The Black Duchess!

Tudor matriarch.  Hanoverian Prince.  American Windsor.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the Black Duchess.  

https://theblackduchess.com

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

 

Won’t Take The A Train

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As I slipped into sleep, on Friday, July 9, 1993, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house – though not the least bit focussed on Merlin prior to sleep – the dream shaman would manifest and weave the most sublime magic yet.  As will become fast evident, the first three dreams that day were about process.  I was during those dreams, divesting myself of the baggage that affects one’s waking consciousness/persona.  These are waking state survival mechanisms which would be disposed of, in each successive dream, so that I could be elevated enough in spirit to have moved on to the truly noble experiences of the later dreams.  

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Whilst yet another stood beside me, I was looking into a full-length mirror.  At the time, I was with Sjaak van der Velde – friend, current lover and Manhattan cabaret singer.  As I stood there, in the near-darkened bathroom getting cleansed, I keenly looked at my face.  On looking down, I noticed that my entire body was nude; it was completely depilated.  This, of course, presented a big challenge because I am so vain – big hair and all.  I was mildly horrified that my gorgeous pencil-thin moustache was no more.

To say the least, as intended, the moustache and big hair do nothing but scream vain solipsism.  As I try warping self to stay with the ageist, lookist gang, vanity ends up making things that much more superficial.  I spent a great deal of time really scrutinising the lack of facial hair.  After assessing things, I finally came to like the naked look of my exposed upper lip.  ‘What the hell,’ I thought.  I began laughing aloud by grinning down my self-consciousness and vanity.  Soon, I grew to like my smile a lot.  It was truly wonderful.

Then who should appear in the mirror to my left, though never next to me in the dreamtime, but Len Morse.  He, too, had recently shaved his moustache in the waking state.  I was surprised to see him.  I guess that there is some soul connection that we share which was clearly being alluded to.  He has been present in a few dreams of late.  He was warmly looking out at me as if to say,  “Oh really now?  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Nothing to be self-conscious of…”

Frankly, I rather liked the nudeness of my face and head minus the moustache and big hair.  The whole thing was a true revelation.  I genuinely looked handsome because I wasn’t trying to run from or hide behind anything.  It was truly uplifting.  What was so empowering about the revelation, too, was the fact that the moment at which I became relaxed with myself – unconditionally accepting myself – my eyes awakened more completely.  It was as though they had never shone so brilliantly, indeed, shone so beautifully before – absolutely revolutionary!

All this maya only caused me to hysterically laugh enjoying the absurdity of trying to get caught up and lost in lookism.  ‘Who frigging cares?’  That was the essence of the wisdom being disseminated here by my higher self.  This new perspective was truly a rare and treasured gift.  It was quite the uplifting experience and one not soon forgotten.  

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Next, in the second dream, I was outdoors in the daytime.  I was in this heavily trafficked, overpopulated metropolis.  It did feel as though I was at Seventh Avenue and 23rd Street.  Whilst, crossing 23rd Street, I was on the west side of Seventh Avenue going north in Manhattan.  I wore a knapsack which was much like the one in the waking state.  Close to my chest, my arms were crossed and folded.  They clutched a book that I was currently reading.  As I passed a young, White couple, they made socially aggressive, racist remarks about me.

‘I don’t want this kind of energy, at all, in the dream state,’ I thought impatiently deflecting their ignorance.  When I got to the other side of the road, I felt unresolved about the whole thing.  So, with that, I turned to look after them.  They veered off, on seeing me eyeing them but I knew that they had wanted to cross Seventh Avenue – on the north side of 23rd Street.  They headed off going east, to the right, on the north side of 23rd Street.

Impatiently I purposefully and heavily strode on my heels, back towards them, soon overtaking them.  On catching up to them, I walked alongside.  The woman was closer to me and him closer to the traffic.  He was considerably taller than her.  They were a very waking-state-focussed, hard-edged, racially aggressive, pinched couple.  Big-boned and Yuppified – they were the epitome of North American, aggressive, merchant class greed.  In a rapid-fire, ballistic staccato, I began aggressively repaying their racist bile bit for bit.  I repaid their aggressive verbal abuse bit for bit.

They were stunned by my response.  As with the codified behaviours of the racist paradigms in the waking state, which keep racially preyed on Blacks fearful of defending themselves against such actions, I was not expected to retaliate.  I had no intentions of sublimating any aspect of self, either here or elsewhere, to suffer anyone and their bullshit.  Yet what could they have done?

They simply turned glacial and remained petrified acting as though one were, all of a sudden, not there.  I had no intentions of having them dump this kind of psychic garbage onto me.  I slapped the racial animus back in their direction and was able to divest myself of such negative energies.  Perhaps, though likely not, my response gave them pause for thought.  

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The third dream then found me going down into the belly of the underground.  I proceeded to take, what would prove, an extensive series of train rides.  I had been down in this particular sprawling subway station.  There were no pillars in between the tracks.  The station was not unlike London’s Liverpool Station and though similarly dimensioned, however, it was completely below-ground.  Whilst waiting for the train to arrive, I had gone and stood close to one of the ends of the platform.  Raising my leg, I had placed my right foot on an orange-coloured railing whilst waiting.  Close by were two White women standing and speaking.

Long, flowing, drop-waisted dresses, that were light summer fare, they both wore.  For being close to them, they fell silent and projected that cool steely edge that was informed by their racist perceptions.  This was not the kind of energy that I wanted to be around.  I strongly resented having this hideous grey light, of waking state racially-tinged maya, flooding and destabilising the Chi of the dreamtime.  Since this was not my scene, I chose to tune out their invasive, racially predatory, psychic aggression altogether.  Pretty soon, they came to realise how utterly ridiculous what they were doing was.

Immediately, they stopped their bullshit and resumed being human.  The WST (waking state transference), in which they indulged, towards me evaporated.  The air became noticeably clear… less dense-energied.  Soon thereafter, the train rolled into the station and we boarded together.  Unusually large, most impressively, there was also a dizzying amount of persons on board this train.  It took the longest while, for us to get on board, as throngs flooded out from the train at our station.  Even when finally we boarded, the bloody thing was still overgrown with humanity.

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I eventually arrived at this particular stop where, again, it was densely populated.  Wherever you looked, it was lushly overgrown here with incredibly large arboreal giants.  

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Not surprisingly, in this the fourth dream, it was impressively landscaped here.  There was a dizzying array of flora and most of them were not readily familiar.  I was up on a winding road that rose up a high hilltop.  Along the way, I encountered an old Black woman.  Goodness was she ever ancient.  Hers was a face that was on the plus side of ten millennia.  To match every lifetime-filled millennium that she had outlived, boy did she have a lot of life and personality.  This was clearly her astral body, which I was encountering, whoever this well-travelled, marvellous old soul was.  This sprawling metropolis was distinctly French.

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This place did remind me of being at Montmartre when looking down into Paris.  This metropolis, however, was several times larger than Paris.  So many eons older than Paris, was this metropolis, it even seemed vastly older than the old woman.  Her lovely dark-complected body, reminding me so of some West Indian women’s, she was so readily familiar.  This metropolis was easily twenty millennia older than Paris.  A truly august-souled metropolis this was.

The woman, along the road on the side of the hill, much reminded me of Clarice Jack who lived in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  Of course, Clarice lived next-door to the church that Harella built.  She was a big-boned, large-bosomed, full-figured lively gal.  She was turning about, busying herself, doing some landscaping repairs along the side of the road.  On approaching her, I asked how to get to a concert hall.  I had been en route to some destination which, presently, I could scarcely recall.  

“Oh no, no, no, my dear…  You have to go all de way back down into town.  It’s not at Palais Royale, in fact.  Don’t even think of there.  You have to go and get some other trains, to get you someplace else…”  Her tongue darted back and forth, over her ever-moist lips, as her lively rapid-fire French gave directions. 

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She had pointed, off in the distance, to what seemed like Grand Palais.  It, too, had a companion like Petit Palais in Paris.  Here, however, these stately buildings were easily four times more colossal than their waking state counterparts.  To anything in the waking state, the scale of architecture here was beyond compare.  Gargantuan doesn’t, even remotely, convey the towering scales of the proportions here.  Everything here was grown over.  The metropolis, centred in this fantastic locale, was layered with each rise and fall of the civilisation readily discernible.  In that sense, this metropolis was much like Rome is.

Everywhere, there were visible signs of crumbling architectural masterpieces.  Still, other long-abandoned structures became the outer shell for more recent revivals of themselves.  The latest additions, to an old ruin, could have occurred four millennia later and still have been easily a dozen millennia old – truly ancient.  There were so many different strata of architectural styles layered one atop the other.  This truly was a living museum of architectural giants.  It was impressive, to say the least.  One felt so utterly nouveau, for being of waking state Earth, as none of Earth’s civilisations can architecturally boast any such richness of character.

Great epochs of civilisations grew on top, through, about and around themselves in this impressive astral plane metropolis.  This place was quite beautifully landscaped.  Everywhere there were mound-like hills, like the one that I was on, which were forested areas of lush growth.  They looked like some of the better-gardened neighbourhoods of Naples.

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Next, the fifth dream had me taking my leave of her.  I went down the hill, into the metropolis, where I entered one of the city’s many termini.  This one much reminded of Gare d’Austerlitz in Paris.  Here, too, this terminus was easily seven times more colossal.  I began my marvellous adventure by taking a number of trains.  There would be a few transfers at other, just as massive, termini along the journey.  Here, at all times, I travelled with a silent astral guide who remained just to my rear.  He seemed to be younger and was definitely White.  

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There was a staggering amount of people in transit here.  People here were also very quiet.  The majority of communication was telepathically engaged.  There were so many tracks all of which were being used by trains.  This was clearly a metropolis on a planet whose population easily soared beyond 17 billion (I meant to say 70 billion).  With lots of transfer points converging all at the same terminus, this particular station was a major hub.  This travel that I was doing, the vehicular transports I was using, merely proved secondary to what was really at play here.

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I was going through different planes, travelling through different dimensions, and realities.  I was in transit – for the ease of waking consciousness, much of this has been perceptually transliterated as being modes of travel comparable to waking state paradigms.  The trains were capable of transporting one, to various locales, at protected faster-than-usual speeds.  However, the travel was definitely destined.  We travelled along a set, guided course.  It was, if you like, a willed form of travel.  It was not as though one were aimlessly wandering about a wilderness or city.

For being buried below-ground, it suggested that this was travel that was deeply rooted in the domains of the soul itself.  There was a definite route, a purposeful intent, and a clear objective for undertaking the journey.  Although for much of the time, especially when I was on the terraced hilltop with the old Black woman, I couldn’t quite recall why I was trying to make a definite rendezvous.  All that I knew was that I simply had to get there.  As it were, I had a destined appointment.  For following along certain experientially mapped out routes, one could interdimensionally travel whilst on board these trains.  

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Whilst I was on one of the trains, when in transit, I sensed that I was not alone.  Looking around, in search of someone’s familiar energetic signature, there on this utterly crowded train I found Merlin!  I was so blown away.  So that the dream wouldn’t be aborted, by my whiting out and prematurely awakening, I had to contain myself.  I can’t say here how utterly arresting it was to have seen him.  

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Not since he had walked into the salon, in that dream on Saturday, July 25, 1992, had Merlin’s beauty so moved me.  Merlin here was as real and as focussed as ever he was, the seven years that I had known him, on the other side of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality.  I was so thrilled.  I became overwhelmed with genuine happiness.  I simply couldn’t believe that this was happening.  I was acutely aware that I was dreaming.  Oh my goodness – this was enlightenment and then some.  Seeing him was akin, to having been away and upon my return opening the door, to have Whoopi come rushing towards me – her familiar pigeon-toed sweetness being the most treasured gift in my life at present.

One glimpse and you fall in love all over again.  Seeing him, I felt all the quiet rapture that I felt – on Friday, October 1, 1982 – when he ambled into my life.  On slipping in through the glass-paned door of a Hell’s Kitchen walkup, Merlin began weaving the most sustained, sublimed magic.  Merlin, to look at him, was such an encapsulation of health and inner beauty.  Goodness, I was completely blown away.  Merlin wore a light, gauze-fabricked shirt that was very much so from the Indian Subcontinent.  Caramel-coloured and ancient-looking, it was reminiscent of many of the ones he so favoured – ones which were perpetually sillaged with patchouli’s grounding signature.

The shirt was covered throughout with tiny rosebuds and other petals – exquisite.  This was so Merlin in every refreshing detail.  A long-sleeved shirt that was buttoned at the wrists, he wore, but with a bit of ballooning just aft the wrists.  So thin and loose a fabric was it that it seemed diaphanous.  Merlin was the picture of health, so much so that, his skin actually glowed near-imperceptibly.  The light was the faint glow, which was the subtle undulating glow, of his aura.  

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This was much the effect that one would observe, if photographing someone, through a soft-focussed lens.  Yet it was more than that, there was a definite hum to his aura’s vibration.  There was so much flesh and vitality to his face and the rest of his still-rakish body that I was left overjoyed at the sight of him.  His mane was beautifully coiffed in a long, leonine, gentle fall.  Interestingly, it was not at all grey or greying.  For that matter, Merlin’s hair was not greying as it was at the time of his passing.

Additionally, Merlin’s beard was not white.  He looked like a much healthier version of himself, as he was at age thirty-five, when we met.  It was so fuck-all fabulous to have seen him.  It was great to have experienced him.  Seated there, languorously looking into the forever of his familiar eyes, my spirit simply danced for joy.  I vibrationally zinged at a higher frequency, on seeing him, to have experienced him yet again.  To have drunk of his familiar spirit was that longed for elixir that my wandering soul so quenched.

Merlin silently looked over, validating that he recognised me, with the most intimate of smiles.  A smile it was by which, for too long now, I had not been warmed.  We communed, though our communication was telepathic, at the level of spirit.  Our communication was not only mentally accomplished but it was emotionally complex and thorough.  We immediately connected, more to the point, we did intimately connect.  There was no getting around the fact of this having been why I had felt so compelled to quest, to journey, in search of this concert.  

On finally having a rendez-vous with Merlin, what stellar music of souls this was.  I knew, there and then, why I had been in transit making all these connections and travelling at such great speeds.  I was in an astral plane metropolis, one which clearly served as a resting and inspirational space, for souls in transit – quite wonderful indeed.  There I sat, on the fast-moving train, flying without moving.  How utterly rapturous a living dream postcard this dream was – especially after our last profound encounter, a year ago.  Sure, there had been other dream encounters during that interval.

This, however, was a dream of high order.  This was a dream which existed at the same heights of spirit as that, on Saturday, July 25, 1992.  Merlin’s eyes were so large, clear and focussed.  Merlin here was so serene.  He was transcendent.  It blew my mind just to look at him.  For resonating with him, I felt myself quivering with rapture.  To feel the quiet purr of his spirit so close, and so familiar a spirit, was more than even I could have hoped for during pre-sleep meditations.

There was no getting around the fact that Merlin was now considerably more elevated than, when we last kissed in that dream, on Saturday, July 25, 1992.  Merlin was now more in control.  He had greater mastered his astral body since then.  Back then, he wore a cloak that had a cowl.  Merlin looked every bit the magus that he was.  It was just like the cowled cloak that he had worn in our initial dream encounter, July 1978, four years before finally meeting on the physical plane.

Merlin here was so much more elevated than ever he had been in life or since his passing.  Now, he was casually dressed but still looked every bit the magus.  Indeed, Merlin here was the dream magus ascended.  This dream was so very healing for my spirit.  Then, on Saturday, July 25, 1992, Merlin was tying up loose – as he was experienced in that sublime dream.  In that dream, Merlin thanked me for having served him nobly and in a healing capacity.

Thanks to his life task, Merlin had awakened the magus within me as I served him during his illness.  This shared task of ours enabled me to become more spiritually focussed.  As a result, as mentor to me, Merlin initiated my accelerated spiritual growth.  In this dream, Merlin was simply saying hello.  No postcard, across the seas of time and dimensions, could have been more beautiful a gift received.  I could not believe that I was seeing Merlin.  He did not, after having set out and sent me that one momentous dream on Saturday, July 25, 1992, have to send me yet another momentous dream.  Yet here he was, by express transit no less, sending me a most magus, evolved and uplifting dream postcard.

Thank goodness my mind was fully aligned with spirit and the soul, as validated by my Venus-Uranus conjunction, enabling me to assimilate the potency and depth of this most sublime of gifts from Merlin.  At that moment, when I found Merlin, the train was speedily travelling above-ground.  The glow of his aura was further highlighted by the swells of sunlight, whose crests broke and oceanically flooded into the train, from the sunny outdoors.  The merry sunlight added to the intensity of the encounter’s sensuality.  I was so captivated by Merlin’s sublime beauty that I had not caught the conductor’s announcement.

 

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A little dark-haired boy then announced that we would have to change trains.  The boy had stepped up to a round circle, in the middle of the aisle, before the doors.  In a vertical shaft of light, there the young, male astral guide stood perfectly still.  He then announced to us the different transfer points – all of which he telepathically did.  

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 Next, the sixth dream found all three of us – Merlin, the youthful astral guide and me – seated on a bunk in a rustic, near-dark, high-ceilinged bedroom.  There were marvellous, dark wooden beams, high overhead in the ceiling, which created that familiar astral plane look.  Whilst seated on the edge of the bunk, our legs dangled over the side.  Merlin was on my immediate right as we visited side-by-side.  His energies were so very warm and familiar.  The house was unmistakably large, like everything else in this dimension.  Incidentally, the ceilings here were vaulted.  There was no mistaking that this dream was set on the astral plane.

*The key signature of the astral plane is its phenomenal architecture.  The astral plane seems to serve as incubator and one from which great thinkers and movers, from time to time, come along and manifest their impressions thereof into the waking state.  These great thinkers being architects such as: Antoni Gaudí, Frank Lloyd Wright and others.  In these dreams, set on the astral plane, architecture is marked by the rustic, the aged, the organic – the fully concretised and usually in proportions that are not of this world.  Everything seems much larger and more solid than even in the waking state.

