Buster En Repose Pyramid Green Room.

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(L to R,) Yonge Street Mask (George Hawken Lithograph 1971), Pink Chair (George Hawken Lithograph 1990 of yours truly; there are only three copies in existence) Woman (George Hawken Lithograph 1980) Sockeye Salmon (Bill Reid Lithograph 1991), Four Standing Figures (Henry Moore Lithograph 1978) 

Buster is a really keen familiar.  Recently, someone of dubious intentions visited my home; needless to say, I had dreamt of the encounter days prior.  As he spends long hours therein, Buster came from the pyramid and promptly hissed at the individual then returned to the pyramid where no doubt, he communed with his Egyptian ancestors.  He only ever enters the pyramid at the eastern corner and when meditating will face one of the four corners in the sphinx position and remain thus for long hours.  

Buster loves that duvet; therefore, year round I have to sleep with one.  Now that it is summer, I avoid roasting beneath the down duvet by having the AC on high 24/7.  Bad carbon footprint; then again, I don’t drive.  

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

At Last, The Day Has Finally Arrived.

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With a spring in my step, I came up for air at Piccadilly Circus Station, whistling Ludwig Minkus’ glorious recurrent melody from La Bayadère with thoughts of the astounding Natalia Osipova uppermost in my thoughts.  

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I was returned to the Royal Academy to hunt for coffee table books.  

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More than that, I was on a mission; returned to Fortnum & Mason was I, directed there by the gracious clerk at The British Museum’s Grenville Room.  

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Armed with just over a dozen rose petal jellies, there was no less spring in my step as by now I sang aloud my merry little melody from La Bayadère.  I truly felt as though, on this trip to London, I was lucidly awakened in the most sensual dream.  Dreams so luscious are the ones which cause you to pause, smile and whisper near-mischievously, “Arvin, this is a dream and you’ve earned it.  Now push off and start flying.” 

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At such times, there is no thunder more glorious than the roar of my very soul as I laugh, enjoying my creative soul fulfilling itself.  I was reminded of those early days in our relationship in Manhattan when whilst ambling late at night for staying at Merlin’s agent Joyce Ketay’s Upper West Side apartment, whilst holding hands, I would push down as in dreams but end up doing an assemblé, in place of flying.  His rosy choirboy lips would warm in a smile whilst the ubiquitous fag or joint was elegantly perched between left index and middle fingers. 

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Bailing into to Piccadilly Circus, still feeling mighty spiffy of spirit, I opted against heading back down into the Underground – the place leaves me with sooty phlegm each time nose-blowing.  With that, I bailed out of the Circus and onto Shaftesbury Avenue and made my way to a favourite joint, Ben’s Fish n Chips.  

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There at a cosy table in the rear, I leisurely pleasured myself whilst finally reading the HRH Princess Margaret biography; it is delicious.  

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Blisters be damned, I elected to walk from Shaftesbury Square up to The British Museum and take in more art.  This being a Friday, there were school kids everywhere; my goodness, children have got powerful noise-making lungs!  Then again, what is childhood but play for the soul, which after having recently lived and died is now reborn and gets to celebrate and run up and down in a brand spankingly new and excitingly different body – to say nothing of being in the company of reincarnational travel companions some of whom now you can get a good schtup off of this time around, seeing that last time he now she looked like Quasimodo and even so, you weren’t then same-sexed focussed.  Ha!  

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In the bookstore was a clerk with whom I shared an interesting conversation last winter; he was a dead-ringer for scholar soul, right down to the glasses.  He suggested that I could take refuge in the Japanese wing and avoid the madness that was happily reincarnated souls screaming their lungs out and running hither and yon.  

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Before I could get there, moving around one corner from one gallery to the next, will you look at what I happened on.  

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On seeing it, I was readily warmed of spirit and let out a celebratory, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”  In that moment, the sense of fellowship and belonging I only ever feel when in Canada for being around First Nations cultures, whether at a pow wow or not, proved the most refreshing drink for my questing soul around a corner in my favourite city, London.  

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Up one elevator, down one corridor then up another elevator and one was then posited into the most serene of galleries.  Now this is more my kind of groove.  

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All this exquisite splendour and not a single recently reincarnated soul running about and screaming way too powerful lungs out for such a tiny body.  

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This proved an interlude of slow-dancing with my very soul… the vibrations here were utterly harmonious with spirit.  

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Photography can never do this masterpiece justice.  

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I am reminded with this gem of the fabulous kimono of Merlin’s hung in our Cabbagetown home.  

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Can you hear my soul purring…

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Phenomenal. 

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My very favourite piece in the gallery; warm, fecund, sensual, curvaceous, feminine, grounding.  It truly is perfection; this after all is what womakind are: perfection of creation – we men just can’t handle it, hence religions which all without exception oppress womankind and tell them that creation is outside of themselves and some warring male god somewhere.  Ha… we men can never endure the pain of labour then get up a completely new aspect of creaturehood – no longer a woman but a mother to whom that child will ever be more closely bonded.  Love this piece.  

