Davis III, Miles Dewey 26/5/26 <0> 28/9/91 Tiger 8.4.4 = 7
_________________________________________________
I am so looking forward to the opening of Don Cheadle’s Miles Ahead this week. i think of any other Jazz artist, Miles is the only one whose every album, on listening to it, I conclude is a favourite. This creative genius just oozed authenticity. Of course, a major part of his outréness and originality had to do with his having been an actual old soul.
I have always been partial to him as he was briefly married to Cicely Tyson who was a maternal first cousin of my late mother’s who in her youth did play the cornet. Of course, Cicely Tyson, who is still going strong and currently starring on Broadway, is an entity mate of Miles Davis’.
My creatively gifted mother whose songs are published in the hymnal of the now Wesleyan Church was a remarkable woman who was pure intellect and a source of fierce pride. She whose paternal grandparents were Sephardi from the small Brazilian community which settled in Nevis. Indeed, she who is now reincarnated in London, England, male and first-born and about whom I have dreamt – East Indian/Caucasian heritage in this lifetime and currently aged 13 years old.
Sadly, none of my dream encounters with Miles Davis were ever audiocassette-recorded as they were never had during the decade when I did so – 1989 to 1998. Each of those dream encounters did, though, validate his agedness of spirit and he seemed every bit an old soul during astral plane encounters.
In anticipation of this long overdue film – imagine that, the paucity of Jazz biopics when so clearly Jazz is rooted in Klezmer! More than that, on to the matter of saluting a true original, a true creative genius and a giant of Black high art.
*Sadly, I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to track down the title of the Miles Davis painting herein featured; alas, to no avail have I managed to have discovered its title et al.
________________________________
Birth of the Cool, 1957.
Kind of Blue 1959.
– This is the music (Kind of Blue) I am mostly likely to listen to, after having audiocassette-recorded the dreams, on awaking from a flying dream. This music is about finding centre whilst simultaneously remaining aloft in the realms of the flying dream. As West Indians would say, it’s sweet!
Sweet and blissful dreams be yours… thanks so much for the joyful uplifting magic you weaved in song. I love you more… A final breath wearily collapses, focus turns inward and into the sea of wonder you fall, flying upwards to heights previously unattained. Fly! Fly! Fly!
Happy Black History Month! Who cares about the Oscars? The most important point of power in all situations is being able to see through to the structure of anything. Those who cannot manipulate real time events to show themselves, chosen, entitled, special, ‘genius’ and all that nonsense will ever cheat, lie and steal. Please do tell in in what other universe would there be a tie between Katherine Hepburn and Barbra Streisand for Best Actress but in this one where the most venal racists run the show and everyone looks like another variation on Jackie ‘blasted god-fugly’ Stallone.
Go on, give each other awards; what does it finally matter when you know nothing of being cool and sophisticated as in those whom you so revile, vilify, loathe, incite others to hate – all the while crying of being victimised. You know… those marvellous people whose spirit you will never crush, despite the attempts of Orly Taitz and the returned de Torquemada – now no less fugly got up in reincarnational drag – Jackson, Woods and Cosby and you just know that the swine has only just begun. They, those marvellous people, who like dreams – wherein only truth and beauty exist – are the ones to have invented Jazz and whose spirit will never be eclipsed by your god-fugly ugliness. Yes, them… they who don’t need awards to show how special, chosen and what marvellous geniuses one so over-compensatorily is not!
Alas, for the truly marvellous people every day of the year is awards season; despite your alarming ugliness, you have positively no power over any of us when we set feet into our homes. There, despite your lunacy, we affirm our creaturehood, our beauty or phenomenalness and we turn on some Jazz which can speak to no one else as it speaks to every last one of us – not you! So while you infest the culture, like some fetid mould – which thankfully are never lasting – just know that the ugliness of your lies can in no way invalidate the beauty of Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Betty Carter, Lena Horne, Anita Baker, Sarah Vaughan, Diana Ross, Natalie Cole… and countless others.
So go on and speciously raise your rear right leg and take to the airwaves claiming, “Jazz has its roots in Klezmer!” Just remember this: forgiveness is the price a damn fool would gladly pay to forget anything. Clearly, you do not know Black people and come November, we won’t collectively have taken leave of senses and do as you would wish… not after Orly… Who cares about the Oscar vote? Our vote is the one that truly matters… Remember eight years ago… “I’m Voting For Her!” We do not forget… where is that displaced haus frau anyway? You know, the one who was partout on TV demanding that the unchosen sheeple, “Vote For Hillary!” followed by that demented laugh of hers… perhaps, she is too distracted these days trying to recall with which hand she ate last night.
