See You Soon… 30 Years On, Merlin’s Magical Departure.

 

Almost instantaneously, as the Moon transited Leo in my third house, my lungs besottedly drank the warm and dank, dark air.  Thus I effortlessly drowned into sleep.  Whilst wintry winds howled outside the window, this cold early Saturday morning – November 18, 1989 – my lucid focus seamlessly shifted into the dreamtime. 

I readily knew that I was dreaming. 

thumbnail_IMG_20190808_010603_147

Here, just as moments earlier whilst awake and meditating, Merlin was uppermost in my thoughts.  I could sense his presence.  The shift from one dimension to the other was seamless.  Lucidly self-aware, I was immediately come to in a dream that was set in the bedroom where I slept.

1_110

I was in bed with the artist Olaf Nordstrom – a source of loving support at present in the waking state.  I was lying in bed, leaning on his bony chest, as he sat up in bed.  It was obvious from his body language that he did not want to be in bed with me.  I felt a still and quiet vibration to this dream.  The moment was truly serene and peaceful.  This was not a sexual or post-sexual interlude.  We were both reflective.  It was obvious that we were on the cusp of something momentous.  It was the sort of vibration that signalled that something extraordinary was about to unfold.

4239f1e6f4f48b4fb95295acbafa31cf--gay-interracial-couples-romance

Olaf behaved as if he was uncomfortable being there – it was a grave moment.  He wanted to be there, however, to merely lend his support.  It was obvious that he was wary of my clinging.  Clinging, however, was not my intention.  The moment together was brief – just a preparation for things to come.  With that we parted.  It was time to get up and participate in the events of whatever was to unfold.

This dream was possessed of inordinate lucidity; its every detail and nuance my faculties absorbed with acuity beyond the norm.

1000x500xslider-main-01-store2

In the second dream, this cold Saturday morning, I found myself in the familiar territory of the Cabbagetown streets where we lived.  I went into a store which does not exist in the waking state.  It sat just south of the Pet Menagerie store, on the east side of Parliament Street, between Amelia and Winchester Streets.

bf19117348078095_org

It was a tailor’s shop that carried rather high-end fabrics.  I was there to pick out some fabric because I had a definite idea of what I wanted to wear to Merlin’s funeral.  I knew that the only way, to get the look that I wanted, was to make the outfit myself.  The kindly, gracious salesman was trying to get me interested in a rather conservative plaid fabric but it simply was not to my liking.  My aversion was not because it was plaid; rather, the tone was too sombre.

He was not insistent but let me know that it was appropriate.  However, I would have none of it; I simply did not like the fabric or the colours.  I simply was not going to have it.  Unable to make up my mind and not wanting to make a decision about fabric, as there were so many ramifications to what it all meant, I left the store stepping into the light of day.  It had been a very dimly lit, nicely wood-panelled, stately shop.

cbk

Once outside, I became acutely aware of Merlin.  I was now returned to the yard of Cabbagetown’s 20 Amelia Street, where we lived, and Merlin was present with me.  Thoughts of Merlin, on leaving the store, had me immediately posited in the front yard of 20 Amelia Street where I happily joined him.  We were watering the lawn even though it was wintertime.  Next door at 18 Amelia Street, where at this point Club Monaco designer Alfred Sung no longer lived, there were lots of potted plants hanging from the lone, purple-leaved, sugar maple tree.

20171125_160139

Merlin was telling me to water the plants.  He then began telling me, rather matter-of-factly, that I had to start taking care of the apartment – I had to make it a home again.  Merlin asked me to start preparing things.  He meant that this was not the time for procrastination.  Of course, moments earlier in the prior dream, I had been procrastinating when down on Parliament Street to pick out fabrics to wear to his funeral.  By avoiding the matter altogether, I had chosen instead to forego the purchase.  As Merlin spoke to me, I became so aware of him that I completely became self-aware – both in the dream and in my sleep whilst in bed at 20 Amelia Street.

I was standing there very intently looking at Merlin.  He, too, was very intently looking at me.  Whilst we were unflinchingly looking into each other, I thought aloud with quiet resignation, ‘Merlin has died.’

I knew, too, that Merlin had heard my thoughts in the dream.

At that moment my sister Pandora da Braga, with whom Merlin enjoyed the best relations of anyone else in my life, suddenly became a presence in the dream.  She never fully became physically manifested but her energies became overwhelmingly strong.  Her energies were just to my rear as she played a loving and supportive role.

8d6026eb1f19e788776c1fc658b2a206

Suddenly, introspectively, I recalled a dream which I had had earlier in the week.  With everything moving so quickly, in the waking state – with little time to collect my thoughts, let alone overlong time to record any dreams- it had slipped by unrecalled on awakening.  However, now it was not merely being recalled, it was being relived in its entirety.  I stood there and as I recalled the dream, rather seamlessly, I actually entered the dream which was being reanimated as it was being holographically recalled.

Within the reanimated dream being recalled and relived, I was again on the lawn at 20 Amelia Street in the warmth of the Sun’s rays.  Just as in today’s dream, I was on the front lawn facing due north and the house with 18 Amelia Street on the left to the west.  As Merlin and I were visiting in the outer dream of today, I had turned my body.  Being in the same physical position had triggered the recall and reanimation of the dream from the past week.

To my left, I saw an incredibly ancient-looking, wise being who progressed across the lawn.  The slowness of his progression was so measured that one’s experience of time, in the reanimated and recalled dream, progressed outside of time itself.  It was simply magical to experience the progression of the very ancient and mystical being.  The millennia-ancient figure progressed across the lawn, of 18 Amelia Street, heading towards our home at 20 Amelia Street.  The being was male and small in stature; he was hobbit-like.  His head was large, disproportionately large, compared to his tiny, frail-bodied frame.

He could not have been more than four feet tall.  His head was absolutely massive.  His forehead arched up and was high like an African’s.  Too, his head was elongated in the back, reminiscent of Pharaoh Akhenaten’s skull.  More striking than the majesty with which the august being progressed outdoors, towards our home at 20 Amelia Street, was the look of his face.

It was simply magical.  From beneath the translucent skin, soft yellow-white light escaped revealing his very visible aura.  Nothing but pure love, along with the same nonjudgmental look that ever peered back from Merlin’s eyes to mine, radiated from this being.  The love radiating from the being towards me was awesome, immense – intense.  The great being’s progress was purposeful.  He was on a mission; he was unstoppable.  The process had begun.

thumbnail_20191115_094436

I was struck by the uncanny resemblance, which the face of this being bore, to the planet-being in the skies of Sandy Point, St. Kitts in a momentous dream during September 1983.  It was a dream whose potency and beauty would lay unfathomable for years to come.  The being progressed as though levitating mere millimetres above the rather zingy, extra-green grass of the lawns at both 18 and 20 Amelia Street.  Though he did not pause as he progressed, the radiant being did turn and look at me.  As though he was familiar with me, he acknowledged me by slightly nodding.  However, he continued on towards our home.

He moved past me as I stood there, still and silent, drinking in the majesty of the experience.  At soul-centre we were familiar to each other.  I knew him.  He knew me.  I stood, alone and awestruck, in the front yard being refamiliarised by the vibration of his beauty as the effect of his potent powers spatially affected the dream.  As he moved past, I was reminded of the film The Dark Crystal, by Jim Henson – with whom Merlin had worked, directing two episodes of the Fraggle Rock television series in its inaugural season.  This movie would for several months, after we saw it together in New York City, be our favourite film.