There is nothing ephemeral about the architecture of the astral plane.  The most impressive thing, about architecture on the astral plane, is the staggering amount of details that are worked into these true works of art.  Structured and sound, one always immediately feels secure, is architecture on the astral plane.  END.

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The young, astral guide was on my left, silently holding the large book of photographs, as Merlin guided me through its pages.  One series of photographs was of a guy who was water-skiing.  The guy reminded me, as a matter of fact, of Maddox Pool.  We looked at the photos which were taken, from the perspective of someone, at the rear of the boat to which he was tethered whilst skiing.  

In one of the photos he had taken away his right hand, from the grip, to energetically grin and wave.  The photos in the book were not static.  They were holographic yet, somehow, they never extended beyond the page.  They were three-dimensional but you were not looking at a film.  Instead, you were looking down into a three-dimensional holographic image which was within the borders of each photo.  It was in these shots that the waterskiing young man looked so much like Maddox.

He was dark-haired and the picture of health.  The water was crystalline and eye-scorching blue.  He was about twenty-two to twenty-three years of age – exactly the same age that I was when Merlin and I met in New York City.  Merlin telepathically explained to me, as we looked at the photographs, that this photo was representative of himself after his first bout of pneumocystis with full-blown AIDS.  Merlin told me that this was the nature of the work that he was presently doing.

Astral plane habitués, such as Merlin, after they had done work on themselves could elect to assist persons still incarnate and moving through the illness.  The crisis of AIDS was so impactful, on humanity at this point, that those who were discarnate had to direct a great deal of energy planetside to those incarnates who were moving through the experience.  When persons went from being advanced with HIV, all the way to being sick with full-blown AIDS, then they on the astral plane would work with them after their first bout of major illness.  

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Merlin explained that they were seen to have a resurgence of vitality because of the energy work, being directed to the incarnate full-blown persons, by astral plane habitués in his position.  This is precisely as had been the case with Merlin, in the spring, summer and early autumn of 1988, after his first bout of pneumocystis – all of which abruptly atrophied when he was betrayed by that stupid drunken woman, Morag O’Hoare.

Merlin also intimated that the energy work came not only from persons such as him, between lives on the astral plane, as well as from souls above and beyond the astral plane.  This was energy that they were sharing, with afflicted physical plane habitués, which they could then use to sustain their lives for a year or two or even a decade plus.  Merlin further shared that they could indefinitely live on, to the full course of their lives, if they so chose.

Though they were fully capable of surviving long-term with the virus, which allegedly led to AIDS, people planetside had not yet made the realisation that they did not have to atrophy and die because they had tested positive for the HIV virus or for going full-blown with AIDS.  This ability, of afflicted incarnates, to live on had to do with willpower.  Choice was the issue in this situation.  They must have wanted to remain incarnate.

They must have wanted to live and to accomplish certain tasks.  The nature of the support system, that one surrounded oneself with, was crucial to being able to become long-term survivors.  Persons really did not have to pass on so soon, Merlin intimated, after discovering that they were HIV positive or full-blown with AIDS.  Humanity presently had such stultifying fear of death that afflicted persons ended up, literally, terrifying themselves to death.  It did not help much that there were so many stigmas associated with AIDS.  At present humanity, for the most part, did not yet realise that death was merely but a refocussing of one’s energies.

“Death…” said Merlin “…was no big deal.  Come on, look at me.  I’m here, aren’t I?  How different am I?” he intoned in a quiet whisper rather than telepathically.  ‘Can’t argue that one,’ I thought.

Merlin was as human and as real as, he had ever been every day of our being together, during our glorious seven-year relationship.  Even though I could see him, and indeed touch him, he was so much more evolved and frankly better off for being in that dimension of purified vibration.  This was definitely not the normal domains of the dreamtime.  From the regular confines of the dreamtime, I had travelled – to this conduit space within the astral plane – to be able to experience Merlin from his regions of the astral plane which are exclusively inhabited by the discarnate.  

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We met in a dimension wherein persons, both discarnate and incarnate, could meet and interact.  It was quite solid here and rarefied too.  To be able to have experienced Merlin left me so immensely happy.  Merlin further explained that people tended to die so soon, after having become full-blown with AIDS, because the spectre of dying became a vortex of fears – enervating energies – that literally depleted their reserves of willpower and caused them to die sooner rather than later.

By becoming so obsessed, with fear of death and the stigma of dying of AIDS, those subjects simply became victims of their own fears.  Merlin said that they had to turn that vortex into a white hole rather than an imploding, enervating, gnawing black hole of fear.  Such a vortex proved a vacuum that sucked the very life out of the afflicted and caused them to die what was clearly a premature death.  Once transmuted, this vortex could be used to assist one to go on to live a very productive life.

This energy could simply be used to fuel oneself and serve as a conduit to channel pure, life-sustaining energies from discarnate souls, such as him, on the astral plane.  This would ultimately enable one to stay focussed, in the afflicted life, for considerably longer.  The thing to remember was that the mind did not have to become afflicted with fears because the body had become impaired by disease.  All over the world, Merlin assured me, the afflicted could choose to triumph over fear of imminent death and it was being done with increasing success.

This vortex of transformed fears could, according to Merlin, become a catalyst for undertaking a great deal of spiritual work.  The amount of growth that could be pulled off for becoming thus focussed, Merlin assured me, was no light matter.  As Merlin imparted this wisdom, I was being illumined to this revolutionary approach to life and death which heretofore, I had not before thought of the paradigm in this manner.  It, however, made perfect sense.  

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What was really impressive, about all this, was having Merlin return now as a teacher.  He was so wise and magus.  I felt absolutely proud of him.  He was a guide to me, sharing of the wisdom that he has gained in his trans-dimensional sojourn thus far, as the realised dream magus who had long set out ahead of his much-loved adept and companion magus.  I can’t say enough how very pleased that I was to have seen him.  I was so moved by Merlin.  It was simply profound.

I was so incredibly happy to see Merlin.  The windows to the large hall, in which we visited, were all closed.  This caused the place to be dimly and intimately lit.  Here, it was very womb-like and nurturing.  

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After that intimate visit together, followed by journeying on some more, we arrived at this the seventh dream.  On returning to the large terminus, we had to take yet another series of trains.  We arrived after much high-speed travel at another terminus.  This one was far larger than any before which I had visited.  Here, the terminus was above-ground and wide-open at both ends.  Multiple tracks were everywhere and veered off in all directions.  After we got on board the train, as before he had, the little dark-haired boy who served as astral guide came up and stood in the centre of the aisle.

Here, there were many people with kids and several persons were travelling with a ton of baggage.  They were carting around all this baggage which they really did not need.  This baggage merely served to weigh them down and impeded their forward advancement.  They did not yet realise that they did not need it.  Neither Merlin nor I had any baggage.  Similarly, the young astral guide had no baggage.  Somehow, because of the travelling requirements here, I couldn’t ride in the same car as Merlin.  Instead I rode one car behind him on the same train.

On pulling up into the large station, there was a PA notice that indicated that the train we were on would not go any further.  We would apparently have to transfer at the next station on disembarking.  The announcer said that one would be able to find one’s appropriate ride by following the colour-coded lines on the platform.  When I got off onto the platform, I began running ahead to the front of the platform in search of Merlin.  Not for anything did I want to lose him now.

A couple had impeded my progress as they wobbled along with a ridiculous amount of baggage.  The luggage was so much dream symbolism – inasmuch as there is such a thing.  These persons represented newcomers to the astral plane.  More importantly, they represented persons who had recently died and returned to the astral plane but who also happened to be fairly young-souled.  They were dead yet not already fully aware.  Just as they were spiritually blind, when incarnate, they now progressed.  They were now hobbling about, carting around all this baggage, as if they could truly ‘take it’ with them.  

 

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With them was all this Maya, the baggage of their perceptions and the worldviews, which had held them hostage whilst incarnate.  Here they were, on the astral plane, arrivés habitués carting around mindsets that were totally redundant.  What I found unique here was that no one interfered with anyone.  No one came to their aid telling them that it was not necessary for them to be carting around all this baggage.  Furthermore, they were repressed such that they appeared these Boteroesque persons – bloated in the style of Fernando Botero sculptures.

Their little merchant class worldviews had had them well-preserved, and puffed up, with pompous self-aggrandising notions of their greatness.  They did look truly South American in that pretentious sense.  They looked not unlike some of the parvenu-looking subjects of Fernando Botero’s paintings and sculptures.  They were truly lost souls both here and when previously incarnate.

I, on the other hand, was nimbly walking whilst bounding down the platform.  I had hoped to reconnect with Merlin whom I knew had also gotten off at the same stop.  Here, too, in this station all the railings were orange and sturdy-looking.  Rushing ahead of the Boteroesque couple, who vibrationally felt as if made of the heaviest metals in the universe, I noticed something truly spectacular.

High up in the walls of this terminus the wall would simply open up, much as a camera lens’s aperture would, then from the gaping hole would stream out a train at full speeds.  The train was, as it were, intersecting dimensions.  This fantastical train was, along with several others that I had noticed, simply splicing through our pocket of the astral plane en route to heaven-only-knows-where.  At the far side of the terminus another aperture-like portal would gapingly open to accommodate the approaching airborne train.

Soon after, the train would be lost into the black void which moments earlier had opened up.  Those trains, like the others, were massive and looked as though the stateliest trains from the late nineteenth-to-early twentieth centuries.  More than that, they barrelled through the air without travelling on any overhead tracks.  What’s more, they progressed as if along well-mapped out routes.

Some were higher than others.  Others intersected our little cul-de-sac of the astral plane, in a diagonal manner, cutting perfectly across the immense width of the terminus.  These trains, just like all the others, seemed so imposing for being as massive and as multi-carriaged as they were.  Despite the fantastical spectre of these trains, the matter of Merlin’s whereabouts was of paramount concern.  On noticing the initial train, I peripherally recalled that there had been a similar such train piercing through the earlier terminus.  However, its outréness had remained peripheral or not readily assimilated.

Just as described over the PA system, there was a series of colour-coded lines on the platform.  These colour-coded lines indicated where one had to venture, in order to make the appropriate connections, back to one’s final destination.  As could be expected, the trains were all very massive.  What’s more, they were distinctively leaden and stylistically looked as if straight out of the 1930s.  They were very art deco trains indeed.  

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One of the trains was silver and black.  It was a tone of black that was truly austere.  The silver was used for most of the detailing.  Its silverwork was so opulent that, by comparison, it made Erté’s deco sensibilities seem bland.  Somehow, I knew that it was the one that I was expected to take.  In all, there were two trains that I was supposed to have transferred to.  This black and silver train was energetically the densest-feeling one of all the trains that I had seen.

This, I think, was the case because it travelled between this locale and the density of the physical plane – the waking state.  Nonetheless, all that I could think of was Merlin.  I did not want to lose contact with him.  As ever, he had done in the waking state, I had initially seen him leaving the train then gone energetically bounding down the platform.  With so many people everywhere, and for having been impeded by the Boteroesque couple, I had lost sight of him.  My mind busily raced as I thought of the horror of possibly having to lose him here.  

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I did not want our encounter to end just like that.  Besides, we were supposed to have gone off somewhere.  I came down off the platform, desperate to find him again, by using a narrow flight of stone stairs.  From there, I crossed the tracks ahead of the austere-looking train that I was supposed to have taken.  No sooner than had I crossed its track that I saw, off in the far end of the terminus, an unusual-looking train.

It was stationed beneath a sunlight-flooded awning.  It was a most unique mode of transportation.  A series of long horizontal slabs, hovering off the ground, they lined one after the other.  They were, basically, the floors of boxcars that had no wheels, no sidings and no roofs to them.  They were, if you like, just a series of hovering rectangular slabs à la magic carpets.  The awning, beneath which it was stationed, gave a sense of how truly massive this hangar-like terminus was.  It was then, too, that I saw Merlin.

I had recognised him by the brown tweed cap that he always wore in the waking state.  To look at his body, he was the sexiest human imaginable.  Merlin still could work his magic on me.  Merlin wore a faded pair of blue bell-bottomed cotton slacks.  A pair of well-worn, doe-skinned shoes was familiarly upturned at the toes.

He was so true to form – realistic.  This was so very Merlin and so like the Merlin, whom I had known so very intimately, but for the fact that he was not smoking a ganja joint.  Also unlike the sublime dream encounter, on Saturday, July 25, 1992, he was not wearing his gold-rimmed round glasses.  Naturally, he did not need those things anymore.  It was so very good to see Merlin.  Here, he was my astral guru – indeed, the transcendent dream magus had returned to impart his magical wisdom.

Merlin was so phenomenally alive and real.  I was moved beyond belief to see him.  So excited was I, to have found him again, that I went rushing up to greet him where he hung out on one of the slabs.  Thrilled and delighted, I let out an excited squeal.  Soon enough, I grew immediately self-conscious of the fact that no one here verbally communicated.  In one graceful balletic leap, I went rushing up onto the platform broadly grinning.  My love for him welled up from the very bosom of my soul.  As soon as I got there, I realised that everyone else was seated in these circular groupings.  

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They sat in lotus position and faced inwards towards each other.  Merlin was part of a circle of men, seven deeply meditative men, all of whom looked just as transcendent and centred as did he.  They seemed to be so deeply engaged, at the level of spirit, as if a part of a coven of magi who were engaged in group energy work.  Their silence was impactful – there was so much being said and done in its weighty stillness.

Merlin’s eyes were so brilliant and clear yet there was a fecund agedness to them.  The clarity came from the intense focus of his energies, where he presently is, in his transition through the discarnate progression.  They were older-souled eyes; there was no way to get around that fact.  I realised, there and then, that I wasn’t supposed to have been there at all.  So pleased was I to be with him, too eager to telepathically communicate, I began chatting aloud.  It was a way to wrestle his full attention as there was no way that I could have competed with the union of spirits and minds that they shared.

They were simply too deeply telepathic,  “Look Merlin, why can’t you come on this train with me?  I don’t want to be here on this one.  When we start moving, it’s only going to aggravate my allergies which are acute right now in the waking state.  It’ll be too much wind, too much exposure to pollen.  It’s just going to affect my allergies too much.  There’ll be too much wind blowing in my face.  Look, I really don’t know if I want to do this.  Why can’t we go on the other one?”

The moment at which I paused, after having posed my questions, Merlin seized control of the dynamic.  Very firmly, he entered my mind and said, “Be still.  Be quiet.  Don’t rush.  Don’t you understand?  I don’t care to go there.  I don’t care what you want… what you desire.  I’m going to stay on this one.  Besides, it’s what I have to do.  I’m going this way…”

When he intoned that last phrase, from the inflection and weight he telepathically used, I realised that there was no way that I could leave this place but on board that austere-looking silver and black deco train.  Merlin implied, by his intonation, that the conventional old train was the one that I had to use to safely ferry me back to the waking state.  Clearly, he couldn’t take that train because it was too mechanical.

It represented the past and the density, when incarnate, of his former physically ensouled state.  He was now in a dimension of existence which was vibrationally infinitely less dense.  Even the mode of transportation, for his dimension, was more advanced.  There was no denying that these levitating slabs were being kept aloft by their focussed, united wills – Merlin and his kindred spirits’.

To have entered their midst, the air and the Chi were intensely purified.  On entering the vibrational sphere of their midst, I instantaneously felt lighter in my body.  Their seating formations only intensified their energies and focussed their thoughts and wills.  It is safe to say that in these formations, they became a unit.  They were a shared consciousness of sorts.  They did though each still possess a will of their own.  This was clearly the case with Merlin who was able, independent of his circle mates, to exert his own will when asking me not to be an intrusive presence.

He was never hostile but he simply asked that I not be so inconsiderate of their need for privacy.  Meanwhile, the six others patiently waited for him.  You cannot imagine how mentally powerful these seven men were – individually and as a shared consciousness.  They patiently waited for me to either calm down or simply take my leave of them.  What was really intriguing, in all of this, was the fact that they did not have a preference whether I should stay or leave.  That choice was exclusively up to me.

It was truly insightful – they simply had no emotional engagement and were totally objective.  This was so much like the Merlin I had always known.  It was so good to see him that I really did not want to leave.  There was no way that I would pass up on this most rare of treasures found.  On calming my nerves, I directly looked Merlin in the eye and said, “Okay, I accept…  I accept….  I accept.  I realise that I was being so selfish.  Do forgive me.  I know how selfish I can get at times.”

Yet there sat Merlin supremely long-suffering and patient.  I would not, nor could I, deny myself the elixir of those eyes.  Impishly, I added, “Okay, please, let me come some of the way with you, at least.  I don’t know.  I don’t care…”  For breaking protocol and wanting to leave this place by going in his direction, I was more or less quieting my own fears.  I would gladly have given up the ghost, as it were, just to go on journeying with him.

As his eyes warmly smiled into me, a discernible smile drifted across his large, lucidly focussed face.  I was thrilled.  He telepathically suggested that I take a seat, which I did, just outside of the circle.  Two of them shifted their positions signalling that I join the circle rather than not.  The moment that I entered the circle of beings, which included Merlin, the procession of levitating greyish slabs began moving.  They had been hovering, just above a groove that sat, between two knolls.  These rolling mounds were covered by the most verdant cropped grass that zinged with a whisper of misty dew.  

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Instantaneously, we were moving at faster-than-sound through to faster-than-light speeds.  It was immensely thrilling an experience for me.  Merlin sat with his back always to the front of the procession of slabs.  In that sense, he was in a powerful position.  We were seated towards the end of the third or fourth platform.  Each platform-like slab contained several clusters of seven asexual-looking men – even Merlin looked asexual.

Even more interesting, along the lines of the Michael Teachings, was that there were six or seven clusters of six to eight individuals in the tight circular formations.  Here everyone was in lotus position.  There were never any doubts in my mind that Merlin and every last one of these discarnate individuals were the ones whose focussed wills were directing the travel of this light trip.  This was so right up Merlin’s alley – unabashed magic.