Truly empowered are they who always say what the fuck they mean and never leave any doubt as to their resolve.
Incidentally, all the Jazz artists mentioned in this blog, I have to date done their Michael Overleaves. Some are listed in the Michael Overleaves Appendix page those which aren’t were only recently channelled; they are… Natalie Cole, Anita Baker and Lena Horne. Not in the least surprised was I to have found that Natalie Cole is an entity mate. Every time I hear her voice, I am instantaneously catapulted to a groove that I can only call a soul high… So then here are her Michael Overleaves with one of my favourite video performances of hers. Every idiosyncrasy of hers resonates to the very core of my being… God she could represent!
________________________________
*Richard is New York City academician whom Merlin met during the final couple of years of his life. This man had the most uncanny resemblance energetically to Merlin and I only met him a week after Merlin’s passing as he ventured to Toronto; he had previously planned to, to bid Merlin farewell. Alas, unlike Joe Morton who flew in from Los Angeles for 24 hours to be with Merlin, Richard had been too late but came nonetheless; the gesture was truly noble of spirit and was greatly appreciated.
Whilst the Moon transited both Taurus and my twelfth house, I would dream the most lucid astral plane dream in long ages. At the centre of that dream encounter was the man of the hour, the newly refocussed, Frank Sinatra.
Over the years, I have had very few dream encounters with this man. As befitting his Michael Overleaves, I found this man to be rather arrogant and abrasive.
*Frank Sinatra’s Michael Overleaves were channelled as those of a young soul sage. END.
This for me has always been an indicator that one is dealing with a young soul. They are just so damn impatient, arrogant and socially aggressive – sorry but these spiritual boors just bore the living shit out of me.
Prime example of the young-souled zeitgeist is deftly validated in the dream encounter with the quintessential young-souled female of the 20th century, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. Add to all that animus-charged angst is the fact that she also happened to have been a young-souled king.
Her effect on me during the dreams of December 30, 1992 – which in this blog are entitled: King Holding Court – are the dynamic of a late mature soul (self) being socially shunned by a young soul (Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis). These persons, for me, are extremely enervating and real crushers of my aura.
Although, to be sure, when Merlin was incarnate I would have suffered much with regards socially aggressive young souls, now I simply do not suffer. I simply walk away – life is too fucking short to suffer spiritually dense-energied boors.
In any event, the dream was of Frank Sinatra being feted as the arrivé astral plane habitué that he then was. This was one of the most beautiful, healing and lucid dreams imaginable.
Well you can bet your bottom dollar that I spent the next several days saturating the walls of my Montréal home with Sinatra’s sublime soulfulness. I have chosen to include all the dreams had that day as they allow me to fill the spaces between with another YouTube video of Sinatra’s shamanic wizardry.
At the time, it was Sunday, May 24, 1998 and the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape CCXLVIII and are to be found in Volume XXV of the 25-volume dream opus. Be well and as ever, know that the love you afford me by being herein focussed is relished with every fibre of my creative soul and, in turn, is returned to you tenfold.
Sweet dreams – for we are, you and me, marvellous shamans. I love you more!
__________________________
A room, where there was a tall countertop, proved the setting for the first dream. Two large books were sitting on the countertop whilst a fat Jewish man was putting on a play.
I too was supposed to have been putting on a play. Going to one of the books, I opened it and looked inside.
A black-covered book, it contained fascinating information. For starters, it stated that on June 5th, I had tested HIV+.
On learning this, I remained rather detached. I was not in the least bit devastated by the news.
I thought that, perhaps, this had likely occurred when I had been off being frisky in Vancouver’s Stanley Park. Being blasé about the news, I shrugged saying aloud, “Oh well, that’s life.”
Next I was naked and squatting. I looked back over my shoulder at my body and thought that at some point my body was going to become excessively skeletal.
Honestly, I was not upset to have learnt this news. Later on, I would get together with Xerxes Hamelin who was seated on a bunk to my immediate left.
Turning to look at him, I told him the news and adding that he needed to go and get tested. He, too, was not especially upset and remained seemingly resigned to the ramifications of the reality at hand.
Holding my hand, he said that it was okay with him and that we would move through this together. Furthermore, Xerxes said that whether or not he tested HIV+, we would remain together.