20171125_160108

Thereafter for several weeks, whenever we looked at each other – even when not being intimate, we had hummed at each other as the rival beings in the film did when communicating.  The being here was much like the good beings in the Jim Henson film The Dark Crystal.  The being progressed up the few stone steps, to the wooden veranda at 20 Amelia Street, and began making his way inside the house.  As I watched him ascend, from the lawn to the veranda, it was clear to me that he was levitating.  Though it was a dream and I too could have levitated and flown, he though had a power which surpassed mine.

This august-souled, mystical being clearly originated from a dimension which vibrationally and spiritually was of a higher plane than the astral, where the dream occurred, and the physical in which I am incarnate.  Indeed, the same physical plane from which Merlin was rapidly taking his leave – it was that discernible.  The moment the mystical being entered our home, being lost to view, I came to from the inner holographic dream which was a recall and reanimation of a dream that I had experienced within the last week.  As I came to, I was about to go indoors to see what had become of the being that had clearly entered our home.

It was then, having returned to being fully focussed in the outer ‘shell’ dream of today November 18, 1989, that I saw Merlin anew.  He was standing at the front door looking out at me.  I stood there, in the front yard, transfixed whilst the bright daylight bathed my body throughout.  The look on Merlin’s face was purely transcendent.  He was perfectly still and perfectly radiant.  Merlin stood in the midst of a nimbus of dazzling, blue-white light.  As he lovingly glowed out at me, this splendid light only intensified.

79merlin9_glow

Merlin was transformed and as his face lovingly lit up, at me, the light grew to more completely envelop his body.  Whilst lovingly glowing at me with the warmest, most familiar knowing smile, Merlin slowly brought his right hand up with the palm facing me and more completely smiled.  The radiance of his smile soon became lost in the glow of his aura’s light.  The nimbus, enveloping his transformed body, radiated even more intensely at that point.

Image

I was blown away.  Arrested, I readily knew what I was experiencing; I could feel it.  I knew that across dimensions, in the waking state, Merlin had just died.

canva-man-covering-his-face-with-hands-MADGv2sAPJg

However, as is my wont, I protested.  I dropped the hose which was still bleeding its nurturing water onto the frozen, wintry lawn at my feet.  I stood – paralysed.  Determinedly, I then bolted for Merlin.  I headed up to the veranda as my lover, as my mentor, as my friend stood transcendent in the doorway to what had been the most beautiful sense of home ever experienced.  “Merlin!” shrieking in protest, I yelled out his name.

thumbnail_Screenshot_20191116-055203_Instagram2

(Detail of oil on canvas by my sister Pandora of Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery where Merlin is buried.)

Suddenly, the thunder of my protesting breath abruptly drew me from sleep.  I sat upright in bed, my arms outstretched and beyond, after having crashed back into my body and no longer astral-projected.  From the foot of the bed both cats – Zora and Whoopi – knowingly, silently looked up.  I was arrested by the frozen horror-struck face staring at me from the mirrored closet doors across the room. 

In the near-darkness of the bedroom, a few rays of early morning light made it past the blood-red, velvet drapes heavily hung at the windows.  Those rays starkly cast light on how horribly desolate my life now was.  Merlin was gone.  His spirit had taken leave from this world.  It was that discernible as my world, my very universe, had experienced a massive vibrational shift. 

I had been abruptly displaced from the astral plane.  I had been lucidly dreaming a dream within a dream.  I was being told so long as Merlin, transitioned from incarnate to astral plane habitué, bade farewell to our magically glorious union on the physical plane.  I was heartened by the peace and knowingness in his transcendent face because I knew that it was a, “See you soon…” parting, for now. 

I knew that there would be dreams aplenty up ahead.  Just as he had pledged, he would magically weave in his indelible promise to me, before departing from the physical plane.  There was such a cold silence, a stinging finality to the moment, as I sat there in bed.  After having looked back at myself, silently waiting, I placed a call to the eighth storey nursing station at Wellesley Hospital. 

I was immediately aware that the tone of the nurses, with whom I was by now long-familiar, had changed.  In very little time, it was official… Merlin had indeed passed.  Truth be told, it was not a surprise; I could sense it on awaking.  He simply was not there.  As always, I had reached out to sense him on awaking – his energies – just blocks away at Wellesley Hospital.  Now, there was nothing. 

Then, as if needing further proof, I thought about Merlin calling each morning.  He would do so, to lovingly say hello and thereby, to lovingly wake me up.  Merlin would then lovingly ask for a call-back, after I had audio-recorded the dreams.  Merlin had, thus far, not called.  Once again, I saw the stillness of my reflection across the room.  I knew then, really knew…  Merlin was gone.  

____________________________________________________________________________________________

As ever thanks for your ongoing support but if you really want to make me levitate then do buy my books!

____________________________________________________________________________________________

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

Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

PA-1132240.jpg.jpg

Diana, Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  

On the eve of what would have been her 58th birthday, I share a dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales.  At the time of the dream, July, 1996, Diana was then incarnate and would be dead less than 14 months later.  The dream suggested Diana, parenting a male child of mixed race heritage.  Naturally, at the time of the dream, she was not then yet involved with Dodi Al-Fayed.  Years later, whilst living in Montréal and transcribing the 250 audiocassette recordings of my dreams which spanned a decade, I happened on the dream.  By the time of the transcription, Diana was dead and so, on poring through the dream I thought that the male child in the dream to whom Diana seemed a mother, must have been a child of hers and Dodi’s.  

Fast forward twenty-three years from the dream in question and I am beginning to think that this exceptional male royal child was actually a dream of tuning into a future in which Diana was serving as protector of her beloved son’s own baby boy, Archie Harrison.  The skull of the baby boy in the dream who seemed like a son of Diana, Princess of Wales’, is exactly shaped like that of Archie, Diana’s grandson by way of her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his black wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  

Sussexes3

Alas, another dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales.  This one would involve moving into a probable reality scenario which may well have eventualised had she not tragically died thirteen months after having had the dream. 

*Then again, it may well have been tuning into a future which has now come to pass wherein, the interracial Sussexes have a male firstborn.  END.  

As with the dream of July 9, 1993, in which I would have a most rapturous astral plane encounter with task companion, Merlin, here too there would be lots of train travel.  This means of transportation, I have come to realise is employed by the soul when one is questing and traversing the astral either to past, future or probable timelines. 

In this case, I had clearly dreamquested to a probable and non-too-distant future for Diana, Princess of Wales.  Sadly, it was not to be.  Obviously, in this probable near-future astral plane dream, Diana, Princess of Wales was fulfilled and had gone on to start a second family and was mother to a rather precocious son; a son whom I might add was clearly at least fourth level old-souled. 

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1996 and the Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house.  The house of death wherein is posited my retrograde Saturn, gave interesting insights to things as they might have unfolded as others’ agendum precluded Diana, Princess of Wales’s life becoming more of an inconvenience.  

*Then, too, as time has unfolded, this rather prophetic dream was actually tuning into a probable reality which has become the collective future of human civilisation and one which we enjoy today.  Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their incredible baby boy, Archie Harrison.  END.  

Of course, at the time of these dreams, I was then resident in Vancouver’s West End.  The dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and seventeen and to be found in volume XXII of the dream opus. 