Each levitating slab measured roughly ten feet across by close to fifty feet at least.  They were linear and, though wafer-thin, had the most softly plush comfortable surface.  They were just as soft as if we were seated on satin throw cushions.  The speeds with which we travelled were phenomenal.  I did not experience any discomfiture for moving at such great speeds.  There was simply a whizzing blur of everything, outside the confines of our progressing procession of levitating slabs.

We travelled some four feet off the ground as we jetted away from the hub terminus.  The winds never affected us, nor did my body experience the increased G-forces, for travelling at such great speeds.  The landscape sped past, even more rapidly than when on board the trains.  Of course, when on board the trains, we were then in an enclosed environment.  Yet here, as there, we were not at all affected by the winds.  As a matter of fact, this proved an infinitely smoother ride than when travelling on the conventional trains.

There weren’t any of the chattering minds, for one, as experienced when on the conventional trains.  So deeply internalised was this place that there was nothing but Zen order.  No wonder Merlin so loved Johann Sebastian Bach’s artistry because it was so wonderfully suited to the ambience of this place.  

*It was as though, this place was the grove to which he gravitated between lives.  It gave him the sense of serenity, of order and of peace, which was so readily discerned to the core of his being.  At such times, Merlin would become lost – grow intimate and private with his very spirit – for listening to Glenn Gould’s mastery of J.S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations.  Merlin’s intellect, at such times, would become expansive.  Each time, his spirit and intellect were sensed, he would be spatially experienced.  Quite simply, for experiencing him at such times, there is no other way to articulate how one would feel.  END.

All around us were wonderful, rolling green plains situated in a vast expansive vista.  Everything was so thrillingly filled with life.  For travelling at such intense speeds, we were left in a heightened state of sensitivity – or at least I definitely was.  Perhaps, this was par for the course with Merlin and his kindred spirits.  I, on the other hand, found this so new and exciting for my dreamer self.  Everything zinged with more abundant negative ions, at concentrations that were more pronounced, than in the waking state.

This dimension was a harmonious mélange of pure thought and pure emotion.  It was so invigorating and completely centring.  Pure emotion, minus the trappings of ego, it gave the sense of Merlin and his kindred spirits’ transcendent nature.  There was an audible drone discerned here, to our splicing progress through space, which seemed as if their combined breaths held in a sustained meditative hum.  Truly serene a spiritually uplifting experience this was.  How transcendent they each were, too.

This sound was so intense and pure that it can best be described as being audible light.  The sensations and emotions I experienced were so thrilling that I couldn’t believe such intensity of joy could be experienced whilst incarnate.  At that moment, the experience was heightened when Merlin and I both directly looked into each other’s eyes.  In that moment of connectivity, mere words could never do justice to what I experienced.  We were truly intimate soul-to-soul.  

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Looking off to his right, impregnating me with this most beauteous gift, Merlin oceanically poured his very soul into me.  This was the most sublime postcard yet, that he had sent across the seas of time, from his journey up ahead.  I couldn’t ever have imagined that any gift could be so profound, beautiful and cherished.  Looking to the left, I had done so as he had telepathically entered my mind, saying a warm and intimately familiar hello.

Slipping into my moist, expanded intellect, I felt the familiar purr of Merlin’s soul as he edged closer and squinged up next to me soul-to-soul.  How many nights had we gotten this close when he was incarnate…  Yet none of that – physical intimacy – could have compared to the exquisite ticklish touch of his soul deep within me.  This was such a massiveness of spirit that I experienced.  I couldn’t believe that I was feeling the intensity of sensations and insights as I was experiencing.  This was such a massive experience that to look at Merlin the giddy ecstasy that I felt caused me to whiteout.

This had been fostered, too, by the enriching stimuli that bombarded my totality as the levitating slabs sped on.  The feel of experiencing nature, as we so rapidly sped by, only made the vibrations of everything that much more pronounced.  As I moved without moving, my body quivered throughout.  Looking to my left into the most intimate pair of eyes that I have known thus far in this lifetime, I thrillingly flew whilst seated there in lotus position.  Merlin’s eyes being the pair that has been more intimate than any other…  This moment of Zen bliss caused me to quickly draw on a sharp breath.

As though I were nodding off, my body had bobbed a tad.  With that I lucidly awoke – my body quivered as I remained in bed on my back looking up into and beyond the off-white ceiling.  Merlin alas quite cleverly had hypnotised me, back into wakefulness, with one sensual look.  

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By far, those dreams were among the most truly uplifting dreams of this incarnation.  There is not a year that passes since then that I don’t recall these dreams with the greatest fondness and humility.  So, alas, dream your dreams of wonder – for having been so richly inspired by mine.  Sweet dreams, you!

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2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

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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.  

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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. 

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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.

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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

 

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

Audience with Magnetic Old King Soul.

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Battle, Kathleen Deanna 13/8/48 Portsmouth Ohio

This fragment is a seventh level mature sage – second life at current level, likely will be old soul soon.  Kathleen is in the power mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Venus/Mercury. 

Kathleen’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary martyrdom. 

The fragment Kathleen is seventh-cast in seventh cadence; she is a member of greater cadence six – very cardinal.  Kathleen’s entity is four, cadre six, greater cadre 5, pod 408. 

Kathleen’s essence twin is a sage and her task companion is an artisan. 

Kathleen’s three primary needs are: expression, freedom and expansion. 

There are 16 past-life associations with Arvin, 14 with Merlin. 

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This next dream does reflect the beauty of being in the company of spiritually evolved souls.  Said dream was the first on Monday, June 17, 1991, whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house – close enough to the summer solstice.

Interestingly enough, there was a dream within the dream in question.  This was one of the most rhapsodic and uplifting dreams had during my fourth decade of life.

I was going out from this apartment block’s front door.  I was aware that in apartment 6, down the hall, the door was slightly opened.

I could hear some classical music being played and tried to figure out who the composer was.  It was very complex music.  I went down to the front door of the building, unusually enough, to call Whoopi.

However, I had decided not to open the door to call her because if I were to have called her there, I wouldn’t have wanted her to then start showing up at that door to be let in.

I had noticed, on the way to the door, a whole stack of mail outside the door to one of the apartments here.  It was a door, which sat in the middle of the hallway wall, where there shouldn’t have been a door.

Stranger still, it was brown unlike the other four doors which were white.  So at that, I decided to walk under the ground floor by going down into the basement.

Whilst I was going, I was still listening and then heard Kathleen Battle being introduced on the radio…  She was going to sing.

As I was walking, Whoopi appeared in the basement as I headed for the backdoor of the building.  She began playfully running amongst all the many boxes stacked high in the basement.  From time to time, the adorable cat would run ahead of me and was quite playful.

Kathleen Battle† then began to sing and, my dear sweethearts, greater music has never been woven in the waking state.  The music was highly complex indeed.  It was supremely divine.

The aria this woman sang and the beauty of her voice was supremely stellar.  It was dignified; it was divine.  It was so beautiful that, as I walked and Whoopi joyously played, my body became healed to have heard this music.

At that, I hurried Whoopi upstairs into the apartment and took to lying in the bed to more intently listen to the music.  There was much talk afterwards about the music.

There was a White man around and I was being told by him that this music was, in fact, not native to this world.  The music was not native to Earth, he claimed.

I certainly agreed with the information.  It galactically towered above any of this world’s greatest music to date.

Also, lying on the bed with me was a girl.  She deliberately was forcefully putting her feet down the bed and was trying to put them in my face as I lay in my bed with my head at the foot.  She was White and I was just too into the high just experienced with the glorious music to have had time to go fighting with anyone.

Later on, I went out to wait for a bus.  Yet here too, at the closest bus stop, the music kept on playing.  It simply permeated the fabric of the dream experience.

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*Of course, it should come as no surprise that all throughout sleep, the radio here in the waking state was on in the room whilst I slept dreaming.  END.

However, the music being filtered into the dreamtime had been considerably transformed.  Here it was uplifted and expressed in a superior light which befitted the dreamtime’s magic.

The radio being on became my leap off point to experience some truly uplifting moments in the dreamtime.  Though CBC FM was playing classical music, at the time of my dreaming, the galactic music that I was hearing far outdistanced the familiarity of classical music by light years.

It was so complex and cerebral that as I stood there, at the bus stop, I suspected it was the classical music created by cetaceans.  I speculated that a pod of dreaming cetaceans was weaving their music, in the classical idiom, in the dreamtime.

I merely happened to have tuned into it, whilst the waking state music served as the leap off point, for vicariously entering the cetaceans’ dream dimensions.  This was so much more complex than classical music.

It was an intellectual high beyond belief.  Kathleen Battle, throughout it all, kept on singing.  It blew me away, to contemplate the amount of breath work involved in Ms. Battle singing that complexly and for that length of time.

There was a guy when I got onto the bus which was like the double-deckers of London.  I was on the lower level, in the middle section, looking back to the rear.

On the same side, as I was seated, there was a guy there who seemed very familiar.  He was aware of me in the same soul-resonant way that I was him.  However, we did not interact.

Across from him, there was a rowdy guy who seemed drunk.  The police had come and taken him to the front of the bus to take him away.  Interestingly enough, the police wore the uniform of the London Bobbies with the hat and the whole gear.

When I got to where I was going, it was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful tropical island with a beautiful mountain range.  There were two large homes and I was told that both of these homes were, in fact, owned by Kathleen Battle.

This was where she retired to recharge her batteries.

‘How fine, indeed,’ I thought.

There was a party being thrown for her by marvellous celebrities.  It was then that I recalled having been at a concert earlier prior to going out and taking the bus.

It was either at Salzburg or Bayreuth.  When Ms. Battle was onstage, she wore a blue dress that billowed in the breeze which created a wonderfully hypnotic slow-motion effect.

She had more fucking-goddamn fire planets in this dream, I can assure you, than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis does with her six fire planets no less.  Kathleen Battle possessed, in this briefly recalled dream within a dream, great spiritualism.

She sang and what she was doing with her voice was nothing short of magic.  She was as if the ocean because each note was so liquid, time-stretched yet complex.  There were more nuances worked into each note than is, in the waking state, humanly imaginable.

It was not unlike all the funky innuendo that a female Jazz singer can cram into one little song.  It was absolutely incredible what she was doing.

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When she was done, the house went wild.  Everybody here was so spiritually elevated.  I was up in the balcony, on the right side of the stage and I screamed down bravo with thunderously deafening passion.  My ecstatic celebration made all the people close to me laugh with enjoyment at my rapture.

As I lay asleep, my body simultaneously began zinging and tremblingly with energy as I thunderously shouted, ‘Bravo’.  When articulating my passion, I had shoved out my neck and at that my neck began elongating.

My overjoyed face moved possessed as my voice operatically roared from my soul itself.  My face ended up snaking down through the air, from the balcony to the stage, my neck like some exquisite anaconda swimming through the air bearing my proudly ecstatic face.

My face was peeled wide-open with ecstasy.  Indeed, the fire in my eyes was just phenomenal.  This dream was inordinately empowering.

It was as though I had become truly animated with a hyper-elongated neck and my face was not unlike the faces of those spiritually elevated and regal ladies that I had recently dreamt of.

Also, I was quite certain that my warping behaviour in this dream had been much inspired by the eloquence of physique that these strangely beautiful women had presented me with their august bodies in another dream of days earlier.

To have best expressed the gratitude that I felt, from my very soul itself, it was as if my neck had become a giraffe’s.  Here I was looming down over the house and up to the stage.

To begin with, in all of this, I had not even been seated at the front of the balcony.  My ‘bravo’ was a very long, extended, purely male-energied war cry.  This was pride in this woman that had nothing to do with our shared race of being both Black rather our both being human.

I was simply applauding her very soul itself for its great achievement in artistic self-expression.  In point of fact, I actually got a high from hearing the thunder of my voice when saying bravo because this very deep and resonant baritone was not my familiar register.

Moving up, I climbed up the hill to both Kathleen Battle’s houses.  There was a woman there who was White and older.  She was helping this old, old, ancient White man.  I wondered,

‘Who is this man?’

I knew straight away that he was definitely very important, in the spiritual scheme of things, here on this planet.  I thought that, perhaps, it was Herbert von Karajan but he is now passed on.

He did, after all, have quite an attachment to Kathleen Battle.  This is why she was always invited to Salzburg.

However, then too, I thought that it was more than likely Herbert von Karajan because the energies of this man were incredibly magus fitting the archetype of the magnetic old king from the Michael Teaching which Herbert von Karajan was/is.

I thought that perhaps he looked as old because he was doing so much immense energy work in his function as a sixth level old, magnetic old king soul.  Naturally, his agedness would have been a reflection of his having passed a large number of lives, to date, at sixth level old.

He was very transcendent and, you could tell, was no longer physically focussed.  More importantly, everything about this dream indicated it being very much so alive.  The dream was very much so real and set on the astral plane which is where that magnetic old king, Herbert von Karajan, now resides.

In any event, he was being helped down by this long-legged, handsome, strong-willed woman.  She much reminded me of Marella Agnelli, the wife to the CEO of FIAT motors of Italy Gianni Agnelli.  However, this woman was older than Marella Agnelli presently is.

*One of the things about some, definitely not all, wealthy persons is that their stratospheric wealth enables them to be in their element.  As they are such mature-souled, august, reincarnationally sophisticated souls, money allows these spiritually elevated persons to exist in the world unencumbered by the Maya of the wretchedness of every day existence.

Such wealth enables them to transcend the Maya of financial limitations that entraps and stifles the merely working class to upper middle class.

For the latter classes, the lines of demarcation are more nebulous than they would like to accept.  Hence, the excessive restrictiveness and obsessions with class, looks, greed, Brahmanism et al.

Some of these truly wealthy people do not suffer the strictures of belief systems.  This allows them to just live in their element and be supremely human.

This is not true of all wealthy persons because, for one, the nepotistic cupidity of Hollywood certainly validates this.  These people, such as Gianni Agnelli and Marella Agnelli, do not suffer the displacement of humanity that many greed-fixated wealthy persons experience.  END.

This woman here in the dream, in that sense, reminded me of Marella Agnelli.  The latter impresses me as someone who truly does embrace her humanity.  One gets the sense of her that she is not separated from the little people of choice.

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We then all came down after, of course, I had gladly gone to give the graciously handsome woman a hand with assisting the magus himself.  We sat in this long, long, long enclosed veranda that had a fine linen mesh covering it.

There was a wonderful breeze.  The magus was on my immediate right and talking away.  Indeed, he did make my energies zing and become reshuffled.  It was at the level of the atomic and it was subtle but noticeable.

He was talking about the music, raving about how great it was, and how fabulous Kathleen Battle had been in performance.  Next, he opened a large bottle of spirits which was like champagne but it looked more like a bottle of gin.

He then took up a magnum of some expensive champagne or other and raised it saying,

“My dear, you must have a drink.  You have earned a drink.”

He had a wonderful soulful voice.  Whatever he said became the law.  He was beingness in the flesh.  He simply held court.  You experienced his spirit, more to the point, one experienced his very soul.

He was truly what the Michael Teachings would call a magnetic old king.  One just intuitively sensed and knew it because this, after all, was the astral plane.  One did not doubt insights gleamed here.  He was so grounding to have been next to.

When he was pulling out the cork it proved very long.  In fact, it was extremely sexual what he was doing with the cork.  It was very slow and hypnotic.  I got a sexual high experiencing him uncork the champagne.

I never did look into this man’s eyes overlong because his face was so powerful and so tremendous.  He was someone who was clearly passed on.  I also knew that it was not Merlin.

I had only looked at his face, in the distance, when he was up on the hill.  He wore the most spiritually refined face imaginable.  Up close, I knew that I just did not have the power to peer overlong into this face.

I was too drunk by his magus energies that bled outwards magnetically permeating and fine tuning everything – man and nature.  Thus I had to hold the champagne flute with both my hands with my knees sexily drawn up whilst my feet rested on the edge of the chair.

Giggling, simply giddy from his energies, I said en Français,

“Champagne!  Oh god I love champagne.”

He began pouring in the champagne whilst it was fizzing.  He poured it in a decadent manner.  As it crashed into the glass there were a lot of bubbles from the bottle, gurgling aloud, where gobs of drink orgasmically splashed over the rim of the flute.

It was so sensual, so timeless and wonderful that on concentrating on his actions, I experienced the stasis of time.  I began besottedly drinking and grew giddy at the implications of the fine company that I was in and that he was serenading me at that.

It much reminded me of the garden party that I attended in Toronto with Merlin, the second to last summer of his life, when the writer Ted Allen had me sit by him spending the party regaling me and flirting with my spirit.

It was a nonsexual thing… just an intimate commune of our spirits.  Really fine and memorable it was too.  There were other family members about – Pandora as well as Harella.

He told me to move away the glass before the champagne did not spill, over onto my lap, which shortly it would have had he not prompted me.  I moved it to the right between him and me.

Immediately, on taking the first sip from the flute my mind stood still because the cool potent touch of it illumined me.  Instantly, I realised that the bottle of drink was merely a metaphor.  What I was being given was an elixir from his very soul itself.

The magus was healing me thus.  What utterly potent aqueous magic.  It was cool yet simultaneously warm.  It was all the things that the music was and more.

In fact, it was exactly what I needed after having been made drunk and high from the music of Kathleen Battle’s magic.  When he finished, it turned out that he had only poured a drink for two other persons of all the others gathered at the party.

I was so blown away by the fact that he genuinely wanted me to be sitting next to him.  Perhaps, it was because I had been considerate enough to have assisted him.  I had made it possible for him to go down, the hill from the upper mansion’s gardens, to the veranda of the lower house.

He chose not to have passed on the drink to anyone else.  It was very subtle but was not, of course, lost on me.  He did not pass it around although everyone had glasses and were quietly waiting to be served by him.

Certainly, the impressive magnum could have amply supplied every glass.  I was then told by Harella not to be greedy and she advised me to perhaps offer my glass to others.