He assured me that we would go through it all. I was reminded of how fiercely loyal an individual Xerxes Hamelin is.
The Jew was stout with curly black hair; too, he had a bit of a receding hairline. He was most intent on putting on his play and was quite passionate about it.
Myself, I had lost all focus with being creative. I knew that it was going to take me some time to adjust to experientially being in this new space. There would be a lot to have to assimilate.
At the time, I had told Xerxes Hamelin that I was already taking a whole battery of pills – vis-à-vis being HIV+. Seemingly, among other things, I was also taking AZT pills.
So far, none of the drugs were proving toxic which was nice to have known. I was wearing a black jockstrap whilst seated on my folded legs and looking down at myself.
Looking at the outside of my left thigh, I was inspecting myself with visions of what aesthetic horrors laid up ahead. There was a moment there of chilling terror.
The interlude was, though, brief as I realigned my energies by starting to do deep yogic breath exercises; thus, I eclipsed all negative thought processes. Quite simply, there was no time to be negative as nothing was to be accomplished by being thusly focussed.
After having known so many people who have passed of AIDS, I had to be accepting of the inevitably of Life. In the end, I chose to be philosophical about this change in my life experience.
I must say that one had to be more positive about the inevitable. After all, death was merely a transition into the greater community.
Indeed, more persons have died than have lived.
________________________
Next, in this the second dream, I was in a salon where on one side there were large floor-to-ceiling windows. This was a long salon and 18th century in style.
The style was decidedly French and the colour a soft, soothing blue. Lots of chandeliers dominated here which were pear-shaped.
Lots of persons were here and everyone sat on Louis something-or-other chaises. The chairs were white with gold filigree.
Down the centre of the salon ran a plush-looking red carpet. I sat, down in one corner of the room, being none-too-loud-personalitied.
There were all kinds of famous persons scattered about the salon. Too, there were non-famous persons none of whom I recognised.
As for the famous persons, some were no longer incarnate whilst very much so alive at present.
A door stood off to my left across from where I sat. Though I was with someone, I cannot now recall who exactly it was.
That particular door opened and revealed an incredibly intense blue light. The light flooding into the room was also the same intense blue and, by far, was more than sunlight.
Nor was it platinum-hued or matted as if the Moon’s light. The light flooding the room through the opened door was incredibly intense.
The large regal-looking double doors had opened simultaneously from outside. Goodness, I could not believe what next happened.
Into the stately salon walked the recently discarnate Frank Sinatra. Quite simply, this man exuded power itself.
God… I simply had to sit up, straight-backed, in my chair.
*I can’t recall ever having had a dream encounter with this man whilst he was incarnate, though, I may have. Too, I have never really paid much attention to his musical career.
Certainly, I was not anticipating a dream encounter with this individual. Indeed, as it is, I am loathed to have to admit dream encounters with famous persons. END.
Straight away, I stood up in deference to the elder creative statesman. Quite obviously, Frank Sinatra had now awakened from the so-called ‘soul sleep’ to being an astral plane habitué adept.
After having completed the transition to being no longer focussed on the physical plane, this was a coming-out party for the much-loved entertainer. God, it was good to have been there in the salon.
Frankly, I had no clue why I was there. Way down the exceptionally long hall were Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr..
The latter two, of course, are older astral plane habitués than Frank Sinatra. Too, the comic genius Charlie Chaplin was closer to the door with Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. to greet Frank Sinatra.
All the stellar personalities, who had already passed on, were closest to the door through which Frank Sinatra entered. Next in line, were the incarnate celebrities who were familiar with Frank Sinatra at the time of his passing.
Jay Leno was one of the incarnates present at the astral plane salon. He got up and nobly walked over to greet Frank Sinatra.
Jay Leno had been the one to usher Frank Sinatra into the room and was quite an affable easygoing host. Frank Sinatra was so fuck-all fantastical and magnetic.
What was most extraordinary about this dream was how undeniably Alive Frank Sinatra was. He looked no more than fifty years old.
Above all else, Frank Sinatra looked well-rested. There is simply no other way of describing how he looked and energetically felt.
There was such an abundance of love in this room – even more so than outpoured at his passing. Truly phenomenal was it to have been in this salon.
What remained with me, long afterwards, was what an honour it was to have experienced this transcended being’s awakening. Truly uplifting an experience it was for me.