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This was the most beautiful adventure… for now, with a couple of coffee table books and toys for kids of a friend’s, I crisscrossed Russell Square Park and slept with my blistered feet raised whilst being held closer in sleep’s warm nurturing bosom and was readily tugged under into the world of lucid, inspired dreams.  

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On a gloriously balmy mid-November evening, I emerged from Covent Garden Station into a sea of humanity filled with love and laughter as the weekend was begun.  As lovers ambled past holding hands, I was reminded then of my life twenty-nine years earlier when the Berlin Wall was being toppled.  I was grateful in the moment because back then, two days before Merlin’s passing, I could not imagine myself being still focussed in this life with so much death and dying around me. 

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Yet, here was I with my happy little lambious (Merlin called me Lamb because I was more 9 parts enraged grizzly than timid lamb) self, in Covent Garden about to see a ballet because Marianela Nuñez, Natalia Osipova, Vadim Muntagirov, Matthew Ball, Francesca Hayward, Joseph Sissens, Steven McCrae, Iana Salenko were part of the most glorious group of ballet dancers.  

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Oh my, look at this; there have been changes afoot since last winter.  

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My pilgrimage to the shrine of high art is finally here!  What’s this, new coat check, new toilets, new dining area… wow! 

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No sooner than was I sat and along came a Jurassic hybrid, no chin, back so long may well have extra vertebrae and a neck that is too thick and long to be on a woman’s body but I am not judging just saying,.. 

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Well I did not cross the Atlantic just for this obstruction and her pheromone were decidedly reptilian.  As Frederick Jones would say, “I’m not havin’ it!” After a few gracious words with the accommodating ushers, my offer to stand through the entire performance seemed reasonable enough. 

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I stood on the steps up to the last row that was more centre of house than my ticket.  I did my best to ignore the chinless spinster who sat at the edge of the row, who promptly repositioned her handbag, as if it were a blasted Birkin!  Naturally, she kept eyeing me.  As I always carry Shaniqua in my back pocket, I was ready to hiss, the minute she stepped out of line.  

During the performance after the Bronze Idol danced his spectacular solo, I lost myself and yelled the loudest bravo in the house and wouldn’t the old bat have something to say, “Be quiet!” to which I leaned in and hissed, “grip harder on your butt plug and shut the fuck up!” Why do people insist on leaving their homes and act as though they are lord or lady of anyone else’s reality.  

Never mind her, the lovely Russian couple who sat in the front row looked back and approvingly yelled “Da!” at my exuberance.  Truly, what a glorious night in the theatre.  You cannot possibly begin to fathom the amount of flying dreams I have had since that night; it is as though, I perpetually am now flying-without-moving.  Of course, I haven’t yet shaken that exquisite Minkus melody from my lips but so be it.  There was something simply transcendent about having experienced the purity and perfection of the Kingdom of the Shades opening of Act III that will ever keep me richly inspired.  

Love is all and whatever it is that makes you want to fly without moving when awake grab on and tightly hold on – drugs don’t do it, they do you!  As ever, come closer let’s have a group hug and a bit of air frottage because life, alas, is the sweetest of dreams!  

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

Here’s to You!

Just a wee glimpse into my magical life where dreamquests are all begun in the groovy comfort of my collapsible pyramid.  I have had a pyramid since 1984 in one form or another.  This incarnation of my dream chamber, I rather love.  Being surrounded by art is about being greatly inspired.  

Happy New Year!  Thanks for your ongoing support and here’s wishing you the very best this year!  Sweet dreams as ever! 

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

Put Your Complaints ‘Ere

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Put Your Complaints ‘ere

Lithograph

41 x 29 inc

Edition: 13/67

©2002 Robert Davidson

Provenance: Collection Arvin da Braga.

My but this makes me purr…  Lovely way to start Black History Month.  

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

Lily Cole

Lily Cole Print

Lily Cole

Inkjet on Hahnemuhle Photo Rag Ultrasmooth paper, torn edges and hand finishing

61.5 x 51.5 cm

Edition: 48

©2014 Jonathan Yeo

This woman is phenomenally shamanic in dreams; then again with those eyes, that forehead and that shock of flaming mane, how could it be otherwise?  

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

In Memoriam: George F. Hawken

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(George F. Hawken – February 5, 1999, Montréal, Québec)

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This past Friday, December 23, 2016, I went to my doctor’s to get my test results for HIV.  The doctor whom I had not seen in long ages was unusually engaging.  When he finally cut to the chase, never had he announced that my test result was HIV negative with so much pleasure; I thought it odd at the time.  Brushing past all that, I then inquired of him how George Hawken was doing; after all, George years earlier on my return to Toronto had insisted that I have the handsome Sino-Canadian for a GP as well. 

