.

There were two Jewish gentlemen who, at present, ran the business; both were very handsome. They were mid-aged and about five years apart in age. They were both very pleasant with a serene expression and looked like they had each passed a near-recent past life, in a monastery, in the Orient.

I went and sat down on this large seat from which one could look at displays and samples on a wall. This man was so evolved and truly refined of spirit. A principal merchant, who was white-smocked, came over bearing a portfolio for me to look over.

The portfolio contained a canister that reminded me of something that Merlin would have owned. It also seemed like something that had to do with drugs. From within the black, velvet-interiored case, he placed the silver canister that comfortably fitted in the palm of the hand.

As it opened up, it got larger right before my eyes. It had a little glass bottle that was connected to a collapsible spoon that folded out like a wing. The glass bottle actually seemed not unlike an I.V. tube.

It contained a very syrupy serum that reminded me a great deal of morphine; at the time, I recalled Merlin having been prescribed some. This serum moved around very slowly in the organically enlarged bottle.

It also did remind me a bit of Castor oil and it was something one could take, in small rations, when travelling. Of course, I had no desire to be taking drugs of any kind.

At that point, I remembered that my intention was to be buying clothing and not drugs. There was also a vial of bee pollen that this courteous gentleman merchant wanted me to purchase.

One has to use such glowing terms, for these two merchants, because their purpose was not solely to partake of the capitalist bump and grind. More importantly, they were firmly committed to serving the good health of their clientèle.

This man was genuinely concerned for my wellbeing – a rare occurrence that would be, indeed, in the waking state. It was bee pollen which, of course, meant that it was even more expensive.

It was said to be the elixir that was appropriate for me. He did not foist it onto me though his manner suggested that he was, along with the other man for that matter, a spirit guide serving in regards issues of health. It was much evolved an approach.

Both men then ushered me into an inner room where I was graciously seated at a polished table; it was a light wood and not unlike pine. This was a dream of high moment because of the deference with which human beings were extending themselves to me. This, of course, is behaviour so rare in the waking state.

On the right, sat an older man and a woman; hers were the most unusual eyes imaginable. She was the wife of one of the two merchants who worked in the front of the shop.

By no means was she a beautiful woman; more so handsome was she for the strength and distinctiveness of her total look. Very tall, dark-haired, angular; her eyes were so unusually large that she seemed to have the most severe case of thyroids though she did not.

The lids were thick and heavy. In fact, the lids really did give the look of an iguana’s from the way the lids draped the large eyes and almost completely draped them shut. However, she was very much so alive.

She was talking with the rest of them as they discussed the different products and lines that they carried. Their daughter was in an inner room talking to someone.

She entered and graciously introduced herself. She was the exact, youthful version of her very strong-willed mother.

*These were people, at least on her side of the bloodlines, whose family could trace its ancestry right back to the court of King David and beyond. They were Jewish nobility that spanned more than a couple of millennia and it showed; there was nothing nouveau about them.

They were a family who had lived socially elevated lives, for more than forty-plus generations. Too, wherever they had lived, be it Alexandria, Persia, Rome, Jerusalem, London or New York, they had known wealth; it went right back to their noble heritage in dynastic Israel.

The daughter was, in fact, very pleasant to look at though a bit too nervous. I was wondering if this, in fact, was getting a glimpse into a future life set in Manhattan. She had just returned from England where she had been studying; she had a British accent.

She joined us, sitting down on her mother’s left, across the table to my right. The mother sat directly opposite me. She had that way of looking, right into you, that the socially prominent affect with a confidence that is unparallelled.

One of the brothers, who ran the business, was on the mother’s immediate right and her lover. The daughter had come out with of all people, the actor, Robin Williams.

He was unusually hirsute, even more so than in the waking state and seemed not unlike those extra-humans encountered in the dreams of February 16, 1989. They sat there talking and visiting on welcoming me into their presence.

Robin was not the hyper-energied, talkative and over-compensatorily – to the point of being grossly dysfunctional, funny ham. He was contained and near-Buddha-like. Perhaps, this must be a future life bleed-through for him.

We visited for a whilst then got up and went back, into the inner room, with Robin and the daughter joining the rest of us. At one point, as I sat there in their company, I thought of how very energetically aligned these people were to the mandalas that Merlin had done during his lifetime.

The eyes of this woman did, in fact, remind me of the eyes of the elephant featured in the mandala that Merlin had made for Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny. Interestingly enough, in that mandala which Merlin did, in 1977, at the time of his Saturn Return – the majority of the mandalas he created were done at that time – the eyes were Merlin’s eyes; he had told me as much once.