Ignoring her, I languorously looked out beyond the mesh and thought aloud in a whisper,

“God this is such a wonderful dream.  What did I do to deserve this dream?”

Just like that the dream dissolved for me being doubtful and seemingly unappreciative.

vDream one.  Earlier, in one section of the dream as I had listened to the music, I saw an inner vision of a holographic diagram.  The hologram indicated where in the Cosmos the particular music that was playing, to which Kathleen Battle was singing, had originated.

There was this cardboard-like diagram, which much resembled an Olaf Nordstrom lithograph, which was very sculptural and intellectually placed.  Olaf Nordstrom interestingly does, in fact, have six air planets.

Simultaneously, I knew that as much as the successive diagrams were of the cosmos, they were also of the human spine, the nervous system and the human chakra points.

I could see the crown chakra which was very, very expansive.  I then saw the first chakra which was close to the tip of the spine.  I was being shown that it was very tight and needed to be opened up.

I was being told, by way of seeing this network of cables of light, one had to have one’s energies realigned.  It basically was about yoga, breath and, also, about the awakening of Kundalini energy within my body.

It was about becoming more so opened up, at all chakra points, so that I could get more flow.  Too, it was stressed that I needed more positive light into and through me.

There was a great deal of blue light flooding the diagram’s holographic systems.  There was red light, as well, in certain areas of some of the chakra points.

It was deemed to be neither good nor bad.  Rather, it was an energy that was presently focussed in my body.

I was being told that it could be successfully transmuted.  I certainly think that I know, to what it was referring, in terms of the sexual energy flow and my sexual centre’s proper functioning.

It was mentioned that it was terribly ego-based and not all that highly evolved in the end.

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As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support; I am immensely grateful.  Sweet dreams and don;t ever forget to push off and start flying.  

 

 

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

Time-travelling late-Georgian/Regency Dandy (Redux 2019).

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I was walking under a very black night sky.  Whilst leisurely walking along a winding road, I was with some friends.  The road was not very wide but on either side were some grassy knolls that rolled up and down.

These knolls were just over seven feet high; this left us walking in a bit of a depression.  The stars here were unusually bright; there even seemed to be more of them of greater magnitude than is normally the case.

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They had caught my attention when something had streaked across the sky.  Stopping in my tracks, I looked up and saw others.  All of them were red flashes which meteorically streaked, and none-too-randomly, across the sky.

Their speeds were far too rapid for them to have been shooting stars.  When drawing it to my friends’ attention, I asked if they did not think it peculiar. These persons, incidentally, were more astral acquaintances rather than persons whom I have known during the course of this lifetime.

They all answered that they had not seen anything.  Still, I was quite aware that there was something off.  So looking back and up, to our rear, I quite strongly felt that we were not alone.

There was a distinct impression that, from above in the sky, we were being observed.  As we walked on, from time to time, I kept looking up.  In search of any of the stars which I have so often studied in the waking state’s night sky, I surveilled the sky.

Straight away, as not a single constellation that I took in was remotely familiar, I was left feeling even more vulnerable.  Right away, I knew that what I had seen fiercely streaking across the sky had been a product of some alien civilisation’s technology.

This left me more convinced that these flashes had been real and, in essence, not asteroids.  Soon, we turned a bend in the road and happened on a guy who was lying in the middle thereof.

He was not dead just unconscious.  We agreed to gather him up and at least take him to the side of the road where he would be out of harm’s way.  I suggested that we position his body such that his head was raised higher than his feet.  I thought that he should be placed on the side of the knoll.

Though it was fairly dark out, I assumed that he was a Caucasian male.  He wore brown slacks and was middle-aged.  His face was down on the road so it was hard to tell much about his identity.

I couldn’t quite figure out whether he was simply drunk and passed out or if he had fallen ill with a seizure.  Perhaps, he had been injured in a confrontational row.

Just as we began moving his body, these red streaks began coming down the street making towards us.  They travelled at hyper-speeds and created a sonic boom moments after they shot past.

This definitely was not in Kansas.

*This is a prompt I always give myself when lucidly dreaming and have to take stock that I am not on dream Earth.  Too, it usually signifies being in contact with extra-humans (ETs) and their civilisation.  END.

In a bid at self-preservation, we began dropping the man back to the road.  I decided to dart off, to the right, when I noticed these tiny spacecrafts over on the knoll.  They were green and blue with lights emitting from an open portal of the spacecraft.

Cutting through the break in the knolls, I shot past one and bolted across the open plain to a white bungalow in the distance.  The craft was atop the knoll, on the right, as I ran off the road taking cover.

I had been the more matured member of the group and had been directing them on what to do yet had abruptly taken flight.  I fled because, right away, I knew that they themselves were extra-human aka aliens.

I did not know whether they were posing as good guys, in a bid to capture me, so got clear of them.  When they had begun lifting the guy from the road, I sensed an energetic flow from his face.

I think that, were I to have seen the fallen man’s face, he would not have proven human in the least.  Thus the extra-human vehicles (EHVs) aka alien crafts’ appearance could well have been a good thing.

In that sense, they may well have prevented me from seeing the face of some bad EH (extra-human) in the guise of a human’s body.  Who knows, this fallen stranger may well have been the ruse for affecting my capture?

I was not prepared to find out.  I had never bounded across an open field so fast in ages.  As I did, the sky suddenly became intensely bright.  The lights from an incoming fleet of EHVs (UFOs) flooded the plain.

They fell down from the sky, at light speed, as red balls of light.  Instantaneously, they would slow down but not fully brake.  At that point, they would then become visible.

It was as though they had set the fabric of space afire, creating the red light about them, for travelling as fast as they did.  When they broke to regular subsonic speeds, they appeared as silvery crafts.

They were silver disks that had spokes that rotated arachnidan-like as they landed on the ground.  The spokes assisted their locomotion and left the disks looking like chrome-plated spiders in motion.

The spokes which covered the disk’s entirety allowed them to roll in whatever direction they chose.  Next, the EHV disks transformed themselves becoming silver and black tanks.

They each had a single, black sonar nozzle in the front.  They directed the sonar guns at all the dwellings about and overwhelmed the inhabitants therein with intense sonic booms.

The effect of this would momentarily leave the persons, so affected, paralysed.  The buildings here all looked like they were Deco from 1930s, in Miami’s South Beach.  The look was similar to South Beach with all those vibrantly painted hotels that line the boulevards.

Here, however, the houses were all white.  The area though had a definite tropical look to it.  To the rear of them was a tropical wooded area that led up to a mountain range.

Unique, the spacecrafts were very tiny.  It was hard to conceive of what kinds of creatures could fit into such puny spaceships.  They did telepathically announce that all humans would be paralysed.

*Then again, these EHs and their puny EHVs could have been deceptive.  Perhaps the interiors of these tiny arachnidan-like EHVs were 20 to 50 times more spacious than their tiny outer shells betrayed.  END.

There was nothing to fear; they were not being adversarial; therefore, they admonished that one needn’t panic.  This was not the kind of thing that one wanted to hear.

The mere fact that they could drop into one’s mind, at will, and so calmly speak was more than just cause to panic.  They said that we would be protected and provided for; we would not be harmed.

Turns out that the black sonar antennae were used to project their thoughts, at us, on the outside of the craft.  They had had it turned up to such a pitch that it would become only applicable to humans.

Part of the sonar’s job though was to put one in the state that facilitated their telepathic connection.  Thereafter, of course, it would simply stun us into paralytic submission.

“Get out of my mind!” I forcefully declared as is my disputatious wont.

With that, I decided that I was not going to be readily subjected to their will.  I was not going to let curiosity get the better of me and gullibly meet the EHs.

If it sounds too good to be true, of course, chances are that it is.  Willingly submitting my will was never my modus operandi.  With that I began willing my body, with a fierce unleashing of energy, to flee.

Since ambulatory escape was not fast enough, I threw my body forward and began flying away within a couple of feet of the ground.  Not wanting to attract attention to myself, I veered off to the side and made for the stand of trees close by.

They led up the plain to the start of the houses.  Several coconut trees were clustered in a stand all around the house.  For safety’s sake, I flew past the first house thinking that it would be the first to be searched or captured – what have you.

It was a wonderful sprawling estate; there were even more grounds in the back.  Even though it was quite briny here, there was no sense that the ocean was close by.

This, of course, immediately reminded me of Frederikke Sørensen’s estate in St. Croix, U. S., Virgin Islands.  All my senses here were quite awakened during this very fast-paced, rather real experience.

Flying ahead, I made for the complex which had a number of low-rise apartment buildings.  They were about six-to-seven storeys at most.  All of them were built unusually close together.

The more I tried to get close to them, the more my flight increasingly became laboured.  It was as though I was being subjected to the EHs’ sonar probe.  I couldn’t now achieve the desired altitude to get myself up to the higher storeys of the buildings.

This had the feel of there being forces at play here that superseded my will.  Although I had begun my flight low to the ground, the attempts to rise higher left me incapable of pushing upwards and past a certain barrier.

There now seemed some invisible force field activated that did everything to impede my will.  My fate seemed, somehow, to have been to experience contact with the EHs.

Regardless, I forged ahead.  My flight now seemingly more a diving swim whilst struggling upstream against a strong, overpowering river.  Finally, I made my way up to the complex of some eight buildings.

This really did feel as though it were in the Miami area rather than say St. Croix, Hawaii or even Sydney, Australia – the latter two to which I have yet to travel.

The grounds here were beautifully landscaped; quite impressive, in fact, they were.  The style was art deco with windows that wrapped about the sides of the corner apartments.  Each apartment had its own tiny independent balcony.

Off in the cover of the arboreal growth, to the side of the buildings, I noticed that the EHs had stationed sentinels to guard the captured buildings.

The inhabitants were all trapped inside; they were grounded in their paralysed bodies.  The sentinels were not at all human; rather, they were silver, spherical robotic probes that guarded the buildings.

They each had a network of spokes radiating from them that monitored activity; they served as satellites to keep the human inhabitants grounded.

Just before willing my hovering body from amongst the trees, I noticed that there was one particular sentinel; it was hovering at a third storey apartment’s window.

Since I had already begun to move, it had definitely noticed me.  Right away, it made for me and came at me.  Silver, it rotated clockwise.  Soon, I realised as it passed above me that it had not, in fact, seen me; it was simply on a regular timed patrol.

Slowly, I made my way over to the building; I remained undetected.  Willing myself with great focus, I managed my way higher and rose up the side of the building.  There I went on the side of a balcony and sought cover.

No sooner than I had gotten there that a very stout, Fernando Botero-like White woman came after me.  This was the most bizarre infuriating bit of WST (Waking State Transference).

Here was this moronic idiot coming to capture me for the EHs.  She couldn’t see me as another human being.  I was a goddamn, no good, so-and-so, trying to escape.

Like the programmed shaved rat she has always unthinkingly been, she immediately had to set the authorities on me.  In this case it was the aliens because, god only knows, the EHs are “our” friends.

I was a Black male and doing something as unlawful as flying.  This woman was truly not aware that she was in the dreamtime.  She was brain-dead.

All that she could do was slip into her acculturated attack mode and get my “fucking, Black arse…” Full stop.  I was beyond being livid.

Instead of taking a frigging breath and flying with me, she just had to go vilifying me.  Together, as humans sharing a common heritage, we could have had companionship and escaped together.

Rather, I was some N-word out to loot her of all she had that being: mere material things and fuck-all else.  She was hideous to the core.  She wore white slacks and a pretty floral top looking like a Floridian, living comfortably off her investments or a dead partner’s conveniently-early demise.

She did have great big knockers on her – real bouncy cockteasers.  However, a real greed-fixated, objectionable character she was.  In addition, she did have somewhat of a deep tan.

Her hands were fat and stubby-fingered denoting heart trouble brought about, no doubt, by too much drink, smoking and or iatrogenic sloth.  She lunged for me grasping at my body.  I managed to stealthily out-dodge her and escape.

Quickly, I made it back to the cover of the woods close-by.  Somehow, she seemed able to levitate.  It was then that it dawned on me that she just might have been a very convincingly disguised EH.

It was effective because she surely came off as a fearful racist idiot and, of course, those tit-fuck magnets were ample bait.

*This was quite an insightful take on life in the waking state.  For, to all intents and purposes, there are really EHs among us.  Of course, it goes without saying that my initial perception of her reeked of my own WST ignorance.

The way in which a sizeable portion of the humans collectively relate to other humans, certainly and in particular Blacks, you would think that they were EHs dreading contact with the locals.  END.

Swerving off to the left, I had been able to fly clear of her reach and the balcony.  Into the thick growth of tropical trees I flew.  As soon as I entered the woods, I was immediately free of the weightiness that kept me close to the ground.

Straight away, I soared higher.  Thanks to the trees’ invigorating energies, I was immediately energised.  It was as though they were able to override the EHs’ psychic web giving me renewed strength.

They were able to strip me of the wear that the EHs’ sonar force field had exacted.  Momentarily pausing, I hovered upright, directly drinking of the large trees’ energies whilst recharging my chakras.

As my energies increased, thanks to the arboreal hosts, my body began slowly levitating as I hovered upright.  Now I was high up, for being fully energised, in the bosom of their expansive negative-ioned crowns.

With that, I continued my escape and decided to stay within the cover of the woods.  Above all, I wanted to be in direct contact with the arboreal giants’ distilled loving energies which had revitalised me.

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Even though I was now higher, I still wasn’t able to fly at great speeds.  Whilst flying ahead, I began following an old footpath way below.  Instead of directly flying above it, I hung back to the right of it and well inside the cover of the overhanging trees.

There in the thick of the wooded area, on the footpath below, I saw a couple of guys.  When looking up, they saw me right away.  They laughed at me knowing that my attempt to escape was futile.

Though they looked White, I knew from their laughter that they were EHs but in human disguise.  What had really caught my interest was the way that they laughed.  Whenever they did laugh, they looked at each other and aggressively nodded.

There was something peculiar about it; it just wasn’t very human.  They were not, in essence, simian.  This was when it dawned on me that, when they were on the planet, these EHs were able to adopt host bodies.

That is to say that they simply manufactured bodies that they then inhabited, at will or when required, that covered their true species’ identity.  In their natural state on their home planet, however, they did not look a thing remotely simian-mammalian.

They wore human bodies, much the way one would wear appropriate gear, when going on a trip to the Antarctic, the Amazon basin or the Sahara.

It was all about adapting, truth be told, so as to survive the terrain.  For these EHs, they wore a human body as it was akin to wearing a wetsuit when going scuba diving.

Somehow, they were able to shift their forms and adopt the human model.  This was not just local to being planetside on Earth.  These EHs had the capacity to adapt.  Therefore, they became whatever their host species looked like on the planets that they chose to visit.

They were quite simply more reptilian, in the chameleon sense, than simian-mammalian.  Whilst I hovered there, reflecting on all this, I realised that the woman on the balcony was there to pacify and blend in with the human locals.

She, however, was definitely an EH and her racist response would only make her seem that much more authentic.  Ingenious!  I do believe that this chameleon arrangement is likely more so the norm for spacefaring interstellar civilisations than not.

It makes for fewer traumas on the uninitiated galactic peasants – such as humans.  Whilst hovering above them, I had an expansive awareness of how this would be possible.

Basically, for being off one’s home planet, one was as if at the astral plane between lives.  The moment you went into alien space, about another star system’s inhabited worlds, you were not physiologically constrained.

Unlike the locals, an alien on another planet was free of the host planet’s set of electromagnetic, astrophysical, neurological, physiological and psychological constraints.

This, for all EH species, made being on another planet a truly liberating experience.  During the flux of space travel, more of the will came into play and one became more so creator than the created.

That means that the intellect was greatly expanded.  Once free of indigenous planetary constraints, an EH could morph its gravity-free neutralised body at will.

In terms of the Michael Teachings being spacebound was tantamount to having neutral Overleaves.  When one was in the space of a desired alien planet, one could simply construct the right overleaves from the neutral base.  This would allow one to adapt and blend into the local vibrational imperatives.

Thus one did not have to use, by way of possession, the body of a local – too much potential karma there.  In some situations, the EHs simply manufactured bodies that served their needs and were applicable to the desired alien world.

Like walking with a couple of wetsuits, if going on a scuba diving trip, so too the EHs could show up prepared with their own prêt-à-porter human bodies.

‘What might the “made in…” tag be for such off-world fashions,’ I wondered.

By keeping to my agendum, I flew past them whilst thinking of escaping this whole experience altogether.  As I flew past, one of them remarked that he did not realise that we humans had the capacity to levitate.  Said he, he did not realise that we were so evolved.

However, then shrugging, he added that levitation was but the tip of the galaxy.  This was his telepathic image which I had initially mistaken for a slab of ice in space.  That had made me think of an iceberg but it clearly wasn’t.

He was referring no doubt to a whole host of skills, which they possessed, that we as a species had no awareness of.  Space travel was implied by his smug dismissal.

Again, they laughed, aggressively nodded and sounded like a mix of semi-feral hyenas or wolves rather than simian-stocked humankind.  On flying past them, I then happened on three Black guys who were also in the woods.

They were all naked and fully aroused.  Theirs were cocks easily fourteen inches apiece.  They stood there, side by side, energetically masturbating.

The guy in the middle had an upturned dick on him.  Of the three, he was jet black.  The man on his left was brown-complected whilst the other was High-Yellow.  The guy in the middle’s cock grew harder by the second.

It was incredible to watch a cock grow so huge, so rapidly.  Thicker than a tasty Polish sausage, it was uncut and a prized sight.  Again, close observation of their behaviour indicated that they were planetside EHs in human disguise.

Everything about them said that they were not human.  From the formation that they stood in, to their complexions, they simply were not human.  Even to their obsession with having an orgasm, theirs was behaviour that was not human.

It was a study of human sexuality – the way they stood there holding their mammoth dicks and jacking off.  For all intents and purposes, they were three EH scientists doing research.