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Marta.  Intaglio on Paper. 1974 George Hawken  

 

As he paused, I told him that I could appreciate his patient-client confidentiality considerations; however, forging ahead, I told him that I had sent George an email more than a week earlier and had not heard back from him.  Pressing on, I inquired if George was doing well of late as I had last been in touch a couple of months earlier.  In that way that the good doctor had mastered, he haltingly stammered back that yes, George was doing well…  We then left it at that as clearly he did not want to pursue the matter further – he had actually stood up to conclude our visit.   

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Pink Chair 1992 George Hawken  (Arvin)

 

About a week earlier, I was feeling especially uneasy about not having had a reply from George to my last email; he would always answer within 36 hours at the latest.  By then, it had been about a week; we hardly ever spoke by phone on my return from Montréal.  Previously, when we spoke by phone our conversations back in the late 80s and through to mid 90s resulted in an invitation from George to immediately get together where our passionate physicality was intense beyond the norm. 

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Gordon and Janet in their Garden.  Lithograph 2009 George Hawken 

 

To still my worrisome mind, I began playing Joseph Haydn’s Paris symphonies; George favoured the Paris symphonies where I favoured the London Symphonies.  George  had actually introduced me to Haydn’s music; he insisted that I become better acquainted with the 18th century composer’s works.  When first I sat for George in 1986, at his Brock Avenue loft in the Queen Street West neighbourhood, he always played Haydn…  I would always love the way, he would play imaginary keyboard whilst enjoying a cigarette break as I privately sat for him. 

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Franz Kafka – Kafka Suite. Intaglio 1982 George Hawken 

 

One of the funniest memories of George is lying in bed with him after passionate play at the Brock Avenue loft and laughing hysterically whilst we listened to CBCFM and a Florence Foster-Jenkins performance.  Afterwards, we indulged another round of Rottweiler style passion that was part Greco-Roman brawn.  On my return to Toronto, George and I never resumed our physical relationship; though, I had at least hoped that I could serve as muse to him again.  Alas, it was not to be. 

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Book Cover Illustration. 1980 George Hawken 

 

One morning after work, with Haydn symphonies swirling about my mind as my apartment was sodden heavy with the Paris symphonies, I suddenly made a right whilst coming up Yonge Street and headed along Adelaide Street East.  Then, I went one better and hung a left up Sherbourne Street for the morning ride home; never had I done this.  Riding up Sherbourne, the familiar strains of Haydn’s Symphony No. 85 B flat major ‘La Reine’ spirited me along as I leisurely rode up the moderately icy, dedicated bike lane. 

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Fly. Etching. 1976 George Hawken 

 

Just above Shuter Street, George suddenly fell into my mind and I crouched forward towards the handlebar to best face into the cold winds barrelling down the avenue.  Whilst coasting up the bike lane opposite Allan Gardens Park, my mind as I whistled Haydn’s symphony began recalling moments of passion with George long years earlier.  I thought of those glorious nights of noisy, sweaty passionate play at his McCaul Street loft; I crouched forward even more as my face warmed into a smile at pleasurable memories. 

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Beethoven Asleep.  Etching. 1975 George Hawken 

 

If only, I still had George’s numbers, I would call him on getting home; it was so unlike him not to have responded to the email that I had sent him on December 13, 2016.  Peddling harder up the tough stretch of bike lane between Carlton and Wellesley Street East, I suddenly began slowing down as a large black hearse slowly negotiated its way from the Rosar-Morrison Funeral Home & Chapel property at 467 Sherbourne Street; it waited in the middle of the bike lane for northerly flowing traffic to ease up. 

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Pink Chair I/III AP. Lithograph. 1990 George Hawken  (Arvin)

 

I rolled up and paused looking squarely into the hearse where a cardboard coffin was bound and en route to the St. James Cemetery and Crematorium over on Parliament Street.  This was the same route that my father’s cadaver had taken after his funeral in August 2008 which George had attended.  I was so appreciative of the fact that he had asked if he could attend my father’s funeral.  After the lovely service, I had approached George and we hugged and he seemed really pleased to have made the outing. 

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Woman. Lithograph. 1980 George Hawken 

 

Moments afterwards another of my lovers, Owen Hawksmoor came by to start lecturing me about the importance of having many friends; after all, said he, look at all the people who had turned out to my father’s funeral.  Then said, Owen, as can ever be expected of him, “you should at least have six people who would be prepared to pall bear for you.”  Brushing him and his big sex cockiness aside, I rebutted, “trust you to always make for a bitter after taste.  What’s it to me, I’d be dead; it really wouldn’t matter anymore than it does now.” 

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Yonge Street Mask. AP Etching. 1971 George Hawken  

 

I broke and hopped off the bike and intently looked inside at the brown cardboard coffin; it seemed an eternity waiting for the hearse to finally make it off the bike lane and into traffic.  In those moments, I again thought of George and that was when it suddenly dawned on me that I was never going to hear from George again.  Further, I had the distinct impression that what had prompted me to route-change for the first time, to be humming and whistling one of Haydn’s Paris symphonies: symphony No. 84 in B float major is because George’s corpse lay in the hearse before me en route to St. James Cemetery and Crematorium. 