There was much sturm und drang in parts of the dreams as it mirrored the vicious tectonics, long after Merlin’s passing, being played out legally and otherwise with persons whom I am so glad to be finally rid of.  Chief among them that STD-riddled, dominatrix poseuse and fag-hag to boot, who quixotically saw herself cast into the world to play Merlin’s protector and saviour – the dreams of lost village idiots… indeed. 

At the end of the day, Merlin never liked her and rightly so considered her a damn idiot.  At his passing, he had nothing to do with her; hence the fool spent the next two-plus decades being bedpan-changer of Merlin’s betrayers – a poor play at atonement that. 

Enough about knock-kneed caribou roadkill; the journey endures.  Besides, the bond with Merlin could never have been successfully broadsided. 

Come now my magical darlings, mischievously sport that wry smile known only to kindred spirits, slip into a luxurious plié, take my hand and let’s have ourselves a delicious group flying dream.   We are better for sharing this journey together; for your support, I love you more. 

________________________

photo-toronto-king-street-e-at-frederick-hallmark-cards-1966

Whilst heading down a street in what was undoubtedly Toronto, in this the first dream, it was then daytime.  The street seemed like the one just around the corner from the Underground Railroad Restaurant, on King Street West, to the west of Sherbourne Street – Frederick Street.  Going down Frederick Street’s incline, I noticed along a back lane that there was a large building.  Too, I noticed a great many persons from past workplaces.  The building seemed to be an annex to the main workplace as I had known it.

One of the first persons whom I recognised was Milton Bloomfield.  He was wearing a pair of dark blue slacks and powder-blue short-sleeved shirt.  Excited to see him, I bounded over and went around to the back entrance.  Immediately, I began seeing persons whom I had completely forgotten about.  Indeed, some of these persons looked as though they were definitely astral plane habitués.  In particular, one old White male had that outré habitué look to him.  I was simply astounded to have seen some of these persons.  Truth be told, I had not thought of so many of them long in ages.

‘How quickly we do forget,’ I thought.

Such a very pleasant discovery of things past, it turned out to have been.  That aside, I resumed my search of Milton Bloomfield in earnest.  Again, I saw him in the distance.  This time he was walking away from me without having noticed that I was there.  In the end, though it would have been nice to have interacted with him, I just didn’t see the point in going after him.  On going around another corner, since I was amongst persons from the past, I had thought to go in search of Yaramé Snead.  I went over by some machines which no longer exist, in the waking state, seeing that she would shortly have shown up at the start of her shift.  I then saw her at a desk working away and hurried over to be with her.

Stooping down to her left and rear, I playfully called out hello to her.  On turning and seeing me, her reaction had been low-key.  I was surprised really as I thought that she would at least have been her usual boisterous self.  Her hair was beautifully braided.  Frankly, I felt putout as she seemed not the least bit pleased to have seen me.  With that, not wanting to be more of a seeming bother, I wrapped up the visit.  Since she had declined to have become engaged, I just couldn’t be bothered to have invested much energy in the encounter.

_______________________

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Part of the focus of this the second dream, a man and I were together and seemingly were lovers.  Tall, he was a redhead; as such, he represented one of my more choice sexual partners.  Somehow, this man was in showbiz.  We were definitely lovers.  Whilst looking at TV Rosie O’Donnell had made remarks about him that were rather cutting.  Initially, I had thought that her remarks had been about Xerxes Hamelin.  The joke had been a crude remark wondering as, to which sex Xerxes Hamelin was.

This was in reference to her having breast reduction surgery.  As I did not appreciate the crass put-down of Xerxes Hamelin, I would abruptly take my leave.  I then went indoors of a house which, here, was like moving from the veranda indoors of the Crab Hill house.  A few persons were inside the house as I ranted, vowing to get that fat ugly dyke, Rosie O’Donnell.  There also was much laughter as I added,

“And we all know that I’m wicked enough, to do just as I say.  But first we’re going to sue her frigging Mickey ass.”  But my lover didn’t want to go through with it, he was a showbiz lawyer.  Snapping at him, I said,

“I won’t hear of it.  I will not be cutting him or her any slack.  Get her fucking ass!  There is no way that that no-classed fool is going to insult Xerxes Hamelin and get off lightly.  End of fucking discussion.  We sue!  During the show’s rehearsal when that joke came up around the production meeting table, she could have had the decency to say, ‘no way, I’m not doing that kind of humour’.  Obviously, she fucking well didn’t.

“It’s not about the fucking money; she will learn a thing or two, when I’m done with her fat-retaining, tired-looking ass.”  What really amazed me was how lucid and lived-in, in the body, I was.  I was really killer mad and out to do battle,  “There is positively no way that she’d have gone out there and made disparaging remarks about Jews.  And if you can’t knock the fucking Jews, you sure the fuck can’t haul your tired grey arse out on a stage to knock Blacks.  Just stop and think about it.  If a Jew would have her head in a nanosecond, then so the fuck will I.”  

After that, we went off together.  My lover was ever quiet and reserved whilst I did much of the talking.  In that sense, he energetically was much like Merlin.  However, it definitely was not Merlin.  

1960-bentley-flying-spur-silver-old-cars-6-antique-classic-cars

As we walked about, we ran into Diana, Princess of Wales, who had a little child on her hip.  One had the sense that, after having divorced HRH Charles, Prince of Wales, she had gone on to start another family.  Definitely, this third child of hers was a son.  Apparently, she had always wanted a little girl but here she was with a dark-haired bouncing boy.  Obviously, from the looks of things here, Diana, Princess of Wales was going to have more than one family.

One interesting feature was that the boy was born with almost a full mouth of teeth.  I mentioned in passing that I guess if you end up grinning as much as she does, it would not be surprising to have newborns appear grin-ready.  Too, the child was already able to say some words at birth.  The child was exceptionally intelligent.  The young son’s most interesting feature was that even at less than six weeks, he was able to follow conversations.

The eyes on this child were exceptionally old-souled and wise.  Not the feigned coyness of Prince William was his demeanour.  We were in a huge stately Bentley whilst the child sat on his regal mother’s lap.  Diana, Princess of Wales sat on my left with my lover, a showbiz lawyer-celebrity, seated next to me.  My lover was of British birth; he was a well-placed Londoner and terribly well-off at that.

He was part of the few in whom Diana, Princess of Wales confided and had done so during her divorce proceedings with the Firm.  From the Bentley, we got into another car.  Although he really didn’t need it, the precocious son was travelling in a basket here.  This child perceptively was quite advanced for his mere few months of life.  He represented hands down a case for reincarnation.

Though he could talk, especially for someone less than a year old, he was still rather stubby and full of baby fat.  I took the rather self-aware child from Diana, Princess of Wales and headed for the car.  I then didn’t know whether she would be sitting in back of the car with us.  Considerately, I had opened the front door for her but she told me that it wasn’t necessary.

She then went into the back of the car at which point I returned her son to her.  In all of this, the precocious son hadn’t uttered a word of whiny protest for having been separated.  He had simply looked me in the eye whilst studying me and not, god forbid, because of something as absurd as my being Black.  This woman, his mother, was rather a genuinely sweet-personalitied soul.  Not your typical animus-charged, parvenu, New World wealthy snob, like heaven only knows so many North Americans, was she.  After we had taken off, I had mentioned that I had heard Prince William – who now was much taller than her – was very well-hung.