They were collecting data whilst exploring the human experience.  As well, their oversized dicks were a tool for getting unsuspecting locals to become addicted to them.

Their wunder-schlongs could easily hypnotise one into becoming their prey; they were, in that sense, a true size-queen delight.  More than that, part of their reason for being there was so that they could get me enthralled.

Since I had already been able to effectively escape, both the fat woman and the other group of men, they used their big sex to make weak-willed size queen of me.  This was plan B – get him by way of sex.

Frankly, I was no dumb native so chose not to settle for their transparent bait.  With that, I kept on flying through the woods.  There was always something to the eyes of these people that ultimately gave them away.

They simply did not have an instinctive psychic bond, for not being genuinely human, which right away one could discern.  This was a subtle distinction which we humans so overlook.  However, it has become part of the instinctual wealth of information that we psychically exchange when interacting.

These people just never had that connection that rung true.  There was just that indefinable something, which eluded them, for being EHs.  I then followed the forking path that went off to the right.

Soon, this got me out of the woods and to an area where there was a large group of Blacks.  They were all media people – print, television, radio, film.  All of them were hiding out on the corner of a large building.

They were filing a report on the EHs by huddling and filming the goings on.  They were in the process of filing a live report.  After I cleared the woods, I noticed some EHs just beyond the edge of the woods.  They were unmistakably EH and in broad daylight.

They were dressed in late-Georgian, early Regency garb.  The men wore lots of white lace and tight long pants.  They were all terribly aristocratic-looking; they were very European in style.  There were even a couple of horse drawn carriages.

It was as if, these EHs were a bit off on their choice of timeline.  For the look that they were affecting was clearly off by multiple decades.  They were involved in projecting their consciousness to appear as human as possible.

However, they were all off by at least a couple of hundred years.  This served to show up their techniques for space travelling and how they made contact with the locals.

They simply blended in.  In that way, they could be in the alien world doing their research without being an intrusive presence.  This glaring miscalculation ultimately wouldn’t help them in their work.

Unperturbed, they kept calling out to the group of Black media persons.  They were trying to get them to come closer to them.  They knew that they were being filmed; however, the humans simply hung back and kept on shooting to document their presence.

Frankly, from their perseverance, it was obvious that the EHs were intent on capturing us.  I for one did not want to join in a group.  As a result, I chose not to get too caught up with the media people.

In my attempts to flee them, I had comfortably remained hovering in the air.  I had refused to alight and come down to earth.  However, I had been above the group of Black media people and around the edge of the building’s cover.

Some Blacks in the media party looked on at me as though to try and figure out if I was one of the EHs.  They were soon assured by probing my energies that I was genuinely as I seemed; not an EH was I.

Finally, I decided to take my leave of them as they continued their standoff with the aliens who were across the road and wide-open field.

The building was a red brick affair.  It stood, down an incline, lower than the road it faced.  Making for the road, I now flew of choice fairly close to the ground.

There was a great deal of verdant grass on either side of the road.  On the right side of me, rushing across the expansive field ran Pericles from the woods as I flew some twelve feet above the street.

He was joining Isabella and the other siblings – Isis and Pandora minus Rio da Braga, of course, about whom I almost never dream.  They stood there in the fields, like many others, who were all intrigued by the idea of seeing the EHs.

Concerned for their safety, I excitedly began to shout down to my siblings to get lost and go take cover.  Pericles joined them, just shy of me and below.  He was considerably stouter, darker and slower.

As currently is the case in the waking state, he was bearded.

“Boy is me who taught him how to fly in dreams you know!” Pericles began saying of me.

“In fact, I was the one who invented flying in the dreamtime.  I’m the one credited in history as having invented flying in the dreamtime…”

There and then, I became summarily disgusted by Pericles’ ridiculous megalomania.  For all his pomposity, in the true sense of the word, I realised from where I hovered that Pericles was a very small individual.

With that, I took my leave of them.  I realised that this was a group of people who could only ever have a hostile response to me.

Pericles being there, doing exactly what he did, was the chief reason for my position in this dynamic.  Furthermore, they were never going to take him to task for it.

When I encountered them, on that stretch of the road, the sky though daytime out was now overcast.  It seems that there was going to be some storm up ahead.

Before taking my leave of them, I boomed down at Pericles telling him to fuck off.  Isabella had hung back and rolled her eyes.  She then cracked a wicked grin at his absurd nonsense as bullshit eloquently flowed from Pericles’s beguiling lips.

*After I left my siblings, I thought back to the two EHs in the woods who were disguised as White males.  I had to agree with them because, indeed, it would mentally take a great leap to become a spacefaring civilisation.

Frankly, the approach on this planet was futile.  It was, in fact, an ill-conceived approach to things yet it was perfectly understandable.  It was born of the same ignorance and arrogance which had informed the exploration of the New World.

The key to successfully making the leap, to being a spacefaring civilisation, was intellectual – as per astraphysics.  That is to say, using the interior realms, the astral plane as the basis for exploration was the answer.

Space travel is about projection of consciousness when being in an elevated state.  It is a state of being in which both intellect and spirit are harmonised leading to true travel.

Travel without moving; this was the way to cross the expanse of space.  For being astrally focussed, one could use the astral plane’s physics to be able to span the illusion of space to travel to any point in time across space.

This was not something that was chiefly done by physical means.  Presently, there is no connection between man and his being in human space travel.

This is directly because this is a Eurocentric approach.  A direct result, this is, of Western civilisation being divorced from nature.  The ultimate nature is internal.

Spirit, intellect and body are nature.  The present arrangement’s approach has not yet made the connection between man and nature.  There is no input of the astronaut’s spirit or for that matter his intellect.

It is all rote behaviour; they lock themselves into their harnesses and hope like hell the computers don’t fail and that they don’t end up like another Challenger space shuttle.

Machines do the job rather than nature; the astronauts themselves do not do the job by having their intellect – their interior realms – interface and fly their spacecrafts.  In that sense, they are very much so like the test dog and chimpanzee that were sent into space.  Today’s astronauts are currently along for the ride.

This reflects Westerners’ heritage of being divorced from the nature within themselves.  It was this lack of awareness that had them arrogantly kill and rape the New World’s inhabitants to secure their place therein.

There was no room for cohabitation because they did not see the humanity, the nature, in the locals that they had encountered.  The “natives” – the derogatory for the locals whom they encountered living in synch with nature – were an obstacle to their agenda.  For living in accord with nature, the New World’s indigenous inhabitants would pay.

This, of course, harkens back to the message which the great master, Lord Jesus imparted,

“Love one another and live in accord with nature.”

Of course, for that he was murdered; ever since, this planet’s dominant civilisation has lived out of synch with nature.  Nature, as Christ imparted, was simultaneously internalised as well as externalised.

The microscopic mutually reflected in the macroscopic.  This was not gleamed two millennia ago; to this day, it has still not been gleamed.  Thus the prevailing cultural paradigm would have us cross the exigencies of space by forging ahead against nature.

Nature is therefore an aspect which we don’t see being innately a part of us.  To go outwards, one always has to move inwards; it is the only way to grow.  By looking within and harmonising his nature, man would finally be able to move without and engage in successful space travel.

All that the present spacefaring attempts suggest is how very out of synch, with nature, man has become.  All it does is waste time and demonstrate that greatest sign of being out of synch with nature – the damn thing pollutes!

When this internal harmonisation with nature occurs, a fusion between the waking and dream states is affected.  In this way, one is able to project the more evolved aspect of the integrated self, the dreamer self, into the waking state.

The waking intellect when fully aligned, with the dreamer self, enable one to project consciousness to anywhere in the universe.  The focussed will enables one to move in an unrestricted manner to any alien world.

This is because a revolutionary shift occurs with the harmonisation of inner and outer nature – waking consciousness harmonised with dreamer consciousness.  This fusion of intellect and spirit results in the emergence of Naturali.

Unlike ‘Human,’ Naturali or Natural Mankind is able to manipulate both physical plane and astral plane physics thereby becoming truly magical – magus.  This fusion allows him to project his Naturali self, into any point in space within and beyond his native Star system.

This is about becoming limitless in perception.  Naturali is never self-restrained.  This has been achieved and continues to be experienced by some societies in human history – be it in parts of the Himalayas, Andes, Amerindian plains, pre-Dynastic Egypt, the Aboriginies of Australia, some First Nations societies, some Europeans like the Druids and the Dogon.

In these cases man has made the leap from being merely human to become Naturali.  Humanity is chiefly divorced from nature – his true self.  For that, humanity is primarily caught up in being divorced.

Fragmented mankind is lacking in harmony between inner nature and outer self.  This has led to the culture of senseless and perpetual warfare that has predominated in Western civilisation for the last two-plus millennia.

The result is an unevolved expression of our potential.  There is little awareness of true potential.  There is, however, much inner chaos and all of it is graphically illustrated by paradigms which do nothing but perpetuate this lack of fusion.

The negative paradigms, resultant for having murdered yet another great master – Christ, create imbalance which leads to all the ‘isms’ from which one chooses not to escape: lookism, racism, ageism, sexism, classism.  For that reason, most of these EHs are master dream adepts because they are able to use this fusion of inner and outer nature to transcend the boundless limits of space.

Ultimately, the limit of space is purely intellectual.  In a sense, it is a good thing that the present arrangement exists.  All that would result, if present human civilisation were to become spacefaring, is that they would exactly repeat what they did on venturing into the New World.

Since then, this culture of rape and pillage has never been addressed.  This is because the former Europeans have been too busy having to police their appropriation of looted territory and enslaved and or terrorised peoples.

Never having had a chance to reflect or transcend their blind conceit, there has been no internalisation.  This precisely is the leap necessary for that harmonisation of mankind’s integral selves.

A spiritual transformation is necessary that would enable Western civilisation to then truly become a starfaring civilisation.  In the meantime, the mercantile paradigm rules as this planet’s prevailing order.  The alternative doesn’t now, of course, seem practical because how can you set up shop and trade in the dreamtime?

This is how perfect and right the current, prevalent, Western paradigm seems.  However, it is an awareness as uninformed as the conviction 500 years ago by some that to sail beyond the horizon would lead to falling off the flat Earth.

Thus these EHs are able to project their spacefaring dreamer self civilisations, in this case, to Earth.  Interestingly enough, this was validated by the stars in the sky being not familiar in the least.

They were the familiar stars from the night sky of the EH race’s homeworld.  This is part of the necessary anchoring, for the EH stardreamers, to successfully return to their homeworld.  They appeared as technologically advanced because they were not in their homeworld’s dreamspace.  END.

After leaving my siblings behind, I flew down above the narrow road.  A lone, dark pine-green house stood on the right side of the road.  It was a two-storeyed wooden house.

On seeing it, I flew over and approached the front door.  I decided to go take cover inside because one of the carriages, in which the EHs rode, was barrelling down the road after me.

Both carriages were being drawn by two white horses apiece.  The carriages were dark, high, wooden affairs, not black though, like Amish ones.  A man was calling from the carriage to follow me.

On going into the front door, I was met by a narrow foyer.  At the far end, there was a winding staircase.  Even when in the hallway, I was still levitating.  A tall jet-black woman was washing the walls.

On closer inspection, I realised that all the walls were slowly undulating.  This, to say the least, was displacing.  Truly surreal, the walls were never static.  In that sense, one had an awareness of the house being alive and breathing.

The feeling was very nurturing; womblike and soothing it was.  The walls had warmth to them; their surfaces looking as though liquid.  The woman kept on intently focussing on her task.

Meanwhile, on the wall to my right, there was a dish detergent ad being run.  It was most bizarre, the entire wall was being used as a screen onto which was projected the advertisement.

*Whilst I slept neither the television nor radio was on.  END.

The wall was as if a tiled ceramic screen.  At the far end of the hallway, through an arched doorway, I looked.  There I saw a clock at the centre of a mantelpiece.

About eighteen inches tall, the clock was a white, blue-with-some-green, ceramic timepiece.  It was columnar and had a phallic look at the top.  It was more so, however, like the arched roof of a hut than not.  It was the most beautiful piece of ornamentation.

It had the look of a Ming vase; it was even more ancient-looking than some of the oldest surviving pieces of Chinese objets d’art.  The green was really from so many centuries of being in a damp environment which left it mossy in places.

In addition to that, there was a yellowish hue to the vase-like body of the timepiece.  This, of course, bespoke how terribly aged this vase-like timepiece was.  It would suggest that this was created in an age that easily predated the Ming Dynasty by multi-millennia.

Struck by the ethereal qualities of this house, I looked back at the walls.  They really were undulating, in a truly Salvador Dali-like surreal manner.

Looking back, I noticed that the clock was no longer static.  It began warping and drooping over and it did so to the point where it was hard to ever make out the time.

I could make out that it did have two hands on it.  However, the clock was hypnotically doing this slow undulating dance.  It meltingly drooped from side-to-side in a manner that was sublime and genuinely surreal.

I then made my way into a bedroom leaving the Black woman behind in the hallway.  She seemed to be getting more and more disoriented but I knew that, in the end, she would be okay.

This bedroom was on the ground floor from whose window I could see out to the backyard.  All around, the sunken house looked up to an open grassy knoll.

So though on the ground floor, when looking out the window, it seem as though one were permanently in the basement.  On hearing the carriages pulling up out front, I had gone there to take refuse.

In the room was a singer who reminded me of Sinéad O’Connor.  Her scalp was near-shaven – but for the blond bristles that spiked her head throughout.

She was dressed as a cave woman and also carried a staff.  This seemed to be all part of a stage persona of hers.  I silently watched as she got ready to, it would seem, go perform.

She seemed to be a rock ‘n’ roll singer.  I assumed as much because of her shaved scalp.  She was very tanned and looked almost as though she had been permanently singed.  However, it was not as though she was of Dravidian heritage either.  Hers were a great pair of Sagittarian thighs; they were very Tina Turner-like legs.

She wore an animal skin toga with a side slit skirt that nicely showed off her body.  On her feet she wore a wonderful pair of brown, leather high heels whilst frantically pacing about the room.

She was cursing out, ‘these stinking aliens,’ at whom she was imaginarily jabbing with her club.  The arrival of the EHs had obviously interrupted her ascendancy to fame and fortune.

Then a very strikingly handsome, dark EH appeared; he looked tanned like the actor, George Hamilton – that perpetually Sun-darkened stunner.  There were lots of sage soul energies to his look.  He appeared in the single window to the outside.

When lit from behind, it only made this obvious EH’s intense-frequencied eyes and handsomeness that much more stunning.  Charmingly, he came in through the window and said hello extending his hand to her.

This man was supremely charming with lots of Mars-Venus-Pluto trine energy.  His outfit was more so Regency than Victorian with frilly sleeves.  He was a dandy from the look of his dress and cultured mannerisms.

This man was more charming than the most exquisitely celebrated courtiers, in human history, have been.  This man’s cultured fluidity made fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld look downright bland by comparison.

His shirt ended in a high-buttoned collar that made it look as though he were wearing a turtleneck.  A great flair and air of bravura about him yet he wasn’t flashy.

He was sophisticated and possessed of a slightly flared, sexually charged nose.  In that sense, he rather resembled the sexual beauty of the actor Ralph Fiennes.

His was a wonderful spirit with great theatrical timing to his persona.  Regardless, his EH identity being anything but human, his true nature shone through.  This extra-human was undoubtedly a sage soul.

Jet-black hair was brushed up and back off his high-foreheaded face.  Two arms fell down, in thick sideburns, to hug the sides of his handsome face in place.

This man’s intensely riveting eyes left Tom Cruise’s, in terms of his eyes’ sheer magnetism, looking like the vacant eyes of a grinning oaf; certainly, this is not the case with Mr. Cruise but comparatively his eyes seemed dull next to this EH’s.  A devilishly handsome rogue of a man, he was.

On seeing him enter the room, I went and slipped under this wonderful, antique chaise longue.  Since I was still in flight, I hovered beneath it, never touching the floor.

He had been directly focussed on the woman when entering the room.  I don’t know who this woman was, she did seem human enough, but it was clear that his objective was to capture her.

Perhaps, she was an EH disguised as Earth human – one who had become lost in her fulfillment of her mandate.  It would seem that she had gotten hooked, working as a performer, on being a star on the rise.

Though I was beneath the chaise longue, I was able to see everything going on inside the room.  The sagely EH in dark Regency garb entered the house by effortlessly walking through the window, including the wall beneath the window, when entering through it.

Though he could easily have hopped through the opened window, he chose to state his resolve and let nothing stop in his way.  He telepathically overpowered the woman.

Though deceptively extending his hand to her, I could hear him hissing at her which caused her to drop to her knees.  Then he told her, that she needn’t worry, that there was nothing for her to fear.

She was truly terrified.  She was pleading with him to not kill her.  He grinned at her.  His was a smile that was nine parts guile with a surface veneer of charm.

Though I was hovering beneath the chaise longue, I had another perspective of the room.  I was as if perched aloft and just below the ceiling.  This left me with two simultaneous perspectives.

From beneath the chaise longue, I could see up to the two persons’ knees.  From above, I saw everything and was never noticed by either person below.  I had deftly rendered myself invisible.

He was so dark-hued that I passingly thought that he could even have been High-Yellow.  When this man smiled, the room simply lit up.  This was a truly hyper-wattaged smile.

He was a swashbuckling dandy; one whose handsomeness was also very reminiscent of Douglas Fairbanks Jr.’s.  He then began stroking her left cheek.  Meanwhile, I sailed out from beneath the chaise longue and began levitating to a higher position.

I slowly flew over to another window from which I got a really good look at things.  After having crossed behind him, I turned to look back just in time to see his next move.

From his right pocket he took an object; it looked like a large, halved oyster shell.  This object was just as gossamer-hued as an oyster shell’s interior; clearly, it was no such thing.

He then placed the object to the left corner of her mouth and her jaw line.  Whilst kneeling, she pleadingly looked up peering into his soul.  Her ajar generous-overbite mouth negotiated with him.