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Myself  (Self-portrait) AP Etching. 2008 George Hawken 

 

Without doubt, this was why I was in this place in this moment before an austere black hearse straddling the northbound bike lane on Sherbourne which I had never used before en route home from work.  With that, as the hearse slowly pulled out onto Sherbourne and then made a right turn onto Wellesley Street East, the traffic in the icy snowy street was sufficiently slow that I rode alongside the hearse along the side of the cardboard coffin and accompanied all the way to the black wrought iron gates of the cemetery on Parliament Street. 

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Baudelaire II. Etchin. 1975 George Hawken 

 

After I got in, had a shower and had my lovely home infused with Hoju incense, Haydn’s symphony No. 104 in D major ‘London’ played on repeat as I grounded anew.  Though it was not especially windy out, there was a loud noise on my balcony and wrapping up in my lovely woollen pea coat, I took to the balcony to investigate.  The first sight that greeted me was a heavy plume of sooty black smoke from the crematorium’s chimneys as they were being swept southerly in the cold wintry morning air.  I lost a tear and on returning indoors, though my Google search on coming home produced nothing for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ I still felt firmly that there was no coincidence to the sequence of events and synchronicity of the past several days which culminated in the black hearse across the bike lane. 

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Colin Campbell. Etching. George Hawken 

 

As it is always tough to close shut, I gave the door to the balcony a bit of encouragement by heaving my right shoulder into it.  On turning away from the door, I noticed one of George’s gifts to me “Woman” was titled off its hook on the cement wall where moments before taking to the balcony it had sat perfectly aligned.  Yet another sign indeed.  Finally, today at work, as I kept checking the folder which bore all George’s email correspondences, then did a Google search for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ alas there was confirmation.  George had died the day before I had sent him my final email; it was one in which I offered to buy a copy of an illustration which he had done for an anthology of emerging Canadian authors. 

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George Hawken, 1970s.

Again, today after work, I rode up the Sherbourne Street bike lane and it all fell into place.  Almost always when I went to our shared doctor, there would George be.  Finally, when I saw him after a long spell of not having been in touch, he sat birdlike in the doctor’s office and he was just as stunned to have seen me walk in as I was to have seem him looking so gravely ill.  George had said that it was cancer; we there and then made arrangements to get together and did.  I was so pleased that he had finally met my lovely sister, Pandora and it was lovely going to George’s Camden Street penthouse suite for dinner with my lovely sister when she was in town from Ottawa. 

Self Portrait 5. Etching. 1984 George Hawken 

Today, whilst riding up the bike lane on Sherbourne Street, the doctor’s excitable congratulations to my testing HIV negative made so much sense.  Too, his response to my query how George was doing of late and his response that he was doing well, indeed, made perfect sense.  By Friday, December 23, 2016, George was doing well and in a better place no longer suffering from the wear and tear of his end-of-life monadal illness.  Ours was a very private relationship and there were only two persons in George’s life with whom I enjoyed cordial relations: his son and his lover, Colin Campbell.  I rather suspect that Colin is George’s task companion. 

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Grete.  Etching. George Hawken 

 

I will ever be proud of having been an inspiring muse to George and for having facilitated the energetic work that he did in the late ‘80s to mid ‘90s.  Our passion fuelled his creativity; what’s more, our passion kept me focussed and grounded in this life as Merlin and his ravaging illness and the hideous ghouls who betrayed him in his illness made life at times more harrowing than already the illness made it.  George and his compassion and support were invaluable for me and Merlin was aware of it and openly and unselfishly encouraged it; he knew that I needed that support as with his passing the vipers in his circle would readily dispense with me.  Alas, all things being mutual, dispense with the ill-evolved lot I gladly did. 

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Hearts and Flowers. Intaglio. 1976 George Hawken

Sweet and blissful dreams my darling ennobled George; I am honoured to have fostered and enabled your creativity to have lotussed into greater flower.  Yours was a most rare and beautiful spirit and yet again our love shall dance and soar to higher octaves.  My heart centre is wide open to facilitate your journey in whatever capacity of our choosing in the dreamtime.  Ever, will I love you more. 

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

In Celebration of Merlin!

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Earlier this week, in celebration of the anniversary today of Merlin’s passing, I attended two performances of the Berliner Philharmoniker at Toronto’s Roy Thomson Hall.  On Tuesday evening, the mixed programme concluded with Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 7, E Minor – a truly glorious experience.  Moreover, it was good to have experienced Sir Simon Rattle at the helm of an orchestral performance.  

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The following night, this past Wednesday, November 16, 2016, I returned to Roy Thomson Hall for night two of the Berliner Philharmoniker’s tour of performances.  Always a favourite, the mixed programme concluded with Johannes Brahms’ Symphony No. 2. D Major, Op 73.  In no way was Brahms’ symphony comparable to Mahler’s symphony of the night before, nonetheless, it was a rousing way to have finished off the week of celebration which began at the weekend prior with a quick trip to Montréal. 