Furthermore, he loved roughing it with all the little willing boys at Eton.  This supposedly was hot gossip in those circles and which both my lover and Diana, Princess of Wales thought hysterical.  She expressed great pride in having produced such a fine stud for the Firm.  She mentioned that he had to start his studding practice sometime and far better that it be at Eton than with too many willing little girls the world over.  Clearly, Diana, Princess of Wales had no desire to turn grandmother just yet.  She was a very funny person with a distinctive snort-like giggle.

We then went into a store that was called something like Mayfair & Browne or something along those lines.  A small, high-end department store it was.

*The warm blues here would suggest that it was, in fact, Fortnum & Mason.  END.  

westminster-and-parliament-hero

Afterwards, we had attended the opening of Parliament where Queen Elizabeth II had naturally been present.  The Queen had asked the House of Lords to stand and, at that point, they had drawn some heavy red drapes.  At this point, there were rituals of an occult nature which were being performed.  This had been the custom for centuries and had been nobody’s business.  The few priests, who performed the rituals, spoke in an ancient tongue; olde English and Gaelic it would seem.

As part of the ceremony, the queen adopted a raspy, adversarial and tyrannical tone.  She snapped at them as they spoke to her.  Of course, this was to validate her absolute power as monarch.  She had spoken by using the same ancient tongue as they had.  Quite illuminating was all this for me.  From where we all sat, the monarch sat opposite us at the far end of the stately hall.  On the right was the House of Lords.

On the left, was the House of Peers where things were even more arcane and secretive.  Clearly, there was much more wealth possessed by the members of the House of Peers than those in the House of Lords; for one, they wore more expensive fur-lined robes.  Queen Elizabeth II then stood and put an end to the rituals.  When the priests retreated, the curtains rose again and at that point members of both houses of Parliament rose to bow to her majesty, the queen.

The Queen now looked her usual stoical self.  Next, a loud debate rang out in the House of Lords; this was the point at which bills were being introduced.  All in all, this was a very noisy affair.  This was the point at which my London-born lover was expected to have introduced my suit against Rosie O’Donnell.  However, he was blowing cold on the issue and tried to back out of it.

What caused him to have hung back was the raucous fight that had broken out between two Lords on some point or other.  In point of fact, they had been quite vituperative.  Soon after, we took our leave of Westminster Palace.  Diana, Princess of Wales was not seated with the rest of the royals.  Nor, for that matter, was the more royally scorned Sarah, Duchess of York seated with the royals.  

20181112_113337

The ride to the department store was no more than ten minutes.  Once inside, we had gone some escalators which took us to a cosmetics counter.  The look was pretty much like a Clinique counter, though, I really don’t think that it was such.  On seeing an extended member of the House of Windsor coming down the aisle towards us, my lover had dropped behind.  The focus of my lover’s attention was a rather princely gentleman.  He was young with full red lips but not was horsey-looking.

*This princely gentleman was, in fact, James Ogilvy – grandson of the dashing Prince George, Duke of Kent.  END.  

They exchanged pleasantries and it was clear that my lover was rather smitten with him.  I didn’t though get the sense of him, Mr. Ogilvy, that he was Gay.  From there, we kept going further down in the complex below street level.  Each time that we had come off an escalator, we had headed to the left to get the next.  This in turn had taken us down another flight.  Eventually, we arrived at a level which was clearly part of the city’s sprawling Underground.

As we walked, there were two little birdlike, old English women whose slow amble gait had gotten me fast impatient.  Finally, we managed to have pushed past them and gotten the train just in time.  Here we had travelled at fantastic speeds.  The trip was for quite some time and, somehow, it seemed as though they used magnetic conductors here in this civilisation.  There was a sense too that we had been travelling several miles, at least 100, below the surface.  

tokyo-shinjuku-city-skyline-mount-fuji-japan

When finally we had arrived at our destination, we had gotten out into a labyrinth of tunnels which had eventually led above-ground in a Japanese city.  We spent not very much time in Japan as it proved a stopover where we changed trains.  Moving on, we had travelled on a futuristic-looking train.  On board were two stylish, East Indian young women.  Both were clearly tired for having travelled a lot and having crossed several time zones.  A loud American was on board; she was an overweight woman.  As can be expected, she talked aloud for everyone to notice her.  She moronically complained about the trains not being aboveground and whined,

“I want it to be aboveground.  There’s nothing to see down here.  It’s all black and dark.”  She said the word ‘black’ with the same customary loathing as she had applied to African-Americans her whole life.  “Don’t they realise that there’re lots of tourists and we want to see.  It’s so boring being down here in all this blackness.”

‘Such a fucking acculturated bigoted asshole,’ I thought.  The train was painted white on the outside with lots of chrome and walnut finishing on the inside.  Very comfortable, red leather seats throughout the interior; this was a truly posh experience.  We had boarded at the front of the train.  We pulled into a station, though, only briefly; the train took off again never having opened its doors.  This time it took off in the opposite direction.  By now, my lover and I were no longer travelling together; however, I did have a travelling companion with me.

On this leg of the trip, we had moved above-ground at one point where we had passed the most glorious stand of ancient old trees.  They were ginkgoes that looked millennia-old.  Each was easily in excess of 200 feet.  I quite liked it here.  Though the vista was beautiful, it didn’t last very long as once again we were below-ground whilst ploughing through the lurching labyrinth of tunnels deep in the earth.

At the end of the trip, we had arrived at a swank hotel which seemed to be in either Switzerland or Austria.  From the hotel, my lover and I were reunited and began trying to get in touch with Diana, Princess of Wales.  He wanted to write to her instead of speaking so had sent her a fax.  Here we were a bit in the future, where everyone was automatically assigned their personal phone number with cellphone/fax.

*Truth be told, rather than a fax, it was a text.  Of course, at the point of the dream texting was well ahead of its time.  END.

No matter where one was in the world, regardless of the borders, the same phone number managed to get you.  Interestingly, they were not excessive amount of numbers.  He had sent her a fax (text) with his private number and had asked Diana, Princess of Wales to call him; he had wanted to lend his support in her divorce proceedings.  

At one point, when we had been driving, Diana, Princess of Wales opened up and spoke about her divorce from HRH Charles, Prince of Wales.  She said that it had left her feeling truly awful.  At the end of it, the one thing that she had taken away was the sense that she felt greater empathy for what Blacks suffer globally.  Said she, she had gone to a couple of stores to shop, after having been divorced, where the mere salesclerks treated her with scorn.

Nobody wanted to serve her as if she had even been hostile to them.  Diana, Princess of Wales said that it had been so overwhelming that in one case she had gone rushing back to her car in tears.  For no longer being a part of the ‘Firm’, the public simply treated her as an unfortunate laughing stock.  Some clerks had been outright rude to her.  She said that she couldn’t believe that anything could have made her so mad.

To have been denied was the most painful experience.  They were so mean-spirited and spiteful she claimed.  Her voice here was high-pitched and almost feverish when she expressed her rage at the injustices she had experienced.  She said that the idea of racial animus that she has heard Blacks speak of, she could finally understand.  Diana, Princess of Wales said that she had experienced something pretty close to it in the lack of civility that she had gotten from everyone.  Intently looking at her large clear eyes as she spoke, I was much impressed by her remarks.  She was rather ravishing-looking and was so in her element for being mother to this exceptional child.