She did her best to appear cool and diffident.  She tried her best to be alluring to him.  He was so much more handsome than her.  She pleaded with him not to hurt her.  He replied by telling her not to worry.

With that I turned to fly through the window, to his rear, in which he had first appeared.  Just as I drank in the warmth of the beautiful welcoming light outside, she let out a broken scream that pierced through me.

Looking back, I found the sagely gentleman.  He was holding the charred remains of her body, inside the groove of the nacreous, oyster shell-looking object.  The shell-like object was smoking with the reduced remains of the woman’s body.  It was a truly horrific sight.

I realised that this oyster shell-like object was, in fact, an accumulation of all the persons whom he had murdered to date.  Her charred body had added to the size of the object.  It was easily one third larger than before it had been.

Not a single drop of her charred remains was anywhere on the floor.  This validated that this woman knew the meaning of the object that he had procured.  She was clearly an EH; she was being terminated for having failed in some way.

I wondered if it meant that she was being returned to the homeworld incarcerated.  Perhaps, rather than being killed outright, she was merely being arrested though it looked like being assassinated on this end.

For being in a human bodysuit, whatever her natural state was, this nacreous oyster-like object was specifically designed to capture her.  In its wake it left the shell of her former self.

Clearly, their human bodysuits were not authentic hard matter.  It was partly holographic, seemingly an astral phantom, if you like.  Either way, the whole thing was fairly sinister.

Well, I had seen all that I wanted to see.  It was time to click my heels and fly on home and away from this Oz!  I instantaneously was out of there.

When jetting free of the window, I soared aloft and jetted for the cover of the far-off woods.  These arboreals were behind the house.  I made it there with lightning speed.

The arboreal energy precisely was what I needed to speed me along.  I became magnetised to the arboreals’ energy.  No fear clamoured my thoughts; I wanted the devil away from this place.

Faster and faster, I kept on flying using the trees’ energies.  The arboreals’ life force proved the raw fuel that jetted me along.  On flying in amongst the tree crowns, every branch and trunk that I negotiated only added to the thrill of my escape.

Their raw energy actually sped up my vibration and allowed me to fly faster.  The faster I flew, the more their energies bombarded me and allowed me to escape being overtaken by the sagely rogue.

Eventually, I happened on a large industrial complex.  It stood directly next to the break in the woods.  I had simply been catapulted from the woods and into one of the tiny windows that sat high up the side of the building.  The windows were close to the ceiling.

Once inside, I sought to take cover.  At this point, I was confident that nothing was certain any longer.  Even my family seemed initially EH!  That is until, of course, Pericles began spewing his delusional ya-ya.

My presence seemed to have set off an alien surveillance system.  It was seemingly designed to go off on the detection of humans.  Straight away, a fat White woman was dispatched to prevent me from trying to escape.

She was told to not let me through an exit close by.  She had been directed by an even fatter, Fernando Botero-like White male who wore military garb.

All these fat people only validated my suspicions that the woman on the South Beach, Miami-styled, art deco apartment buildings was, in fact, an EH.

All these abnormally fat persons were all EH who paraded about in human bodysuits.  Somehow, I suspected that there was some atmospheric reason for their suits bloating and thereby leaving them seemingly dysfunctional as they did.

Then too, perhaps their natural bodies made the largest dinosaurs look comparably like ants do to us humans.  The plant seemed some military installation or other.

Perhaps, it was a communications installation for their Gaian operations.  A high and black-haired, done-up-in-a-bun woman in a pink dress had opened the exit.

I was trying to make it through, however, soon realised that she was there to prevent me from getting out.  Then through a bar she levitated when lying on her back.

She was accompanied by the military-garbed rotund man who also levitated on his back.  He, however, was on the other side of the bar.  Sadistically, the general squeezed the fellow-levitating woman’s hand.

Right before my eyes, he then began a metamorphosis; it was, in fact, quite rapid.  In the end, he went from being an obese hideous man to being a svelte blonde woman.

This was all the proof I ever needed that these, indeed, were no mere mortals.  The bars looked like the harnesses, which pen in bucking horses, at a rodeo.  This complex was quite an unusual-looking place.

For one thing, it was easily larger than the largest, American military hangars, by a factor of ten times; it was massive!  The machinery here was like nothing technologically from any period here in Earth’s, comparably short technological history.

There were spacecrafts which looked like sports coupe-sized shuttles.  They were all made of a very solid-looking metal and one which definitely does not originate on this planet.

This was obviously the repairs and storage shop for their operations here on Earth.  Whilst they underwent their little persona-change, shall we say, I quietly slipped through the complex’s large front doors.  I was, of course, still in flight.

No sooner than had I made it outside that I was being pursued by a group who were trying to capture me.  Several other persons had also bolted from the plant about the same time as I did.  They, too, were clearly earthly human.

This was during the downtime when the general was changing into his blonde bombshell bodysuit.  There had been a number of locals who had gathered about marvelling at the spectacle of me in flight as I tried to flee.

Resolved to never be captured, I soared into the air and soon made it over this four-storeyed, green-shingled, steep-roofed building.  Stopping to hover over the cover of the roof, I then cautiously made it to the back edge.

Sure enough, I found a number of EHs below who were intently looking up at me.  Hovering there, I studied them and considered what should be my next move.  Still, they remained below.

The EHs readily turned their bland glazed expression to one of seething rage.  Their look was filled with hunger as they were intent on capturing me.

I was not going to be captured by whoever these people were.  There were two persons standing there on the roof.  Soon, it became obvious that they were engaging in a bit of group mindfuck of me.

They were telepathically trying to convince me to jump.  Somehow, they were trying to override my mind.  In a bid to get me to jump to my death, they tried to sell me on the notion that I was not hovering in flight.

They attempted to convince me that I was precipitously standing at the edge of the rooftop.  Their advice to me was to simply jump and suicide.

According to them, it was the least torturous options left me at this juncture.  Wanting to get away from them, I thought to try and fly higher still.

These EH had the same energy signature as the two EHs whom I had encountered on first flying from the balcony at the South Beach, Miami-like, lowrise apartment complex.  When those two human bodysuit-wearing EHs had laughed, they behaved as though of semi-feral hyena stock.

These men, who were trying to mindfuck me, were as if sentries – intelligence agents – whose job it was to police operations and make sure that we mere mortals did not know too much.  They also seemed as though, in their lethal singleness of purpose, automatons or even clones.

It took a lot of psychic energy to block out their telepathic invasion.  They were trying to wrestle power of my mind and have me act as they wished.  As I repelled the negative vortices that they directed my way, it proved quite a struggle.  I would not be vanquished.

However, somehow, I did not know if I could actually pull it off.  Instead, I decided to simply awake.  At this point, I had been flying for longer than I had done to date, in long years.

This was one continuous dream, in which I was almost exclusively in flight.  More than 95% of the dream’s progress was passed with me being in flight.

I knew that since there were no trees about to lend me support that the easier thing to do, at that point, was to simply awaken.  Too, I knew that were I to have been captured/overpowered by them, I would have awakened with no recollection of these dream experiences.

Dreams, of course, are purely experiential.  Much of what occurs during what we loosely refer to as dreams is, at times, more real than the somnambulant dreck we yawn our way through – half the time – in the waking state.

*The intriguing thing about this crystal is that it was the second Madagascan transmitter crystal that I would own.  Just as with the other, the first time that I would become attuned to them, I would be left in receipt of the most unique of experiences.

The first time, it was back on November 30, 1988 when I had the sublime OBE (out-of-body experience) whilst still awake.  The second, of course, would then result in today’s experiences.

I had gotten a Madagascan, transmitter quartz crystal and a Brazilian amethyst.  However, there was something unmistakably potent about these crystals.  Both came from the same region and were informed with a strong sense of the Cosmic.

When I awoke, I was enervated but I was not exhausted.  The whole thing had been too intense as I desperately sought not to be captured.  I was desperately trying to figure out some way to make it out of this harrowing set of astrally projected dream experiences.

**One of the things, which has come to light, since having dreamt this glorious dream, is that both Merlin and I were alive during the Georgian/Regency era.  I would discover during my many Michael Overleaves charted that both Merlin and I, in a former life, were musicians at the court of King George III.

I was male with a sparkling personality and Merlin was my female accompanist.  I was a soloist singer who was a favourite entertainer at court.  How there is a tie-in to that shared past life at the court of King George III and the extra-humans, at this point, is beyond me.

Rest assured, however, that there is a likely tie-in somewhere.  It was quite visceral to have witnessed the sagely extra-human as he came to dispense with the other extra-human – the female performer who had not fulfilled her mandate.

 

These preceding dreams occurred, on Sunday, January 17, 1993, whilst the Moon transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house.

I had slept in the collapsible pyramid with recently purchased crystals.  Not surprisingly, this combination triggered astrally projected dreams that took me to points unknown.

Without a doubt, the good burghers whom I encountered were not exactly from Kansas.

 

So there you have it dreamers, of course, we are not the only ensouled fare in the universe.  To really know what’s going on out there, and right here at home, be most lucidly awakened in the dreamtime. 

Short of that you may as well go looking for dubious virgins in cloud formations…  EHs and their big-sexed plan B notwithstanding, my plan B is love which ever vanquishes fear!  

Here’s wishing you glorious flying dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… I’d love to know what joy you’ve fathomed in dreams’ sweet embrace. 

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

Pilgrimage to Windsor… that dress!

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Aerial view: Windsor Castle, Berkshire.  

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In the mad dash to board the train from King’s Cross/St. Pancras Station to Paddington Station, I boarded the wrong train and ended up losing almost of hour of valuable time.  Nonetheless to Windsor with me, indeed.  

 

 

The ride to Windsor was lovely and it was still well before before 1000 when I got into town.  So nice to know that a flash of the London Pass gets one into the Castle, plus to see the exhibition of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s wedding finery plus the outfits worn by pageboy, HRH Prince George of Cambridge and the always ‘on’ HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge.  

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Next, through the hurdle of being scoured by the most thorough security detail; and with good reason too.  

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The mélange of Chinese, Japanese and Korean dialects made for an interesting symphony of sounds as I made my way past security and onto castle grounds.  

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I am reminded of Vancouver Island by the hearty vegetation down below.  

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Nothing is more refreshing than the smell of moss in cooler weather.  The air is so fresh here in Berkshire.  

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The view from the Middle Ward down to St. George’s Chapel; but that’ll come after touring the castle’s state apartments.  

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The glorious view north across the River Thames to Eton College Chapel… Nothing beats being out on the terrace and looking out to the landscape below.  

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The view along the terrace towards the entrance to the castle. 

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Once inside, of course, photography is not allowed.  This, understandably, is for security reasons; it is after all the Sovereign’s main residence.  Formidable, an entrance indeed.  Touring the state apartments, the progression’s starting point was different to previous visits.  

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Without doubt, I knew that the wedding outfits worn by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex would not be on display in the castle’s Green Drawing Room; there is only one door into said room for the public and the other at the opposite end, leads directly into the Sovereign’s private apartments. 

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Furthermore, that single door is too narrow to accommodate persons going and coming into the Green Drawing Room, if they were to enter and exit by said door.  

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Similarly, I knew that the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex could not have been held in St. George’s Hall above.  There is simply too much natural light which floods the space; this could actually prove more harm than good – even though it would be best to see the dress in natural light.  Moreover, I did not expect that it would be held there as the space is too large and, frankly, with the amount of racially charged animus towards this marriage, it would likely not draw as large a crowd to warrant being staged there.  Truth be told, there were no Caucasians viewing the exhibit when I moved through it, than there were East Asian and blacks combined.  

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I will never forget my confusion on first experiencing The Waterloo Chamber in this lifetime.  I just felt as though, perhaps, my sense that I had been to Windsor Castle in prior lives or a lifetime was off.  Of course, I would learn that this marvellous salon was installed during HM King George IV’s reign, at which time, I had reincarnated into Barbados, after having been a countertenor at the court of HM King George III and during the early years of his son’s Regency.  

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Then again, those high-placed windows in the Waterloo Chamber would preclude its assignation as the setting for the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex.  

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Though noted for its stunning portraits of both HM Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother and HM King George VI, this room much like St. George’s Hall has too much light exposure.  

On entering the long narrow hallway with large windows that look out onto the terrace, the River Thames and the north shore beyond, one happens on a wall of linen panels which cover the floor to ceiling cabinets with priceless china from the Royal Collection.  

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Imagine all these iconic moments from the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex on hanging linen panels of more than 8 or more feet tall.  The effect is warm, enveloping and their size deftly impress on one, the uneclipsed love between these two star-crossed lovers.  

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Next, into the grandeur of the Grand Reception Room one slips and with the heavy red curtains drawn, the effect is even more stunning.  The large chandeliers are softly dimmed and handsomely display the bridal garments of the wedding party.  

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The embroidery on HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s uniform, to the Queen Mary Diamond Bandeau tiara when seen in intimate detail proved more breathtaking than I had anticipated.  Goodness, even the shoes worn by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex were exquisite.  

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What I found most interesting about the dress was its sheer simplicity.  The dress serves as a foil for the intricacy of the five metre veil entwined with the fifty-three flowers of the Commonwealth nations, along with the state flower for Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s home state of California.  Not until in the presence of the dress did its simplicity make sense; the dress is masterfully constructed such that its simplicity reminds one that only the expert craftsmanship of a couturier could have designed and manufactured the dress. 

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Yet, there was more to the simplicity of this Clare Waight Keller dress for Givenchy and it was not until moving around it a second time that it struck me; the simplicity of the dress speaks to the recent past of Ms. Markle’s African heritage.  Its simplicity speaks of the history of a people which was erased, wiped out by the terror of having been robbed and enslaved.  

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Yet like the simplicity which belies the masterful craftsmanship of the couturiers who created this stunning dress, there is also greatness to a people though reviled, socio-economically oppressed, criminalised, marginalised and made to feel inferior… the same people whose greatness shrines through in Jazz, for one.  Remarkably, the simplicity of the dress, is like the sheer eloquence with which HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales sincerely both acknowledged and apologised for the past, which his society and family had contributed to in the immense suffering of Africans; this he did this past autumn when touring West Africa on behalf of HM The Queen.  

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This was not only not a heavily attended exhibition but, at the time that I moved through it, there was not a single Caucasian viewing the wedding garments.  Though many would like to have you believe that there is no basis in race why they dislike Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, that is just a damn lie.  Naturally, neither medicine nor academia acknowledges the existence of the racial predator as ‘No’ is the most powerful word when dealing with blacks.  Indeed, not until going to St. George’s Chapel after the tour of the castle was concluded, did one see Caucasians in numbers that reflect their proportions in the society.  Indeed, unlike previously, one was being fixed with looks that were charged with racial animus.  

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Though she is now the most reviled black woman on the planet, truth is that the soul who is now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was Margaret Beaufort, Tudor Matriarch: key figure in the War of the Roses, cousin of HM King Henry VI, mother of HM King Henry VII, mentor, counsel and favourite of her grandson, HM King Henry VIII who was much impressed by her focussed untrammelled ambition, great-grandmother of HM Queen Elizabeth I. 

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Without her drive and singleness of purpose, England may still be a Catholic nation and its language may well be French.  Nonetheless, such is the rabid, irrational tribalism that is racism; her true nature cannot be perceived by the blind who can never see either the links to the past or the bigger picture.  

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In the end, I was much inspired for having made this pilgrimage to see this dress, which in its simplicity symbolised hope, atonement and the love of two entity mates who have known each other in twenty prior lifetimes.  The simplicity of this dress proved an epiphany.  

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Statue of HM King Charles II without whose drive, there would have been no Restoration.  

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View of the round tower on exiting the State Apartments and at the edge of the Quadrangle.  

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Details of St. George’s Chapel.  

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Details… and more details.  

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Even more interesting details…

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Sadly, photography is not allowed inside the chapel.  

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Despite the general seething that being black elicited from most persons here – thanks to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex having married the black woman, I rather enjoyed revisiting the spiritual home of the Knights of the Garter.  There is a certain warmth and intimacy to the quire’s dark woods that I favour.  

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And like that, another day of adventure was completed.  

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As the train sped back to London, I spotted this queer, though, appealing architectural gem.  

As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support and always remember to become awake when asleep into the magical realm of dreams.  

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

 

When Things Don’t Go to Plan.

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Just another hotel that looks onto Bloomsbury’s Russell Square

Monday morning, November 12, 2018 rolled around with me being a bit on the antsy side.  Just a couple of days before leaving on the trip, I received an email notice that a talk and drinks scheduled for that evening at Spencer House had been cancelled.  That being the case, I emailed, called and prevailed on each day Ronnie Scott’s Jazz club in Soho to try and get my reserved seat for the Tuesday evening show, moved up to Monday evening instead. 

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Finally, the night before, I got a human rather than no voicemail or no email replies from Ronnie Scott’s.  Incredibly, the rep did not know the number for box office and let me know that the Monday show was booked and I could not change my itinerary.  Trying to reason with her proved a nonstarter.  If I could be missing for my reservation on Tuesday, so too could someone booked on Monday be missing which means that I could at the very least stand in the back of the club and sip on a drip.  Nothing doing.  Monday came and passed and not box office nor anyone ever once answered the phone.  

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One of my favourite journeys when in London is to get to Piccadilly Circus and head towards Burlington House.  There, one is always going to be wowed by great art – this trip certainly delivered,  

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This, without doubt, is the show that I came to London highly anticipating.  What I had not anticipated was the sheer scope of the exhibition.   Certainly, it was a welcome change after paying to move through the Klimt / Schiele exhibition.  One thing that struck me, which always occurs regardless which museum or which continent, whenever there is an exhibition of non-white art alongside another of white art, the latter is patronised by a ratio of three to one,  

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Franz Hauer 1914  Egon Schiele

To be sure, the space for the Klimt / Schiele was much smaller than the ten salons for the Oceania exhibition – the same salons in fact which were used for last winter’s, Charles I: King and Collector.  Indeed, there is a certain appeal about being able to view art this up close and intimately.  Nonetheless, the crowd here was predominantly older – the diapered set and they of course can be expected to have little relish for adventuring beyond that which is deemed art or superior.  