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 I went there for two reasons, firstly to fortify my body, spirit and mind at the glorious Spa Ovarium: www.ovarium.com – as ever the experience was transcendent.  Previously, I had spent the morning into afternoon at the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal on rue Sherbrooke to take in the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition.  The show was spectacular. 

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Back in early 1983 whilst Merlin was in Toronto working with Jim Henson on Fraggle Rock, I was staying at the Trocadero Loft which Merlin had sublet whilst the dynamic duo who headed Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo were on tour.  Most evenings, Attila Isaksen would drop by and we would hang out, have great sex, watch TV or crawl about Chelsea and get up to no end of trouble.  Merlin had sublet the loft which sat across the street from the block long grand building at 684 Sixth Avenue between 20th and 21st Streets West.  The floor above was owned by a Gay professional couple who were heavily into S&M.  One evening after we had been out crawling the clubs – Attila who had transitioned from a life as a dancer was now painting and showing in galleries in Soho and elsewhere – we came home with someone that he had picked up. 

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That someone turned out to have been Robert Mapplethorpe who proved a very intense bottom and a very memorable fuck.  He was intense and as equally ravenous a bottom as was Attila.  Attila was acquainted with him through the art world and picked him up at the bar we were hanging out in a couple of blocks south of my place at the Trockadero loft late one Thursday evening.   We came back to the loft and they smoked ganja, a cigar, did a ton of poppers which I never found remotely appealing, then cigarettes after our wild fuck.  I do though recall Robert’s arse being a rather loose affair.  I might also add as both he and Attila took turns bottoming for me that he was an especially good kisser. 

Robert Mapplethorpe

I quite enjoyed the show and Montréal was a great blast.  Wonderful it was to have been there and seen so many Blacks as here in Toronto Blacks seem to have been eradicated, marginalised, replaced by the White tribe’s buffer races – those who did so nicely for themselves and saw nothing remotely wrong with Apartheid whilst it profited them – who in this town are now the darlings of obsessive Canadians with Black culture as their latest agendum is pushing that most absurd notion, Indo-Jazz.  You know if you are never going to respect Blacks, you certainly can’t be hogging the culture as you so hideously do. 

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This brings me to the matter of the recent American elections; I am so glad that Donald Trump was elected because he will be the shot of adrenalin that Black Americans have so sorely needed.  I would not be the least bit surprised if President Trump does not turn around and have President Obama arrested and imprisoned for being an alien, not an American but of foreign birth and a Muslim to boot. 

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Regardless what happens, the election of President Barack H. Obama has deftly illustrated that we Blacks are not paranoid, not sensitive; racism is real and the White tribal obsession with hating Blacks is at feverish mass extinction levels.  Truly phenomenal it has been to watch these past 8 years evolve.  Amazingly, it is uncanny how some Whites can fabricate lies and for hatefully perpetuating lies as they did with President Obama, these lies soon become accepted as gospel truth. 

Alas, people always get what they deserve and Trump with his wall, I rather suspect, will prove more of a monster than far too many Whites and non-Blacks perceived President Obama to have been.  Racially predatory grudge of Blacks is truly the biggest cancer on human civilisation as it is not exclusively the obsession of Whites.  The entire election boiled down to the perpetuation of the five deadly isms being allow to riotously flower: lookism, ageism, classism, racism and sexism. 

Speaking of racially predatory behaviour, one of the dreams herein involved Damita Soud with whom I worked in the early 90s.  She was the most vile and hideous displacement of the human spirit; frankly, I knew her then because coming off my relationship with Merlin many were the persons like Damita whom I had encountered in the showbiz crowd. 

I do believe that Damita served to have reminded me and to have prompted me to have put persons like this well behind me where they damn well belong.  Also, as it is the anniversary of Merlin’s passing, there was a beautiful dream with a delightful Eurasian boy in London, England whom I assumed was my task companion Merlin reincarnated.  Of course, since this dream which was dreamt in early-August, 1991, Merlin has reincarnated in December, 2006 and is female in Holland. 

Also since that dream, my essence twin, whom I never met during this lifetime, was reborn in the mid-to-late 1990s into Germany is of Japanese/German ethnicity and will likely be a writer in this lifetime.  The Eurasian in the dream was likely an astral plane encounter with my essence twin as my reincarnated essence twin is not only Eurasian but is also male in this lifetime. 

Thanks so much for your continued patronage and ever, I implore you, always remember to push off and start flying because you’ve earned it.  Sweet dreams as ever. 

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Whilst focussed in this the first dream, I got aboard a bus and intuitively knew that I was in London, England.  I headed somewhere of which I am not certain.  Racily, I had jumped onto the bus whilst it was travelling and it was quite fun.  The double-decker London bus was painted violet.  I went to one of the circuses.  Getting there, I got off and began walking behind a teenaged punk rocker.  She had her hairdo done with it sticking out in clumps that were pointy.  She was blonde but it had spots on it like a leopard’s and it was definitely not a wig.