*Long after the dream and as things played out, the male child whom Diana, Princess of Wales had parented in this dream was clearly fathered by Dodi Fayed.  Of course, at the time of the dream, I hadn’t a clue of Mr. Fayed’s existence.  The precocious boy had his father’s nose and brows.

Clearly, this dream was tuning into a probable reality which finally was not to be.  The child was clearly at least fourth level old-souled and may well have been a king or if not warrior soul. 

**More thoughts on this dream.  The fact that the lawyer who proved a lover of mine in this dream was a redhead, is at this time, I believe, a reference to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  As it is extremely rare that I would dream of the latter, it is not a surprise that he was translated here by my waking consciousness as anyone but Prince Harry.  Also, in light of the fact that in marrying Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Prince Harry can be said to be an advocate of sorts for racial reconciliation with regards to the ties that the BRF historically have to the enslavement of Africans.  Interestingly, that Diana, Princess of Wales should talk about having empathy for the racism that Blacks experience on a daily basis, is a dead giveaway.  The theme of race and racism is a prevalent one where her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is concerned.  

For having chosen to wed an entity mate of his (HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex) with whom he has a long reincarnational history and someone who has twice previously been a senior royal in the British Royal Family, is reason enough why the theme of race would be discussed and why Diana, Princess of Wales would be both empathetic and speak passionately about this issue.  Naturally, throughout the dream she would be closely bonded with a firstborn male from another marriage; however, rather than being a firstborn of hers in a subsequent marriage, this older soul child would prove to be the firstborn mix-raced child of her son, Prince Harry, who was represented by the redhead lawyer/advocate who happened to be my lover.  Indeed, Prince Harry can be seen to be an advocate for addressing and advancing racial dialogue and race relations.  Similarly, that his firstborn son, Archie is a seventh-level mature priest soul would indicate someone whose focus in life will be about inspiring, uplift, healing and harmony… god only knows that is sorely needed at this time.  

________________________________

Straighten up and fly right!  I love you more than you know…

 

_________________________________

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

Shamanic Dreams Aplenty.

orbed-pyramid-lightened21

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

AlsatianSavesTroops

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

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

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

2908411

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

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

flying-dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

635-02681592

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

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

                                                B

the-old-gravestone-with-moss-4565x3032_68719

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

dowsing-rods

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

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

soap-bubble

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

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

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

d6JcLJpq7JArqLRY1-ztY-c_UwIXdppgbwYVYHCQW_Q

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

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

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

motley_crue

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

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

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

Climate-Killers

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

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

big_balls_std

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

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

willininjaposesdarling

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

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

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

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

Nina+Hagen+Der+7bte+Zwerg+Photo+Call+Germany+RSf_J0f6FG7l

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

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

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

LcTuEIvyWOnX

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

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

Bones0077_2_download600

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

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

2efbae80f930e9aa9ac9d403bba47cf6

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

soursop-703x422

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

___________________________________________________________

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

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

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

Speaking of Weddings: Future Nuptials for Merlin & Me.

green-fur-trimmed

As this November marks the 30th anniversary of Merlin’s passing, rare indeed it is that I should dream of him.  Recently, I remarked to a friend that in all honesty if I were to encounter Merlin a dream at this stage, I would likely be more surprised to see him than not.  Of course, Merlin reincarnated in December 2006 and is female and was born in Holland and will likely have a life that will likely be exclusively focussed in academia.  Alas, with all these glamorous royal weddings of late, Lucian Mann-Chomedy reminded me of that gloriously lucid dream had of Merlin almost a year on from his passing; it was a dream wherein we were man and wife being married – a truly glorious drink for the soul it proved.  

Here then a dream of him and me in a possible future incarnation as lovers yet again.  As ever love endures.  Whilst the Moon transited Gemini and my first house, on Sunday, November 4, 1990, I would have a most revelatory dream.  It would prove a glimpse into the future and probable relations, between Merlin and me, when incarnate together again. 

The dream concerned getting married and as man and wife.  It was the sixth dream that day. 

________________________________________________________________

merlin2

Soon enough, I entered this building and there was a wedding in progress.  There was a very dark-skinned Black man.  He was timid and bore an uncanny resemblance, both energetically and facially, to Merlin.  He seemed very much so African.

Then a woman came up and she was much like Dustin Kynes’s wife, Allegra Kynes – a slightly light-complected, big-boned woman.  A take-charge person, she was very much so the leader.  Clearly, she was the one in that relationship who called the shots.

They were getting married.  She wore a gown that was, quite simply, out of this world.  She was an utterly vain woman.  I was quite reminded of myself by her.  I got a strong sense that this was a look into the future, in which Merlin and I were being married, during a life up ahead.

edith head peacock feathered dress

It proved an unusual ceremony.  For one, she was not dressed in white.  She wore a gown that was very expensive.  It was green and opened from the neck down; there, it was tied with a big black button.

986d727abb063f51cae13663dca028cd

It opened outwards and was very regal, very priestly, in feel.  It was covered from the shoulders on down, to mid-torso, by a very richly dark exquisite sable.

philip-treacy-6--a

HRH Princess Michael of Kent at Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge 29.4.2011.

She had on a large-brimmed hat that was round-shaped.  It was actually like the hat that the new empress of Japan recently wore, at a state ceremony, following the death of Emperor Hirohito.

The ceremony was very Oriental, in fact, but they were definitely Black people.  She had lots of curls that hung from beneath her beautiful hat.  Her hair was very long and gathered up under the hat.

She came up to join him wearing green high heel shoes that matched the green lower part of the regal cape that she wore.  She wore a maxi but it was split in the front, midway up the legs, to just below the knees.

She came regally up the church aisle, going up to meet the man – her groom.  She was alone as she progressed, the length of the aisle, towards the altar.

She joined him and stood up and turned around, doing a little pivot, so that her left shoulder was leading her around.  This movement brought her to face her audience.

When she did, she should though have moved out of the way.  By not having stepped to the side, she had ended up covering the groom.

However, he did not even know where to go.  Totally unaware of this gaffe, she simply smiled at the audience.  She was totally lost in her own world that was saturated with pride and vanity.

As if next to her, I heard her from where I was in the rear of the large church.  She impatiently directed him, through clenched teeth, saying,

“Come on, get beside me.”

However, whilst in back of her, he did not know whether to go to her right or her left.  She snapped at him, still smiling, as he was going to go to the right,

“Come on!”

This was the traditional side for the male but she impatiently snapped,

“Get over here on my left.  I want you on my left.”

I thought to myself,

‘My goodness, wouldn’t they have had rehearsals for this before?’

However, I realised that this woman was so utterly vain that she was being blinded by her vanity.

The dress was simply out of this world.  It was truly an haute couture original, à la Christian Lacroix, with just a hint of ostentation suggesting perhaps John Galliano’s creative genius.

It was covered with peacock feathers that were turned down, with the crowns down and not up.  They were, of course, shaped as though tiny fans.

I thought that direction to the fans an interesting one.  There were, too, precious stones throughout the gown between each plume.  These precious stones brilliantly glistened and added to the gowns dramatic effect.

It was utterly beautiful and utterly expensive.  This was a dress of light-green – olive – satin with matching shoes that you just knew some poor cobbler had to slave over to complete her outfit.  It was utterly expensive.  Utterly beautiful she was.