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Nude Self-Portrait 1916 Egon Schiele. 

Naturally, not having read up on the exhibition prior to arriving in London, I had assumed that it would be paintings of both artists in the exhibition.  As it turned out, my weak vision could not fully appreciate these drawings and the cramped quarters was no good for my usual wariness of crowds.  

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Female Bust,1916 Gustav Klimt.  

Thoroughly underwhelmed more than not, I made my way in search of the Oceania exhibition.  Imagine having made that treacherous trek all the way up those potentially slippery metallic stairs, only to have been left none-too-inspired.  Oh well, too many old fossils in too tight a space pour moi-meme.  

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Straight away, I was soothed, uplifted and engrossed by the fecund richness of the blue-interiored salons.  Where months prior were hung van Dycks, Rubens and a most memorable Tintoretto, now into these large magical ten salons, I slipped lucidly awakened with wonder.  

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Here, in this marvellous exhibition, the worlds of dreams and spirit were fully realised.  I was in awe, inspired and fully engaged for moving through, as though in a lucid dream, salon after salon of this mammoth, breathtakingly beautiful exhibition.  

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Papuan soul canoe.

Steeped in animism and ancestor-worship, these beautiful cultures of the South Pacific (Oceania) speak to me.  Naturally, much of this is due to strong resonance, owing to past-live memories.    

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What I found rather interesting about this exhibition, is how locals reacted to the art and artefacts on display.  They were actually deferential, which is worlds removed from the usual open ridicule and vile remarks made by persons when touring the Barbara and Murray Frum African Art Collection at Toronto’s AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario).  Indeed, days later, I would be reminded of how archly racist Canadians currently are and with a smugness that defies reason.  

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This exhibition is handsomely curated and the show was staged with the greatest sensitivity and respect for the cultures represented.  Rather refreshing an approach.  

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Marvellous.  Powerful and so like the totemic masks of West African cultures.  

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I especially loved this sculpture and found it vibrationally rather powerful.  

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Sublime.  

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My attempts at capturing this marvellous piece proved frustrating as a German couple who were close by were slow to move along; my impatience is of course legendary.  

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Beautiful textiles featured in the exhibition,  

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Positively love this Papuan mask.  

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Star map for navigating the seas of Oceania’s cultures.  

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August.  Regal.  There is something deeply astral about the cultures of Oceania; these are cultures which are firmly grounded in the worlds of dreams and spirit… indeed.  

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Wow!  This is what I came hunting for; I was most definitely greatly inspired.  What past-life dreams are yet to be triggered by this lucidly awakened journey through Oceania and my own reincarnational past.  

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Hands down, this was my favourite piece in the exhibition; it seemed like some interdimensional craft for travelling between distant worlds and galaxies as is only now possible in dreams.  The lines are so amazingly elegant and masterfully executed.  Phenomenal.  

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What a wonderfully uplifting exhibition!  Bravo!  

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The view on exiting the Royal Academy’s Burlington House.  

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Just look at the view across Piccadilly from the Royal Academy…  Fortnum & Mason.  Well, off we go for some retail therapy; on crossing the street, I delightfully hummed the most memorable melody from La Bayadère.  

Oh look, way below that famous Fortnum & Mason blue beckons.  For now though, I made another feverish perusal of my email.  There is nothing from Ronnie Scott’s and the hotel has emailed to say that they have not received word from them nor have they called back.  

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A gourmand’s wet dream.  

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Art whilst shopping… truly civilised.  

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A trip to the basement and my favourite Jamaican clerk was not on duty.  I did though meet a lovely, lively West African who much reminded me of the spirited gardener in the dreams of July 9, 1993, which proved one of the most beautiful yet of this incarnation wherein I travelled and had the most lucid astral plane dream encounter with Merlin in the afterlife – it will appear in the sixth and final volume of my dream memoirs of Merlin and me, Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey, which will prove human civilisation’s first dream memoirs when fully published.  20181112_124934

Thanks to the West African clerk and how beautifully she spoke of the Canada’s Weston family, who own Fortnum & Mason, I was sold.  To hell with dropping money at Ronnie Scott’s when they could not be bothered to accommodate me.  With that, I had a couple of signed copies of Tom Parker-Bowles’ recently published cookbook, Fortnum & Mason Christmas.  For good measure, it is always good to have wonderful fragrances.  

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On getting outside, whilst prowling Piccadilly in search of the Herrick Gallery in Mayfair where a Nevisian artist was having an exhibition, the skies opened up and delivered a monsoon deluge, which readily reminded that this truly was the age of climate change.  The Herrick Gallery was a beautiful affair; however, I had arrived a day early so there was nothing to see as large canvases were being unwrapped and hung.  Getting into Green Park Station, I ducked in to use the toilet and was reminded of 28 years earlier, when you didn’t then have to pay to use the facilities.  That day, in the heat that was London in July, an old, homeless black woman sat on one of the toilets in a stall, which like all the others had no door affording privacy.  She seemed utterly otherworldly and just as removed.  Certainly, she was impervious to the bacchanalia afoot; a tall East African with the most massive cock to that point seen, was actually charging various denominations based on what the throng of near-ululating size queens were prepared to do to that unrivalled wunder schmekel of his.  

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Onward, the journey continued.  The next stop was Westminster Station where my main focus was touring the exquisite architectural gem that is the Lady Chapel at Westminster Abbey.  Built by King Henry VII as Lady Chapel and deemed as the ode to the Virgin Mother, I rather suspect though that the Lady in question is his mother, Margaret Beaufort.  Hers is the only effigy that is not marble but distinctive bronze. 

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(Though photography is not permitted, I managed rather skilfully to have captured a shot of Lady Margaret Beaufort’s bronze-effigied tomb whilst in the spectacular Lady Chapel at Westminster Abbey)

Of course, that soul is now incarnate and though the most reviled black woman on the planet at present, I have every conviction that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will just as nobly distinguish herself as when a key figure during the War of the Roses, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII after whose coronation she died days later, and great-grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I.  She who founded Christ’s College and St. John’s College at Cambridge University and for whom Oxford University’s first college to admit women, Lady Margaret Hall is named.  Indeed, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has been a feminist for some time.  

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A lone shot of Westminster Abbey from the quire, looking to the altar before being approached by security and asked to cease doing so.  Before departing I took the time to pause at the three wreaths in the stalls of Lady Chapel, which is the spiritual home of the Order of Bath.  In recent months, three knights of the order had passed.  

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The view from the Cloisters from Westminster Abbey, to the courtyard fountain and the grandeur of Palace of Westminster’s Victoria Tower to the rear.  It was also a chance to wait out the downpours.  

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Excitedly the dash back from Westminster Abbey to Westminster Station on the Circle Line was one filled with giggles as I tried to avoid being dowsed by puddles as traffic sped past.  Next stop, Mansion House which eventually led to a break in the rains as I emerged from the Underground.  

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Look at that, the monsoon had eased up and there was even sunlight trammelling the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.  Always, it is good to mount the steps to this grand shrine.  

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As it is the season of Remembrance, it was time to pause and pay homage at the tomb of Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson whom both Merlin and I knew in our past lives in London when musicians at court during the reign of HM King George III and the Regency of HM King George IV.  

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The Earl Jellicoe. Admiral of the Fleet.  Love that there are actual poppies on his tomb.  

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Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington.

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One of the sights whilst ambling after yet another tour of St. Paul’s Cathedral.  

With that, it was back on the Underground and a return to Bloomsbury, where dinner and dream-filled sleep awaited.  

As ever, dream as though every moment is a dream memory of a past life (this one) for you in a future incarnation.  See it, experience it fully – without bias – appreciate it and be richly inspired by it.  Again, I can never say enough how deeply appreciative I am for your ongoing support.  

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

Dolphin House Pets and Glimmers of El Greco’s Muse (Redux)

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On the cusp of the Art Gallery of Ontario’s Georgia O’Keeffe Exhibition opening this month, I am repost this blog.  Do please enjoy.  

Whilst the Moon transited both Libra and my fifth house, these next dreams occurred on October 1, 1989.  Too, it was the seventh anniversary of that magical, and a bit cool, Friday evening in Hell’s Kitchen when Merlin and I would meet… yet again. 

Of course, at the time, he was rather ill with full-blown AIDS and horribly suffering from Candida.  However, as I have known more than 200 persons to have passed of AIDS, Merlin’s AIDS-related illnesses were mild manifestations of what can eventualise with AIDS.  I have always been grateful for that. 

These dreams – one a touchstone dream with Olaf Gamst’s old-souled son as he was during a life when he was an assistant, muse and lover of El Greco’s, the other a dream set remotely in the past on this planet or possibly on another world where the indigenous folks were decidedly extra-human though Sol III human-looking enough – were welcome inspiration. 

Too, the dreams were dreamt during the second sleep cycle that day.  Back then, I took naps as often as I could afford.  Merlin fainted several times each day and the sheer gravity of what we moved through was exhausting at times.  As he would have it, no one knew that Merlin fainted multiple times daily. 

At the time of these dreams, I had taken to the pyramid to meditate with crystals and eventually ended up privately crying at the share stark finality of what imminently loomed on the horizon.  Thus, sleep was a welcome refocussing of my energies – if only briefly.  Of course, sleep and its elixir, dreams, ever kept me focussed, inspired and aware of the macroscopic. 

 

In this the first dream, I see Eleanor Bissell – my Canadian-History and English teacher at Harbord Collegiate Institute; she was doing some gardening in a blue dress that was floral-printed.  This garden had tall old trees in it.  There were hydrangea plants – large ones at that.

I went over and I greeted her and said, “Hello, Mrs. Bissell.”

I told her who I was and she had on her glasses and her breath was short.  She was just the same as when I knew her in the waking state.

 

This dream, the second, was set in another time and another place.  I was captured by this man in a castle-like dwelling.  A very Moorish setting, like in Spain, it was; it was not Moorish architecture like in Northern Africa but it was more so in southern Spain.  Perhaps, it was Andalusia or thereabouts.

It was brown stone which had been burnt by the Sun for years and years, tens of millennia, as a matter of fact.  I got captured and I was taken back into a room with a man; he was saying to me, “Of course you’re mine.  You’re 63%!”

This percentile was supposed to signify, if you like, being bad or evil.

He was describing things to me because he was the epitome of what one would consider evil.  I was saying, “No I’m not.”

I was saying that I didn’t want to be there and wanted to be let out.

The thing is, it was not me; rather, I was the son and he was a bronzed person; he was very swarthy but not Black.  I was his offspring; I was, in fact, his son.  Then some people came in and they were all there and I asked if I could get out with them.  They, however, said no that I couldn’t because they were alright.

They said that they were all 50% and that I was not.  I supposedly had to be 50% and therefore, as I was his son, I had to stay there with him.  I was really upset and somehow I managed to be stealthily taken away during the night, after the father left, by a woman.

She wore long flowing garb and she was again very Mediterranean or Middle Eastern-looking.  She had long limbs and café au lait complexion.  She told me how it all went that I was her son, by the same man, and that she was one of his many lovers.

However, he was never supposed to have a child by her; as a result, when she became pregnant because he so loved her, he broke with tradition and he had her put up in this particular part of the castle.

It was really fortified and very abandoned-looking but she held out there.  Nobody ever came to this part of the castle and it was very terraced and had a lot of inner walls in it.

The walls here were of a slight sandy colour and we were alone at nighttime.  As we were talking, there was battle going on behind us over in another part of the castle; the battle occurred in another part of the fortified town that supported the castle.

There were a lot of cries because there was battle going on.  You could hear a lot of horses neighing and cantering, as in the Crusades, if you like.  I don’t, however, recall having heard any gunfire.

She was telling me not to worry because he would never harm me.  Said she, I was quite well protected.  He did love me in spite of his cruelty and there was no way that he could hurt me because she was fiercely protective of me.

If he had done anything to me, she would be forced to expose him and he knew and feared that eventuality.  She told me to just go on outside and play.  So, I went out into the yard and it was a wonderful elaborate garden – very organic.

It had this pool and there inside were dolphins.  I went in to play with them.  It was a muddied pool but very large like a manmade lake.  They were playing with me as I frolicked in the water with them.

One of them had its fluke pressing down on my bum from above me.  Whilst sandwiched between them under the surface the other used it nose to push up against my breastbone and solar plexus; thus, they propelled me through the water at great exhilarating speeds.

It was a beautiful sense of motion because, of course, they travelled quite fast and they always stayed clear of going out too far.  There was a point at which they had jokingly made a fast turn and I hadn’t caught up.

So I went to stand up and it turned out that it was a very large pool and a rather deep, deep pool.  I panicked when I broke surface and they assisted me back to the shallow area.

When I came back indoors both the father and mother were there now – the swarthy humans, that is.  I said to them that there was something here in the pool a big opening, you could feel it.

I also sensed it from the dolphins as being something in the pool that they themselves feared.  The father figure was laughing and told me not to worry about that because he knew, of course, what it was.  The mother had remained quite silent and looked at me, all the time, because she was slightly to his left and behind him as he spoke.

All three of us were next in a room in the castle and, somehow, the dolphins were here as well.  There was a break in the floor, a wide open hole, and they came up and were swimming and churning up the same muddied-looking dark water.

A man then entered who looked like and was, in fact, the American actor who starred in the film, Paris, Texas.  I think that the actor’s name is, Harry Dean Stanton, but I am not certain of that; he is a scrawny, hard-faced, thin-lipped man.

He came in and had a gun and said, “I want to get paid.  I’m doing work in this building and I’m not getting paid.  I’m tired of being held up here.  Deliver!  Or else I’m going to take you out and shoot you.”

It was an interesting-looking silver gun.  I was standing up on a cabinet and he went to shoot me but I knew that he wouldn’t shoot me.  He had, in fact, turned the pistol so that the two shots rang off to my right.

What surprisingly came out, when he fired the shots, was water; however, it had light in it.  It was like lasered water and it shot out in a large chunky jet and went almost instantaneously to the wall and crashed there.

He shot rounds of it and both parents remained absolutely icy cool; they paid him very little mind.  Later on, the mother telepathically told me not to worry because he couldn’t harm me; too, she telepathically shared that I was not to move and give in to fear.  I was not to show any signs of panic.

*This was clearly a civilisation which was set here on Earth long millennia before the current ape-central, fear-ruled madness we now know.  This was a time long ago in human history when there was contact between both humans and cetaceans.  Telepathy was de rigueur; too, psychic abilities were more evolved then.

Perhaps, this was an Atlantean society or some other civilisation which predated the Atlantean.  The persons were seemingly of Mediterranean extraction and it was, however, definitely not Egyptian.

I would guess that it was post-Egyptian – the latter having occurred easily more than 60 thousand years ago; although, Europeans in their racist elitism – never having had anything to rival pyramids in Europe – reworked the agedness of Egyptian civilisation to their ends.

**I am now left to believe that this was in some way an Extra-Human civilisation where the humans closely resembled Earthly humans.  They were, however, swarthier and were archly telepathic.

Too, their foreheads were also considerably higher and had a slight concave look at the top.  Dolphins, it seems, were kept as indoor pets – just as cats and dogs are for humans.  Hence, there was the watering hole, which led to a vast underground network, where the animals could come and go from the fortified castle to the ocean, however far off.  END.

 

Almost instantaneously, in this the third dream, I was in another scene; it was one in which I was playing and my companion was Lars Gamst.  We were drawing, in fact, we were painting.

Lars said to the same actor, Harry Dean Stanton, who was now with me in this new dream – both the parents, incidentally, were no longer about.  Lars wanted the actor to assist him by editing.

The guy misunderstood him and didn’t know what was what.  What Lars was doing was covering the painting with a black wax and, later, he was then going to strip it off.  So he needed the actor to go and get the chemicals and equipment to go and strip off the wax.

He was somewhat impatient that the guy was so stupid and didn’t understand; Lars had had to spell out what he wanted.  I was trying to explain to the guy what to do and what Lars meant, as well as, the process involved.

When he did go away to get the things, I came over and approached Lars and assisted him in the painting of the work that he was doing.

*A rather insightful dream this one and the energies with Lars were, as ever, pleasant and sublime.  I find this a rather telling dream too because, in later years, on having Lars’s Michael Overleaves charted, I would learn that not only is he an old soul – first level old slave and entity mate to his equally old-souled father (Olaf Gamst) and sixth cast artisan like myself but he was the favoured muse of Doménicos (El Greco) Theotokópoulos and his chief assistant.

Naturally, for Lars to be so immersed creatively in a painterly fashion – in the dreamtime – was truly about revisiting a skill and time in the past which brought him great fulfillment both spiritually and creatively.  This was so clearly an astral plane encounter between us.

Being in Lars’s presence was quite expansive; you could actually feel his soul being deeply creative.  So fully dilated were his pupils, Lars’s eyes were almost pure black.  He was terribly eccentric and clearly there was much bleed-through from his having been greatly inspired in that lifetime by El Greco.  He worked feverishly with great attack.

He quite appreciated the fact that I was not a dolt and could be of able assistance to him.  This was such an astral plane encounter that it was as real and connected as that time we rode the subway together and the connectedness we shared blew my mind.

Incidentally, in that sixteenth century lifetime, Lars was much younger than the great artist and they did have a passionate relationship.  I have a distinct impression that there was a bleed through of what Lars looked like, in that lifetime, as his features were not as they are now; he was more Latin and darker, strong-nosed.

It was an aquiline nose.  Too, he was robust-energied and had massive hands like those of a sculptor’s.  Terribly expressive and passionate, too, were his hands.  END.

 

I was on the phone whilst speaking with Owen Hawksmoor, in this the fourth dream, and I could see about his apartment as we spoke.  I was calling him because I wanted to get laid and I was really raunchy and stir-crazy but he was not up to it.  I start calling him on it and I told him, “Oh yeah, why don’t you get up and go to the bathroom?  And drop your teeth in the glass of water, on your way, before you come back?”