I then began speaking to them of mandalas; they were genuinely interested in my views on the subject. I then pushed on, to tell them that I was presently writing a book about my experiences with Merlin and when I said that they had an immediate reaction.

They simply shut down and the mother’s response was the most visceral. She simply turned away, upset. Her reaction was exactly like Merlin’s reaction was, when I spoke to him about my life during the Spanish Inquisition.

It was in that dream in which I dreamt of Elizabeth and Ludnez, Elizabeth being Pannonica Kertész.

*It was very interesting because Pannonica had had the same reaction, to my telling her of the book when we met. It was as though she thought that I was only there, to give her a mandala, in the hopes that she would become my agent to have the book marketed – far from it, my dear. END.

At that point, I decided that I would take my leave of them. It was at night time; it was in a darkened room as she sat on a sofa across from me. She simply collapsed onto the sofa – just as Merlin in that dream had during the past life dream set during the Spanish Inquisition.

Quite simply, she became drained and simultaneously it was very visceral for me. My reaction, to her being in distress, was tantamount to how I would become enervated on watching Merlin collapse fainting during his illness.

Robin Williams was there lying, on his back, on a sofa with his head closer to me. The husband was on the floor. When I went to say goodbye, I reached to the mother’s face and kissed her on both cheeks very grandly.

However, she was very cool. As a matter of fact, it was as though sensing Merlin’s energetics got up in another body. It was as if a living masked ball, if you like, whereat Merlin was got up as the handsome woman. Going into a backroom, I wrestled with what I was doing by taking my leave of them and the place. Somehow, it just did not seem right.

It was then that I noticed the daughter who was standing close by – as if to see me to the door. Robin Williams got up and came in my direction to go do something.

I abruptly left the room that I was in and hurried to the kitchen. Of all things, I pretended to be taking a pee in the kitchen. There was a garbage container which I decided was safe enough a place where I could take a pee.

As I began peeing into the container, Robin entered the kitchen and saw me. My cock was partially tumescent and unusually large. Robin wore a green t-shirt and nothing else. His cock was very visible; it was very skinny and long but flaccid.

“Whoa, I did not know you were taking a pee. I could come back.” he said and embarrassingly laughed. It really was the exact likeness of the waking state actor.

Slowly, sultrily, I began turning towards him yearning for him. He shyly giggled and behaved awkwardly and became more like his cartoonish self in the waking state,

“No, no. Not this time. I have to go back, okay.”

He returned to join the others and I returned to the bathroom where originally I had been primping. I began caressing myself and admiring my dream wunder-schlong hoping that he would come back and join me. He never, however, did come back.

*This was a very potent dream and, in some way, Merlin was definitely connected to this woman. Her interest, as I spoke of mandalas he had done, was exactly the kind of absorption he would have shown.

I am very certain that this was seeing Merlin, in a future life, as a very handsome Jewish woman and reborn into a very old, noble family; a very pleasant, prophetic dream.

She ran a gracious home. The furnishings were all antiques in the salon; they were very Old World pieces. There was a wealth of heritage and august ambiance like you would expect in the palaces of the Windsors.

**I am beginning to think, especially with the passage of much time, that the woman whom I assumed to have been Merlin in a future life was actually myself in my immediate past life. At the time, I was married to a doctor and as part of my own shamanic practice I, then Theresa, ran a salon.

I was said to have been a statuesque, strikingly handsome woman of Incan descent. What was never shared, in the channelled overleaves, was the fact that I may well have been also of Jewish descent – in the immediate past life.

This bit of arcana would make a great deal of sense on two fronts: based on what I would later in life learn and for another, it would stand to reason that after having been Jewish in my immediate past life, I would be Black in this one.

Between Merlin and me, it should be noted that there is a bit of reversal at play. In his immediate past life, Merlin had been Black as I am now Black and he – when Merlin – was Jewish. Rather interesting!

Her large eyes and her Jewish heritage made me assume that it was Merlin in the future. However, at this ‘masked’ reincarnational visitation dream, I was really encountering myself in my immediate past life. END.

<O>

Photo: Photo of mandala created by Merlin in 1975 for his oldest friend.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Past-life dreams

Two Albrechts But What A Giselle!

Being of Service… Fulfilled.

Crawl the Fuck In Your Casket!

Prosecuting the Past whilst at the Deathscape.

Past-Life Dream Set In Intrigue-Filled Dynastic Egypt.(Redux – Happy Mother’s Day!)

Finding Centre (Redux) A Life at Court.

The Prophet/Seer of Philae.

Pink Chair II.

An encounter with Theresa.