The cathedral was tightly packed.  Everybody was utterly enthralled by the sight of this beautiful woman.  She was very self-possessed and utterly vain.

She was the kind of handsome beauty that always married wildly successful men.  Her groom was so handsomely dark, strong-featured with a beautiful moustache and a little goatee.

He had a prominent aquiline nose.  Most of all, he had such wonderful, beautiful soulful eyes.

It was so very much so Merlin – the mouth, nose and eyes.  It was the same soul, using the amalgam of all the lives lived to date, to create this particular look.

He was Black with a very Nubian-to-East African look that somehow could maintain the overall physical attributes and integrity of the primary central features of the face, which was Merlin’s, in his last and just-completed life.  That gloriously magical lifetime of Merlin’s, here in fin de siècle twentieth century Toronto, when he and I were together and lovers did shine through.

It was very, very beautiful to have been a witness at this ceremony.

He was so much like Merlin yet so very timid.  Rather than timid, the operative word should be gracious – responsive to her (future my) authoritative self.  Very much the gentleman, gentle-souled and highly evolved was he.

Definitely, this future incarnation of Merlin’s found him being feminine-principled to my strong, take-charge, animus-charged persona though female.   Reincarnate male Merlin was yin to my future reincarnate female yang.  Together, again, we formed a solid and complementary partnership.

Whilst hovering over everyone in the cathedral, I viewed the splendid nuptials and was actually rather taken by the man.  I was, of course, not seen by anyone.

It was a high moment, at the level of soul, for both persons being married.

She did, of course, carry a bouquet in her hand and a very beautiful little bouquet it was.  It was very good to see them both.

_______________________________

As ever dream as if it is the very last dream your soul will have dreamt for this incarnation…  So go on, take a deep breath, plié, push down whilst mischievously grinning and start having the most fuck-all glorious flying dream ever.  Coz you are more beautiful of spirit than you’ve ever imagined on your better days…  I love you more and please continuing supporting my creative tour-de-force, uplifting dream memoirs!  

 

_________________________________

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

Astral Projecting into Dreamtime.

montreal2.

Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate.  In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.  

Image result for astral projection

Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s.  She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate.  Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of.  The energy between us was always simpatico.  I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.  

alex grey2

©Alex Grey

A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city.  At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.  

astral projected self-portrait

Astral Projected Self-Portrait.

Crayola on Paper 

©1984-2019 Arvin da Brgha. 

What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992.  There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra.  Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…

harpsichord2                    

*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals.  Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness.  I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light.  It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience. 

At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning.  All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space.  Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded.  Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.  

Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience.  This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken.  END.  

kensington market2

                                                            Dream one.  I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here.  Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space.  I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me.  It was most upsetting. 

I could not quite figure out what was going on.  It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment.  By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment.  Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake. 

However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact.  Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right.  Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself.  The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes. 

This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor.  Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor.  This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex.  I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death. 

There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see.  Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated.  I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body.  I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body. 

At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up.  Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body.  Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body.  Struggling, I pushed against my own body.  

It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body.  My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed.  I simply could not get up.  Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.” 

It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him.  “No, Arvin.  I have simply got to get up.  I will not suffer this.” 

With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed.  Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space.  Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death.  I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were. 

Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body.  When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there.  There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head.  This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.  

baobab2

It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed.  What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body.  It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground. 

Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion.  Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen.  The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body.  I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept. 

Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment.  Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen.  It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room.  Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge. 

Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort.  Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food.  She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me.  I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris. 

However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages.  It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state.  Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking.  Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing. 

But then she turned and looking into my face said, from under furrowed brows.  “Buh chile ah wha rang wid ounu face.  Chile yu muss tekk kare ah yur face an ting no man.”  At that, she drew closer, putting her hand over my face. 

Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…”  I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state. 

*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state.  There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits.  Ick!  I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache. 

Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown.  Charmant.  This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin.  END. 

Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face.  I was stunned by how realistic it all was.  Jan was so protectively nurturing of me.  Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances. 

She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her.  Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it.  Thoroughly enjoyed her energy.  Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen. 

This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes.  They were much like the tubes in the old radios.  A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery.  Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me. 

Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.” 

“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?” 

“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.”  Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed.  Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system.  So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came. 

Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space.  Very interesting.  Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later.  She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble. 

i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house.  Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora.  It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before.  More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state. 

They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway.  An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans.  I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place.  They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has. 

A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame.  I had been on it before.  Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out.  I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand. 

We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits.  The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques.  Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space.  We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space. 

There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use.  We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor.  Some were even on the wooden bed frame.  A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood. 

Jan kicked away the shard with her right big toe.  When I told her to be careful she boisterously chimed, “Me na kno say ma?  Me knoe man, me knoe say ah so de sinting go.  Yu ha fe wartch yur self too chile.” 

Jan was so refreshingly good to be around.  Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit.  At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.” 

She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.”  As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon.  I effortlessly moved through them as before. 

buenos aires2

                                                            Dream two.  In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight.  Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition.  In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere.  I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever. 

The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next.  What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door.  In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction.  It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls. 

It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots.  With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies.  I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio.  It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around. 

Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper.  Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is.  Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated.  White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red. 

Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were.  She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit.  Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant.  Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit. 

A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s.  Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall.  Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style.  Functional and comfortable, her criteria. 

Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles.  On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment.  Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.”  We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face. 

On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek.  He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me.  Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word.  Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller. 

He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me.  Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual.  Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him.  There was an obvious, loving bond between us. 

This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state.  But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul.  It was very electric between us.  So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating. 

I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say.  My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready.  Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too.  Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem. 

“And a total embarrassment for this family.  I just do not know how we can put up with this.  Look, what am I doing here anyway?”  Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!

“I’ll have none of this.  I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am.  I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.”  With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were. 

“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!”  Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this.  You own nothing here, nor are you running anything.  You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment. 

“That’s all you ever do.  So shut the fuck up!”  I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in.  Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted 

A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

                                                            Dream three.  Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there.  This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°.  Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next.  Again, much was different here. 

Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time.  When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there.  Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state.  There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief.  This was so stunningly incredible.  Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body.  This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore. 

This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane.  After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane.  This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh.  Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators. 

We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off.  It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism.  Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm.  Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom. 

This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence.  These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art.  The art of pure creative expressionism.  They then announced,   “Okay, okay, okay. 

“Here comes the other guys.”  This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players.  One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours.  There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side. 

The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white.  She had apparently had a double mastectomy.  Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent.  Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear

She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness.  Her body was truly bizarre.  It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike.  When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned. 

Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body.  More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden.  This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty.  As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies. 

There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu.  It was hard to tell which sex the individual was.  What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked.  This is what had caused her such distress. 

For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her.  She was lost in her beliefs.  The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences.  Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body. 

They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body.  If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s.  The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container.  This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word. 

Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus.  Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies.  They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule.  They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte. 

At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah.  There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground.  Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare.  Not everyone was naked however. 

Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman.  On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left.  Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat.  The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates. 

“Hi, how are you?  You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win.  You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing.  Look, I’m really happy for you.” 

She energetically thanked me.  Kathy wore a brown large blouse.  Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way.  She was so refreshingly real and normal. 

Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented.  Good for her.  The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration.  Some were tight buds, buds breaking open. 

Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime.  Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left.  A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod.  There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime. 

Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them.  Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes.  Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband.  Energetically, she had him come up and join us. 