I think that I may have been with Xerxes Hamelin. In any event, as we stood there clapping and cheering, excited to see him, the arrogant one simply turned his back on us as though we were so much uninvited guests. At the time, I had been thinking that he was going to make his way over to us and whilst en route he would be shaking hands with everyone.
Alas, no such luck. He did shake hands with some long-dead celebrity who remained seated on the ornate-looking chairs.
I believe that it was someone whom he had known earlier in his career and who was a record or film producer. Someone, it was, whom one would never have known for being a member of the public.
I was left with the impression that Frank Sinatra was not only difficult but arrogant as all hell. I for one was not put out by his behaviour.
I was thrilled to have seen him awakened, as it were, into the light. This was not about gawking at celebrities but, rather, I was there to salute his just concluded and quite accomplished life.
After all, he had creatively achieved a fantastical amount. Truth be told, 200 albums is nothing to sneeze at.
My companion and I had been the first and, it turned out, only ones to have gotten up and clapped. This made us look that much more out of sorts.
As if to show his disapproval, Frank Sinatra had suddenly turned his back on us.
We had made embarrassing arses of ourselves; his reaction was, more or less, “Shut up and sit down!”
Way down at that end of the salon, there was a great deal of laughter as he, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. got reacquainted. Frank Sinatra looked so incredibly on; he was so in tune with his very soul itself.
He was in total command of the situation. He knew where it was at.
There were no misconceptions as to what was going down. After having moved on from a rather accomplished life, he had just arrived in grand style.
Power to him!
*I think that it should be stated that part of the reason for Frank Sinatra’s arrogance is owing to the fact that he was authentically channelled as a young soul. Furthermore, this was a young soul sage which means that he would be possessed of much dramatic and aristocratic airs.
With such Michael Overleaves, at the very least, Frank Sinatra would definitely come off as acutely arrogant. As a recent astral plane habitué, Frank Sinatra could be expected like all young souls to be arrogant, blunt and frankly rude.
Either way, that does not detract from his stellar creative accomplishments. Certainly, I was not going to hold it against him being merely human even when an astral plane habitué. END.
_____________________________
I was working in a corner, in this the third dream, at the offices in Vancouver. Whilst walking south, I was looking for a place to sit and work.
Rashima Mittal was trying to pre-set something on the seat which I wanted. Calling out to her, I let her know that I had already taken the seat.
There were no hostilities between us; in the end, she ended up taking the seat ahead of mine. At the time, it was nighttime out.
_____________________________
Whilst in another office working, in this the fourth dream, I noticed at the supervisor’s podium writing away was none other than Kari Laitinen. He was writing on a writing pad.
On noticing me, he blushed – he was being shy. Going over, I warmly greeted him whilst marvelling at his handwriting.
He remained shy as we warmly visited together. For most of the conversation, he shyly looked down and not because he was trying to avoid or shun me.
Initially, I had been standing before him and then moved around to the side of the podium. By so doing, I ended up standing on his immediate right.
What struck me most was that he was not writing in French. Rather, he was using a language of symbols which seemed more so Middle Eastern; possibly, it was Arabic if not Hebrew.
Though there were others around, they didn’t factor into the scheme of things. What struck me, too, was the fact that aspects here were set simultaneously outdoors.
Love these works especially more so as they have been recently relocated within the gallery; they are better displayed now. A true shaman of the first order, Norval Morrisseau.
Michael Jackson by Andy Warhol. On this the anniversary of Michael Jackson’s birth, I thought to pay tribute to one of the most inspiring creative geniuses to have ever graced this world. This is a work by Andy Warhol which is part of the Revolver Gallery’s Andy Warhol: Revisited – A Pop Art Exhibition in Yorkville at 77 Bloor Street West, Toronto. One of the truly fantastic shows to have graced Toronto in long ages.
I finally got to attend a couple of weeks ago with my brother and my only nephew – in town for the summer from the Bahamas. We had a good visit and the show was the most spectacular show I have seen in long ages. Beautifully curated and just intimate enough that it doesn’t end up being overwhelming or, more importantly, underwhelming.
Michael Jackson: August 29, 1958 [-O-] June 25, 2009.
Here’s a dream, previously shared in this unique and utterly unrivalled blog of mine, of Michael Jackson being his marvellously shamanic wonderful self. I love you more, Michael – sweet and blissful dreams.
![20150609_123817[1]](https://dreampoetica.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/20150609_1238171.jpg)
Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul. 