Her hair stuck out like a porcupine’s quills and was very long like about eight inches each.  The spikes of hair conically came in to a fine point.  She wore a black mini, black stockings and black Bull Dog boots.  She had fat, flat non-extant calves.  She wore a cream-coloured merino which had no sleeves.  She was quite long-limbed; both her legs and arms were beautifully proportioned.  I admiringly walked after her as she had a very strong forceful stride.  People were conservatively looking at her; they were being judgmental of her.

I quite enjoyed her energies as I walked after her.  She was a true Demolition Man.  The bus that I was on was getting ready to take off again.  There was one girl who had come out of a building with some long pieces of wood and steel rods.  The building from whence she came clearly was being repaired.  I thought to hustle back to get aboard the bus; as I did so, other people were doing the same thing but through the rear doors.  We were soon enough travelling again.  As we went past, I noticed an Oriental man outside the bus who was asking me how to get somewhere.

He was tall, very handsome and very erudite.  He had two children one on either side of him.  The boy on his left was Oriental but he was mixed; he was Eurasian with freckles and had natural brown hues to his hair.  I assumed that his White parent was the mother from the fairness of his complexion.  Goodness, was this boy incredibly handsome?  I never did see his eyes because I was on the bus as it was passing them on the street.  Afterwards, when I had gotten off the bus, I had seen them again.  However, once again, he had never made eye contact with me.

His lids were deliberately inclined downwards because he knew that I knew who he was and wanted to verify it by seeing his eyes.  I can bet you anything that these would have been Merlin’s, if he had once looked up at mine.  Regardless, his little shy act, I knew those energies; they were more familiar than any energies that I had ever reincarnationally encountered.  The other boy to the man’s right was purely Oriental and older than the reincarnated Merlin.  Goodness, it was so very wonderful to have encountered their energies.  As they walked on a female Londoner had given them directions and had long black hair.  She was a very, very handsome woman with a very spiritually noble quality to her; this woman could even have been the Eurasian son’s mother.  She had directed them to this museum to which they were trying to get.

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london-plane-trees-paris

Antinous Brilman and I were alone, in what proved the third dream, intimate and talking.  We were talking about all these trees that were around us.  For some strange reason, there were all these London Plane trees which were diseased.  They were all dying out as a genus.  I was stunned really and could not think of any disease that they could possibly have.  “They were quite healthy and alive in both Paris and London, when I visited,” that had been a comment that I made.   I could not quite conceive of them going extinct; this, though, certainly seemed to have been the case here in this dream.  At the time, it was quite sunny out and the trees that were healthy were quite nice; those trees zinged with great vitality.

They beautifully reflected the light off their leaves.  Being in their presence was rather nice and uplifting.

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oleta-adams

Here, in the sixth dream, there was a Black woman singing and boy she had a voice on her.  She had a beautiful, beautiful voice; hers was a very soulful voice.  She was an up and coming singer, like Oleta Adams, but it was not Oleta.  She came and stood by a microphone that was from the 1930s; the mic was very Deco.  In particular, the mic is that one that is called a zephyr or a zeppelin – zephyr is correct.  She sang away with her beautiful African head tied up in a turban.  When she sang, she was in a medium that was bluish and slow-moving; in point of fact, the medium was not unlike water.  When she swayed her arms about her, the aqueous medium visibly also swirled about her.

This woman opened her mouth and hit some high notes that were electrifyingly astral.  I shouted, “You go girl.  Go ‘head!  Sing it!” I truly was ecstatic.  What she could do with this otherworldly music quite simply was incredible.  In that sense, it was not unlike a music video; except, it was as if holographic to the extent that one was inside the experience.  In the true sense, it was a virtual reality that I was experienced.

How she appeared was interesting because it was as though simultaneously otherworldly.  I had been singing and there had been these Whites about; naturally, they began throwing shade, “Yeah, yeah, great voice but not the look.”  “Oh shut up and sit down,” these were the sorts of crass remarks that they were making.

*It is always amazing to me how, for being so racially obsessed with Blacks, Whites will feel themselves possessed of some absurd right – which certainly does not exist – to go opening their fucking hideous-spirited mouths and spewing their venomous hatefulness in Blacks’ direction.  END.

I was totally impervious of their bullshit because it was nothing more than small-minded jealousy.  I saw these people who were coming and going.  As well, there were these young Whites who were as if models or model wannabes.  There was a very young-souled approach to their energies.  In any event, there was a party going on across the street and goodness, it was jumping.  There were a ton of people queued to get in.  I was there singing whilst playing a piano when my voice started carrying to the party across the street.  I was technically soaring very high.