He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus.  He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition.  The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach.  At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah. 

I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime.  She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense.  I was not upset by it, accepting her choice.  Alas, it was not the end of the world. 

Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy.  He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies.  He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach.  They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around. 

It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps.  The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality.  It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom.  This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums. 

Perfect teeth, on the four year old.  His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead.  He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes.  God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods. 

Spectacular!  He was happy and a precocious, charmer.  As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me.  Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful. 

“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his.  He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter.  It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me.  What do you think?”  

It was very direct and very connected.  With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon.  This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda.  Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed. 

Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life.  Good for him.  Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me.  She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be. 

There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground.  Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house.  The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree.  It had been singed on one side, during the fire. 

Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful.  Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St.  Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong.  Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts.  It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did. 

Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink.  It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place.  Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road.  As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street. 

At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora.  I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy.  He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight.  As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious. 

As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites. 

*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency.  It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to.  Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags.  Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness. 

Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it.  Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority.  Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior.  A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect. 

Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man.  Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way.  Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger.  It came with a pair of briefs attached inside. 

She instructed the young boy.  She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win.  She was her usual feisty self.  Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits. 

It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to.  This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism.  This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state.  Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora. 

“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.”  Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other.  Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left.  Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes. 

You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us.  Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided.  However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy.  He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have. 

Finally, we did not care for his arrogance.  Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont.  Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property.  I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.  

tammam-azzam-storeys-series-180-x-235-cm-acrylic-on-canvas-2015

                                                            Dream four.  Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all.  Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground.  Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings.  Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact. 

It was all very garish a sight.  As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere.  Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed.  The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures. 

In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground.  Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there.  My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well.  Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign. 

So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare.  Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road.  It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads.  The road did incline downwards as we went along it. 

This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood.  It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden.  Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily.  But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned. 

I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them.  Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live.  Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale.  Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived. 

We were able to peer inside the apartment.  It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out.  It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream.  It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels. 

No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space.  A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids.  Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids.  We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime. 

To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer.  Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other.  We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there.  Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building. 

Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park.  There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road.  The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did.  We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by. 

We’d originally turned right to get onto this street.  We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park.  When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park.  There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back. 

Here, it was very mellow.  Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots.  Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons.  A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family. 

She had two daughters and a son.  One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model.  She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version.  She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out. 

They were in our way but not obtrusively so.  We continued along and happened on these very young-souled  Americans.  We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled.  It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them. 

Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm.  As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff.  Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her.  She wore a white silk blouse. 

When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me.  A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided.  The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun.  So too was mine, for that matter. 

As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection.  It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours.  Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us.  Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders. 

The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away.  Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance.  Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing.  Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements. 

Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels.  She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away.  Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in.  Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more. 

Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.  

tour bus2

                                                            Dream five.  We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons.  We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship.  It was a new version of it.  It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world. 

This was all very scary for us, as we read on.  It spoke about after the history of things.  Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense.  So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings. 

Here there were poems and historical accounts of events.  There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication.  The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise.  It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel. 

The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed.  At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel.  Twice in a row, I thought.  Talk about lightning striking twice. 

This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha.  This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus.  The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast.  This was a very densely populous Asian city. 

There were also a ton of whites here, as well.  They also had very thick Australian accents.  I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book.  But almost everyone on the bus was. 

These people were very young-souled and frenetic.  Pandora and I were the only blacks here.  Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts.  He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book. 

Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent.  He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion.  These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus.  It just was not right. 

I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right.  Stop it!”  The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin. 

It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia.  The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians.  They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people.  Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus. 

When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand.  An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s.  He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne.  They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating. 

The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food.  They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed.  This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally.  They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists. 

One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents.  I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit.  Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!” 

At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them.  When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus.  Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board.  The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes. 

He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans.  On his thigh was the tattooed flag.  The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks.  He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt. 

This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness.  Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he.  Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out.  The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible. 

He carried a baby of about six months old.  Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him.  At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan.  They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter. 

The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up.  During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done.  The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit.  The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up. 

And boy did the infant ever go on a binge.  Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods.  For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food.  Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus. 

Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down.  My main target was the bespectacled zealot.  Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you?  Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!

“Get out!”  Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight.  Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour.  I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from. 

Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence.  They were completely stunned by my energy.  They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong.  After all I was black, not an Australian. 

Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness.  Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience.  Was going to have none of this shit.  Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus. 

Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too.  They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board.  You simply had to bail out, toute de suite.  We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora. 

I went outside in search of her, going up the road.  Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it.  The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not.  Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus. 

This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train.  So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness.  Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case.  I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.  

Reclining Buddha of Galvihara-sunny

                                                            Dream six.  I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees.  There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all.  She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her.  She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone. 

Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on.  She was being accommodatingly amiable.  I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank.  As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off. 

He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.”  At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling.  I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus.  Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere. 

It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most.  Possibly not even young-souled as yet.  I had always thought myself a much older soul than that.  After all, look at the degree to which I dream. 

On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled.  For one, the dreaming suggested as much.  Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve.  Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face. 

The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window.  An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses.  Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench. 

*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ.  The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar.  It was clearly the Jewish calendar.  However this was clearly a reference to Christ. 

Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included.  This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case.  This was a king soul on his last life.  As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.  

All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex.  Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene.  In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast.  How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples. 

Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.                             

        ___________________________________________

To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise!  Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.  

_________________________________________________________

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

Gosh that was fun!

20181109_161244

Thanks to World Ballet Day, there was positively nothing or no one that was going to dissuade me from hitting London town.  Armistice Day and La Bayadère, you say… ha!

IMG_20181005_183818
Naturally, I returned to London, in my ongoing research/quest for more connections to the past as it pertains to the six-volume dream memoirs.  Though I had hoped to publish volume three this year, 2018, ongoing research has meant its delay until Spring 2019.  

20181110_102152

After dropping luggage at the hotel in Russell Square, it was a quick dash on the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square Station where the 10-day London Pass with Oyster card was collected.  On this gloriously mild Saturday morning, I took a quick snap of St. Martin-in-the-Fields across Charing Cross, before slipping into the National Portrait Gallery.  

20181110_100708

Before having found what I went looking for, I first took a detour through the Tudor Gallery where, alas, there were no portraits of Margaret Beaufort.  That done, I moved down to the open space where the exhibition: Black is the new Black was housed.  

20181110_101121

Stunning portraits, I love the blue-blackened soulfulness of the portraits; these are all eyes that are thoroughly ensouled and lived-in.  Next, it was off to the salon where what I went looking for was handsomely displayed.  

20181110_101946

Enraptured, I passed long forevers fully engrossed by National Portrait Gallery’s recent acquisition of Wim Heldens’ oil masterpiece – portrait of the art collector and benefactor couple, Harry and Carol Ann Djanogly.  The oil on canvas is handsomely hung in salon 38 and was painted in 2017 by Wim.  Wim, I met in NYC at Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem’s West Village townhouse when we went out back in the early 1990s.  I had been in town visiting with Frans from Vancouver; we met when I then lived in Toronto and finally, the relationship ran its course on my relocation to the west coast and not to be overlooked but sex with Frans was as meh as warm, runny vanilla ice cream.  Of course, by the time that I was visiting Frans and he was out of town, I met Wim; the latter was sick in bed and I looked in on him between going to the theatre and galleries in the city.  Apart from godawful sex, Frans was a little too obsessed with Diana Ross for my liking – it all seemed too sissy-queer-boy, clichéd and banal. 

Distracted by Wim Heldens

Besides, by the visit where I met Wim, who was the warmest of souls – Wim is an old-souled scholar and it shows in spades in his works – I had long discovered the raunchy funk of hot sex deep into the woods of Vancouver’s Stanley Park where the world’s largest city park (1000 acres) is ever ten degrees warmer than elsewhere in the city during the sodden wintry months as the half millennium-aged sitkas keep the place comfortably warm.  There was no need for the ennui of sex with Frans after tying raunchy fuckers to a sitka and whipping them; besides, positively nothing beats fucking in nature – truly, it is the most empowering, grounding experience.  

20181110_102423

On leaving the National Portrait Gallery, I ambled down Charing Cross, took the time to admire the bronze springbok that lords over the entrance to the Republic of South Africa’s embassy with the maple leaf-festooned Canadian Embassy to the west across Trafalgar Square.  

20181110_104427

Down into the bowels of Charing Cross station, I then skipped and hopped the Bakerloo Line to Lambeth North Station.  There on a gloriously temperate and sunny Saturday afternoon, I made my way to the Imperial War Museum and was rather moved by the beauty of the metallic poppies that tearfully bled from a bathysphere-styled window at the museum’s domed rotunda.  This glorious display was part of the centenary celebrations of Armistice Day 100 years earlier which marked the close of World War I.  

20181110_105033

Standing in the atrium of the museum, I was reminded how geography does determine the scale of architecture.  Relative to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington D. C., there is no way that the relative limitless wide-open spaces of America would find military gear in such close cramped quarters as at the Imperial War Museum’s atrium. 

20181110_105330

I was there to take in the exhibition, Mimesis, which honoured, on the 100th anniversary of the close of WWI, the contributions of blacks from across the Commonwealth.  Turns out, it was not a photographic exhibition; rather, it was a most evocative of films.  

20181110_123058

From South Bank, it was back to Embankment Station and onto the Circle Line to Tower Hill Station.  There, emerging into the sparkling and relatively warm daylight, one was readily reminded of Vancouver temperatures at this time of year.  Into the perpetual queues one headed for a chance to gaze on the Crown Jewels at Tower of London.  

20181110_124012

Going in, the ravens were keeping a watchful eye… as is their wont and the tourists here were predominantly East Asian.  

20181110_131707

Seeing these metallic simians, I was reminded how good London’s fortune is not to be inundated by predatory monkeys… as is the case in both St. Kitts and Nevis.  

20181110_150555

After having viewed the Crown Jewels, this photo of Tower Bridge, suggested that the fast-moving clouds, though stormy-looking, would not break just yet.  

20181110_150612

About half an hour later, the vista to the west looked dramatically foreboding.  I tried to negotiate and decided that these clouds did not look all that fast-moving, besides they were considerably to the west.  

20181111_212656

Into one of the city’s ubiquitous and thoroughly indispensable Pret A Manger joints I slipped.  There, I dined on a hearty sandwich and had one of way too many raspberry smoothies.  

20181111_181415

Each day, wherever I travelled, there was always one in each pocket.  

20181112_223514

This little rocket was the must-have.  Always, there was one handily tucked away deep inside my black Dorothy Grant messenger bag as I darted about my favourite town, on my favourite West Indian isle – it really does vibrationally feel as though in the West Indies, besotting my insatiable soul with culture, art and more high-end inspiring fare.  

After having interminably waited out the rains, along came 1700 and time for the second to last day of the torch light ceremony at the Tower of London in honour of the centenary of WWI’s conclusion.  And so, of deference one waited out the rains, which rolled through in waves – waves they were which seemed increasingly more monsoon.  Finally, the show was begun and after having been soaked sans parapluie and too many souls – I do not like crowds, I opted to make this short clip as I could not see a damn torch on the ground and headed for the warmth of a hotel suite in Bloomsbury.  

20181110_122220

After being soaked to the gills to get into Tower Hill Station, no sooner than being on the platform and headed towards King’s Cross St. Pancras, along came the announcement that the station was now closed as there were too many souls on the platform to assure everyone’s safety.  Back out into the torrential downpour, we all grumbled, huddled and shivered; this downpour was seriously fierce.  

20181110_123628

After much aimlessly darting about the crowded and flooded streets of the city, two-plus hours later, finally a cab was dispatched and into a very cool hotel suite I arrived.  Somehow, in spite being soaked to the bones and frigidly cold, I managed not to have come down with the sniffles, a cough or runny nose. 

20181111_085020

Soon, wakefulness gave way to sleep and I was readily awakened into a plethora of dreams, which are always thrillingly, lucidly awakened in this favourite city of my well-travelled soul.  A day filled with adventure lay ahead; it was Armistice Day 2018 and I would manage to be captured on ITV film of the ceremony at the Cenotaph in Whitehall.  

20181110_150603

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and sweet dreams.  

__________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________

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

Coming Soon…

Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoirs:

Merlin & Arvin Cover 30042017

Soon, Volume I of the Six-Volume Memoirs of Merlin & me.  Quite remarkably, Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoirs will launch next month…  Stay tuned!

Coming soon in all media everywhere…. Thanks so much for your support these past years.  Love.  Light and as ever, Sweet Dreams!

Contact: arvindabrghainc@gmail

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved

Hot Rhythm.

hot-rhythm-1961

Hot Rhythm

Oil on Canvas

40 x 48 inc

©1961 Archibald J. Motley

Provenance: Chicago History Museum.

Love this rousing masterpiece!  

___________________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________________________

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

Two Men in the Studio.

Two Men In the Studio

Oil on Canvas

185.4 x 120.7 cm

1987-1989 Lucian Freud

Masterful.

__________________________________

If only I had begun audiocassette-recording the dreams on awaking prior to February 1989.  In mid-1987, I had the most lucidly awakened dream encounter with the artist, Lucian Freud.  I had been in a flying dream and instinctively knew that I was in London.  On alighting, I moved through a woodsy artist studio and found there the artist himself.

To better absorb his process, I had rendered myself invisible and remained in a corner whilst onlooking.  Without a doubt, I had dreamquested to a session for which both men – the subjects of this canvas – sat for this painting.  Of course, at the time, I was then a muse and lover to master printmaker and painter, George Hawken.  This was an immensely fulfilling time in my life; it was also rather adventurous as I was then quite happily ensconced in my relationship with Merlin.

Suspecting that he was ill with AIDS, Merlin had long canned our physical relationship.  Since I was in my 20s and one of my three primary needs is adventure, I most unashamedly roamed and salaciously ploughed the town.  Along with Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud’s masterful work has always fascinated me.  Not surprised then was I to have recently discovered that the trigger for that 1987 dream was the fact that we are entity mates.

Here’s to you and as ever sweet dreams and thanks for your ongoing support.

____________________________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________________

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

The Holy Grail – A Portrait of Jakob.

The Holy Grail - Portrait of Jacob

Oil on Canvas

45 x 40 cm

© 2015 Wim Heldens.

http://www.wimheldens.com/

https://www.youtube.com/embed/B9qTYPfx7JU“>http://

A true masterpiece.  Wim manages to validate his oldster Michael Overleaves with each sublime canvas.  Love it.  Love him more!

_________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

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