Then everyone began clapping in unison.  Antinous was with me and getting ready to go across the street to check out the party.  Though, he had no invitation that did not deter him.  We were going to go crash it but it seemed very much so to be a wedding party.  The party was quite nice and the energies were riotously on.  Here, the atmosphere was great; it was wonderful.  This was the point that the young Black singer had appeared.  She was short and stouter than Oleta Adams.

She was very dark-skinned with very rich teeth.  She had very large teeth that were compacted just like Oleta Adams’.  Perhaps, it was Ms. Adams.  I do not, though, suspect that it was her.  When she sang, she could hold a note whilst adding cadence and timbre to it that was not humanly possible; at least this was only possible on this side of the waking state.  She quite moved me because as she sang, the water appeared and as if created and exuded by her.  Pretty much, it was as though one were seeing her aura as it gushed outwards.  One was being tuned into her vibration; except, this was an aura that was clearly aqueous and simultaneously filled with light.

Her unsuaul aura was heavy gelatinous water.  As she made the notes go higher, the water kept on changing.  Initially, the aqueous aura started out being light blue but it then shifted to a Kelly green.  Also, as the notes got higher, it became a yellowish-orange whilst transforming into red.  Below her at her feet, the water was still swirling with rich bubbles of varying sizes that rose up and above her head.  She slowly turned around on herself; this was so that she could have affected even greater acoustic depth.  My goodness, it is hard to relate here how incredibly elevated this music was.  I was greatly inspired by it.

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black-cat

I was upstairs in the kitchen, in what proved the eight dream, of an apartment with Damita Soud.  We were preparing a meal and washing some dishes.  In any event, she was talking and I just did not like her energies and did not want to be with her at all.  I then heard Whoopi cry out and I went running to look out the second floor window.  She was on her back and being gnawed in her neck area by another cat that reminded of Damita’s cat Spooky; Spooky, of course, is a little black cat which for being Damita’s would have a name like that.  This so mirrored the kind of unhealthy relationship that knowing this woman has developed into.  This dream interlude so reflected the constant non-too-veiled negativity from Damita towards me; it is an approach that I do not in any way appreciate.  I shrieked out the window at them whilst calling out to Whoopi truly horrified, “Whoopi use your hind legs and beat her up… beat her off you.

“Fight back, fight back!”  I could not get down because, somehow, I had this tether which was an orange-coloured coil.  The coil was wrapped around my waist.  More to the point, this coil was coming away from my umbilical area.  Furthermore, it was so hard to break the bonds to and from this thing.  Such an incredible graphic metaphor this dream’s every symbol.  I was most upset really.  I decided that this just could not go on for very much longer.

Somehow, Whoopi had gotten up and ran away towards an opening in the backyard’s fence; nonetheless, the cat was still on her.  I kept on yelling at Whoopi to fight back.  If only there was something that I could pick up at hand and throw out the window to strike Spooky.  Needless to say, throughout all this Damita remained perfectly mute.  Clearly, the animals, our animas, were engaged thanks to Damita’s decidedly negative focussed will.

*Damita is the perfect White female racial predator.  She is a so hideously perpetually racist; she is perpetually uttering some sotto voce racist remark.  These White racial predators forever  live their every day consumed with racially predatory thoughts on which they do not fail to act, truth be told, towards and on Blacks.  END.

I got this heavy thing but did not want to use it.  Obviously, it was quite likely to end up striking Whoopi in the process.  As it was, she was in enough shock.  Then and there, I decided that the time had long passed for me to put an end to knowing Damita.  Moreover, it personally was too callous a reminder of knowing Elektra Munk-Ejoohoè’s dysfunctional pernicious energies.  This was just not a healthy relationship and I did not want to know this person at all.  Indeed, it was high time that I put an end to knowing her.

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sareed-headscarf 

I was in this place, whilst focussed in the ninth dream, where there was an airplane on an airfield.  I reminded me of the Recreations Grounds in Sandy Point, St. Kitts for being focussed in this dream.  The plane was parked in front of the pavilion.  These planes could come in and land on a field as small as the Recreation Grounds without having to do much taxiing.  Much like a Harrier jet, they had the ability to vertically land and take off.  However, this was a passenger jetliner.  Its colour schemata were like that presently of Canadian Airlines international: silver and blue.  However, it could just as easily have been a British airways jetliner.

The bodies of the jets were sleek and black and this airplane was one of the new Boeing 737-300 series.  Then again, it may not have been because I was looking at the single engine on the tail like a DC-10 or a Boeing 727.  Much like a Concorde, the jet was also unusually elevated off the ground.  Unusually, it had large windows like a Greyhound coach bus does; its windows were not the standard singular oval-shaped ones.  So, on looking inside each window, you would see three, sometimes four window seats at a time.  This jet had only two such windows and then you got to the tail of the craft.  There was a door by the tail and one just back of the cockpit.  So, it was a very small plane which had six to eight rows of seats.

There was a small window that did cover two seats in between the two larger windows.  A much wider-bodied plane than a Boeing 757, it also was elevated off the ground much like the Boeing 757.  I could not, though, quite figure out what was going down.  I wondered what exactly could this all mean?  Soon enough, I saw airplanes passing in the sky whilst coming into land.  They descended very slowly, away from the terminal, then on landing slowly taxied up to their designated gate.  There were persons on the plane waiting who had not gotten off because this stop was not their destination.  Some had, of course, gotten off.

I then noticed that there was a large road; this road was close to where the sea is in Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  There were all these beautiful Mercedes-Benzes which were coming into the airport.  One of them was very large, heavy-looking and black and in it rode a woman.  There was so much window space to the car that it seemed more like a rather stately Bentley.  She was East Indian and wore shades and much reminded me of Benazir Bhutto.  She was very proud, sitting very straight-backed and had a strong, prominent nose.  Her head was covered in a fine scarf which, of course, was part of her saree.  A white saree it had horizontal blue stripes.

She was immensely regal-looking.  As she got from the car, I kept looking at her from the area in which I waited; I was being very observant of her actions.  There were tons of East Indians about.  This locale was close to a shoreline.  The persons here were as if the untouchables – the lower caste people.  They were just lying there and many were coupled off.  There was a lone man lying there who was wrapped in his sleeping gear which presently covered his head.  He was close to the plane on the tarmac.

Up approached the woman to the man and bent down to him.  She was very animated greeting him, “Oh I’m so happy to see you.”  They were kissing and she was very genuinely affectionate towards him.  He was a wise old creature.  I could not, though, figure out why she was with such a lower caste person; it just did not make sense.  She was, definitely, the cardinal member of their relationship.  He was very soft-spoken.  The couple next to them began making love because this was their life; they had no home and privacy was not a luxury they even fantasised about.

They were kissing very deeply then he took out his cock and pushed it inside her wet and hungry pussy.  Quite rapidly they made love; it was a very hungry, rushed affair.  They were on their sides and quite tightly embraced.  Then when it was his turn to enter this woman, who was a great deal like Benazir Bhutto and still wore her shades throughout their tryst, he kept on masturbating before entering her.  She was quite hungry for his cock which was very unusually long and soft-looking though hard.  Interestingly enough, his cock had tapered to a pencil-like head.  There were about six or eight couples and all these men had the same classical Dravidian long slender schlong.  All of them on awakening got right down to the business of making love.

He entered her but was not going in all the way.  She was getting impatient with him because of his delaying tactics.  This then triggered what was an obvious recurrent argument between them.  Seems that he had studied to be a doctor but was not practicing.  He did not want to; he wanted only to live next to nature.  He was quite disenfranchised with civilisation.  He said that he had no desire to get caught up in Maya… with materialism.  She fervently argued nonetheless, saying, “But you have to be strong.

“If you are going to be my partner and be in my life, you’ll just have to do better than this.”  They were having this sort of argument.  Basically, he could not participate in the game because he was frankly too old a soul; he just did not find the rat race remotely interesting.  Materialism had no appeal for him.  Though it was clear that the ardent sensualist and lover did so love her, and passionately too, he had no desire to play at the game.  So, at that, I decided to move along and leave them there on the shore.  Here in this place, it was very futuristic.  Even though it seemed in parts the Indian Subcontinent and there was still the abject poverty of the caste system, it was as if set in the late 22nd to early 23rd centuries.

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In early-August, 1991, I awoke from these dreams at my Queen Street East, Beaches apartment and was rather inspired.  After having audiocassette-recorded the dreams with a loudly purring Whoopi next to me in bed, I got about the task of letting her outside to play.  I then got about the business of flowering my life with music to begin in earnest the waking state part of my life.  Thus it was that I began playing Oleta Adams’ 1990 studio album, Circle of One.  Naturally, the choice song that day was her hit single, Get Here, which was an especial favourite of Penina da Braga’s.  Standing in the middle of my living room, I kept my lids shut and swirled my arms about reminiscent of Ms. Adams’ shamanic turn as she weaved her beautiful magic in the dreams just had. 

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Photo Credit: Merlin 1970s in Montréal

Programmes Nov 15 & 16 2016 Berliner Philharmoniker at Roy Thomson Hall

Spa Ovarium at Beaubien & St. Denis in Montréal

Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal

Paloma Picasso Gelatin Silver Print 1980 Robert Mapplethorpe

Ken Moody & Robert Sherman 1984 Robert Mapplethorpe

Louise Nevelson Gelatin Silver Print 1990 Robert Mapplethorpe

Gong 96 Acrylic on Canvas 1966 Claude Tousignant

Piccadilly Circus, London, England

London Plane Trees in Paris, France

Oleta Adams – singer

Black cat domesticated short hair

Headscarf and sareed Indian beauty.

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

Marta.

Marta 74 George Hawken Intaglio on Paper

Marta

Intaglio on Paper

©1974 George Hawken

Provenance: Carleton University Art Gallery, Ottawa, Canada.

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A Hawken with which I am not familiar… it’s fast become a favourite.  

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