In a very sarcastic manner, I had laced into him to which he responded by being coolly dismissive of me by broadly laughing at my desperation.

Somehow, Pandora da Braga was part of this dream and she had an awareness of my play for Owen and my resultant rejection.

 

*Featured art:  Santiago el mayor by El Greco.  At the time of the dream, Lars appeared as he did in a past life; his was a strong aquiline nose in the dream.  This look features prominently in many of El Greco’s works.  In that past life, Lars was a favoured muse, assistant and lover of El Greco’s who was in a recent incarnation the sublime American artist, Georgia O’Keeffe. 

As Lars is a slave soul, the look of St. Francis and also the look of Christ carrying the cross are those of a slave soul; at least that’s my impression.  Since, Christ was a seventh level king soul on his last life, the El Greco Christ of the aquiline nose is decidedly not a king soul and more so a slave with priestly airs.  Perhaps, this is how Lars looked then. 

What I also love about this particular El Greco painting is that the green draping proves an evocative prelude of things to come, as it were, with regards Georgia O’Keeffe’s sublimely sexualised flower paintings. 

For that matter, I love how Georgia O’Keeffe’s sensual masterpiece, Jack in the pulpit No. IV is a reanimation of El Greco’s Christ on the cross which is in the National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Japan

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Art:  Santiago el Mayor

Oil on Canvas

97 x 77 cm

1610 El Greco

Provenance: Museo del Greco

Christ on the Cross

Oil on Canvas

95.5 x 61 cm

1600 El Greco

Provenance: National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Japan

Jack in the Pulpit IV

Oil on Canvas

40 x 30 Inches

1930 Georgia O’Keeffe

Provenance: National Gallery of Art, Washington D. C.

Grey Lines with Black, Blue and Yellow

Oil on Canvas

48 x 30 Inches

© 1923 Georgia O’Keeffe

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

Revisit West Indian colonial past-life, flight and lovemaking (Redux).

Florence Welch Annie Leibovitz Vogue

*As ever, thanks for your continued patronage; it does mean a great deal to me.  Sweet dreams as ever and the very best to you!  

On the cusp of my birthday, I share these nine dreams had near 21 years ago.  They were beautiful dreams and, of course, there were flying dreams amongst them. 

With wonder, and at times regrettably with trepidation, I lucidly slipped fecund, open and oceanic in sleep’s warm wet folds and into astral consciousness aligning with soul.  There, on Sunday, October 17, 1993, I would whilst the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house live these nine dreams. 

They were beautiful dancerly movements in spirit which culminated with the most sensual of pas de deux whilst lovemaking with the most beautiful woman.  Sweet dreams be yours. 

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In this the first dream, a female TV reporter was speaking about who was the most hard, as in well-hung, in TV.  Peter Mansbridge was cited as such.  She looked like Wendy Mesley but wasn’t.  As this was said, it proved quite the revelation.

Thought about it and realised that it could indeed be true; after all, he is rather beefy, mesomorphic and broad-shouldered a man.  I could, in fact, see him having a large-headed, thick dick.

Soon, they announced on television that starting in two days’ time, Peter Mansbridge would be hosting a new follow-up program after ABC television’s Nightline which was normally hosted by Ted Koppel.

As I didn’t know whether this meant that he had gone to work in the U.S. or if Ted Koppel had died, I found it all very strange.  As he was about to leave Toronto, for work down in New York City, there was then a send-off party of television executives for Peter Mansbridge.

Myself, I was just outside the main ballroom where the guests were standing and sitting about holding drinks and noisily laughing aloud.  On the inside, there was lots of dark wooden panelling similar to a private club like at 21 McGill Street.

The place was dimly lit and for being dark-wooded, this only made it appear even more soft-lighted inside.  I would then go jogging with Peter Mansbridge in a very rich neighbourhood.  Off to our left and down the road a bit, were these large, beautiful rolling plains.

The street would eventually veer off in two directions.  Here it was at nighttime and the night sky was rather beautiful.  Soon, I would decline jogging for very much longer because of the rigours on the heart from jogging.

He was not however fazed by my dropping out.  As we no longer jogged but walked along, I would see the Moon appear from back of these heavy-looking clouds.  There it sailed atop a stand of palm trees off in the distance.

The Moon was high in the eight house, as it were, in the west moving towards the horizon.  Found it strange to find that it was a full Moon.  After all, it was not supposed to be a full Moon at present in the waking state.

Nonetheless, it was such a larger-than-usual awesome sight that I was greatly moved by its impressive beauty.

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Next, in the second dream, I found myself in the environs of a wooden schoolhouse.  The structure was unpainted thus exposing a clear-wooded exterior.  Can’t recall having gone inside but I know that I had been there to do some work.

I had also been playing in the yard and enjoying myself.  In addition, I had gotten paid for the work that I did there.  I was always in the backyard.  Meanwhile, there was some discovery taking place.

There was a large scaffolding that was very tall and multilevelled.  Lots of steel pylons in different sections were placed on the planks; they awaited to be used in the renovation and construction underway.  The scaffold was only on the back of the schoolhouse.

All around were these incredibly large trees; one of them was definitely a breadfruit tree.  Meanwhile, after having made my way up onto the scaffolding, I became suddenly afraid of the heights.  This was because I had seen that there were these persons who had had to jump from the level that I was on.

Here everyone was very mercurial-bodied – slight and wiry.  One had had to jump some five feet down and across the way by more than two feet.  This was something that they had been doing over time; naturally, they had become quite familiar with the whole process.

Their technique involved throwing their body forwards then with the legs out in second position.  The legs were at a twenty-five degree angle; this would enable you to land properly in plié.  On leaping down, there was very little to hold on to; besides, there was also very little foot space on landing on any of the levels.

For whatever reasons, I became suddenly fearful as to whether or not I could actually sustain myself at these heights.  Furthermore, I questioned whether I could successfully cross from one level to the next.  Instead of leaping across, I clambered back down the scaffolding.

From there, I made my way into the building which proved on entering to be an incredibly large recreation room.  The room had a lot of clear and blue plastic covering the floors.  A very high-ceilinged place it was.  One section, to one side of the complex, was very damp.

Entering the complex at the back, I would soon get to the main corridor which ran from left to right.  On the opposite side of the corridor, to the back where I had made my entrance, were several strange-looking compartments.

They were made of three walls of white tiles with large blue plastic which fell down from the ceiling to cover each compartment.  On entering, one had to stand on a large marble slab where it was very damp.

Incidentally, the whole thing looked like the opening of a car wash.  One had to step down to enter the small three-sided compartment.  In back of you as you entered, the length of the room remained opened up.

Unlike anything that I had ever experienced before, this place was incredibly humid.  In that sense, the place was not unlike a steam room.  As I saw some persons leaning against the blue plastics, I went to lean against them as well.

There were two other persons, to the left, leaning against the tubing which accompanied the plastics.  Made little sense to me what they were up to but they did look decidedly lethargic and out of it.

Truth be told, it was almost as if they were asleep or even anesthetised.  An unusual gestalt considering that this was the realms of the dreamtime, I thought.  Figuring that the old adage, ‘When in Rome do as the Romans…’, I went off and tried to put myself in the state that they were in.

However, the plastic snapped, broke and caused me to almost fall face first into the tiled wall ahead of me.  Steadying myself, I decided to not pursue this riddle of a queer experience further and thus took my leave.

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Going out onto the veranda, in this the third dream, I saw Augustus Akins off in the distance.  He was with someone on the landing as well.  Standing there, I was amazed at just how much they had both grown.

Going over to them, I said to Augustus how surprised I was that he had grown so much.  One of them wore a jean jacket which was opened up to reveal a lovely, dark-skinned complexion.

Don’t have any idea who the other fellow was but he was not a relation of Augustus’s.  I was truly amazed that Augustus had grown so tall and looked so self-possessed and aristocratic.

Returning inside to the room where earlier I had been, I thought about both men as they had been leaning against these upright trunks that were out on the veranda.

I had the distinct impression that they were not saying anything to me because they had the distinct impression that my being enthralled with them would lead me back into the room.

Right away, I intuited that this was all a mere trap which was designed to lure me there at which point they could then come in and capture me.  Straight away, I took my leave of them.

The room, though made out to be as if a bedroom, turned out to have been – though dimly lit – a prison cell.  With that, I went rushing from this room in the schoolhouse by way of another door.

This posited me into another room where beyond which was yet another room.  Coming out, I saw that the innards of the room were now dissolved.  Indeed, the whole thing had been a holographic projection.

All that was left was a large Plexiglas cage of a room.  The people who were left in the room, whom I had not initially noticed as being there, were the same comatose-looking persons as those at the plastic tubing.

Instantaneously, for being encased in the trap, they were gassed as the place filled up with a misty gas.  Pretty soon, they were asphyxiated.  The whole thing was very macabre as their screams were drowned out by the airtight-sealed thick Plexiglas encasing, as it were, in which they were entombed.

Truly gruesome a sight was it.  To think that people could be annihilated just like that was truly horrific a spectre.  Next door, in the room that I had rushed into, there was a guard; he was a tall, quiet dignified-looking man.

He decided not to kill the others.  Nothing interested me more than getting the devil out of there toute de suite.  From there, I went rushing down the staircase close by; I made it out into the grounds of the wonderfully treed schoolhouse.

Making it up to the wide road, I intuitively knew that I was being chased.  Obviously, they would do everything in their power to try and capture me.  I do recall seeing Duane Searles down; he was two landings from me as I had fled from the room.

Duane was keeping tabs on the fact that these persons were trying to entrap others.  Duane was also keenly aware that one of the persons that they were attempting to entrap, by way of intimidation or scandal, was me.

I knew that his sense of justice was such that he intended to take them to task – to deal with them.  He was waiting below for the perpetrators of this barbaric crime.  Without a doubt, it was obvious that he had every intention of apprehending them.

These people were up to no good whatsoever.  They knew that they could pull their little vindictive stunts and get away with it because no one had ever threatened their unfair behaviour.

Pretty soon, the relatives of the gassed persons showed up and were intent on avenging their family’s death by gassing.  They pulled guns and soon the senior members of the families were caught cursing and pistol-whipping each other.

They were so despondent that they began attacking anyone in sight.  For that reason, I sought to keep a low profile and went about sneaking from one place to the next whilst trying to stay out of harm’s way.

As they made for each other, I made it outdoors where it was nighttime.  Of all people, Gabriela Denmann was there.  Augustus said at the time that he hated her guts; this whilst I was waiting for a bus to show up.

I thought it weird that he should have said such a thing.  Down the road from off to the left, down an incline, was what proved a truly mobile automaton.  The transport was not operated by humans and could carry a few persons at a time.  If you like, it was a taxi.

Driving past, it was empty and did not stop for us.  Somehow, I had assumed that it would have sensed us and therefore would have stopped.  All that I wanted was to get myself out of this freakish place.  The vibrations in this place were way too negative.

When the family relations who were in hot pursuit of me began coming from the building, I decided to flee from the bus stop.  I made it out to the woods, which were dense, and to the right when looking at the schoolhouse.

The Moon was brightly shining.  Drinking in the light, I simply flew away.  I had not even had to think of willing myself to fly, it had simply happened.  I simply couldn’t afford to be in the line of their gunfire.  Nor did I want to be seeing any bloodshed.

The trees were all very lushly tropical with lots of palm trees among them.  Flying to the right of the paved road, I was also not above the treetops.  Rather, I hung in amongst their crowns and snaked my way in and out of the network of branches as I flew by.

Here, it was effortless to have flown through the trees.  There were even times when I would simply fly through the branches unobstructed by their being there.  As though they were made of a different molecular structure, as their waking state counterparts, thus they did not prove impassable.

I was, of course, simply shifting my vibration so as to allow me to become momentarily one with their vibration and thereby allow me to pass through them unencumbered.

On one occasion, I moved through the most beautiful mango tree; this had filled me with pleasurable memories of the mango tree that I had planted during childhood in St. Kitts.  The memory-filled experience was truly grounding.

As I flew on, I caught sight of the full Moon which was up ahead against the blackened sky.  The Moon here was very yellow-tangerine-coloured.  There were hues too of eggshell-white to it.

This was the most glorious soulful sight imaginable.  If already I had not been in flight, by now, I would have done so.  The Moon was now close to the horizon which made it take on those orange-going-fast-into-harvest-reds tones.

What was truly bizarre, though, was the fact that Penina da Braga began pleading with Harella da Braga to let her have some stocks.  Harella refused saying that Penina was way too irresponsible and had no one to blame for her financial woes.

At that point, as I listened to their banter, the Moon began shifting shape and became truly like a Salvador Dali creation.  As it got closer to the horizon, the Moon appeared to be melting away and became as if a limp piece of paper that was flying in the air.

As would a piece of paper, falling to the ground, the transformed Moon appeared to be flying back and forth in a rocking manner.  A truly displacing state of affairs this would prove.  If intended, it thankfully did not though have a hypnotic effect.

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Next, in this the fourth dream, I was flying in this large salon and just below the ceiling.  The walls were the same colour as the setting Moon had been just recently in the prior dream; at least, before it began shapeshifting and causing me to understandably feel some degree of displacement.

Yellow-orange, it was a beautiful tranquil tone of paint.  Exceptionally high-ceilinged, the ceiling was white.  Though not stucco, it had relief on it; patterns were set in the very thick layer of stonework.  The workmanship in the ceiling was quite beautiful.

Flying on, I could see that up ahead was a door which stood a bit to the left.  I knew that this door was one through which I could fly into the next room.  That room appeared fairly dark.  As I flew, I kept on rising higher in the room.

My progression here, unlike in the prior dream, was truly slow and leviathan.  As I progressed with my back to the ceiling, my head was held at seventy degrees to my toes.  Not quite fully upright, I was though still up vertically rather than progressing horizontally.

A truly beautiful feeling it was.  At the time, I wondered to myself why not simply fly through the ceiling which really seemed to be a dense layer of clouds.  The look was reminiscent of wintry clouds through which one passes, on descending, to land in a plane.

Though there were definite patterns in it, like the aforementioned wintry clouds, the ceiling had a cottony look to it.  For being so close to the ceiling, I couldn’t get a good overview of their design and so was kept ignorant of what exactly the overall look was.  Courageously, I decided to fly through the ceiling.

With that, down to the third eye chakra, my head slowly began penetrating the ceiling.  Here again, I was actively willing my molecular integrity to shift; thus I could vibrationally become one with the ceiling’s frequency and thereby pass through it unhindered.

There was no escaping the fact that the ceiling was a solid entity.  The ceiling was, in fact, quite dense a medium.  I felt as though my head were a diamond-bladed saw cutting through a dense slab of granite.  My focus here was quite intense…

At the point of penetrating to the third eye, I became cautious wondering as to what exactly I would end up seeing once on the other side of the ceiling.

Should I be so bold as to hazard the transition to the other side?  What, indeed, if I didn’t quite like what I encountered there?  Would I be trapped for being there and grow fearful in a potentially hostile situation?  How would I know to get back out of there, once caught in a vortex of fear, if the adventure were to prove hostile in anyway?

With that, my thoughts became so dense, I was simply dropped back down from the ceiling.  My focus had become diverted by negative thoughts; thus, this prevented me from being able to complete my vibrational shift.  The whole thing, to say the least, was interesting.

So again, I collected my energies and attempted to move through the density of the ceiling again.  Alas this time, I did not pull it off.  Sensing that I was only going to strike my head against the ceiling, I righted myself into a more horizontal position and flew off.

I was still fairly high up from the floor.  Somewhat disappointed that I had not broken through to the other side, I flew on making for the door that led to the darkened room.

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Can’t say that I had flown through the door into the darkened room but next, in this the fifth dream, I found myself outside whilst still in flight.  I was going along this wonderful wide road which had these colossal tropical trees that completely overhung the wide boulevard.

There were flamboyas and banyan trees, even Ficus Benjamina trees that were truly stellar in stature and beauty.  All had immensely thick trunks on them.  Arboreal masters all they were.  I was being energised and my thoughts cleansed for being in the sphere of their pure loving energies.

As I flew along, there was an embankment to the left which was three feet from the road.  The trees were next to the road with houses up on the embankments.  The houses were set way back from the edge of the embankments and on large lots that were truly estate-like.  Here too, it was also nighttime.

This was a very astral-planed experience – all these dreams.  Rather than above their crowns, I flew within the crowns of the massive trees.  I had been directly flying above the centre of the wide road; yet, the sprawling branches had splayed out enmeshing me in their friendly embrace with one another.

In this way, as I would have preferred, I could remain unobserved from the ground.  My flight here was measured, deliberately slowed down, so as to allow me to drink of the beauty of these arboreal giants’ energies.

Stopping on one of the branches, I rested reclining in the same horizontal position as when in flight.  At that point, an old Black man came out whilst I had been looking ahead of me at a Black woman.

As if she was a witch, she wore nothing but black garments.  Soon, she was joined by a woman who came from my rear.  The latter was White; both of them very stout women, though, they were not in the manner of the subjects of a Fernando Botero creation.

She wore a silver outfit which was again a long gown; again, it was the same design as the Black woman’s.  They were clearly familiar with one another.  Both had these twigs in their hands that were unusually crooked.

They were shaped as if a frozen, now fossilised, bolt of lightning.  On meeting, they embraced each other and laughed a very full-breathed earthy laugh – think Whoopi Goldberg here of the nature of their laughter.  They were so real and raucous.

Talking, they began dancing around and doing these gestures and movements that were all quite ritualised and seemingly of an occult nature.  Whilst they danced, the old Black man had appeared from off to my left and up on the embankment.

Neither women had been up on the embankment; they met on the road and stayed there.  The man was dressed in a pair of easy slacks, a short-sleeved loose shirt and a hat.  He was a very West Indian-looking chap and he looked every bit the Nevisian.

A real countryman as the old folks in St. Kitts-Nevis would say.  Ancient beyond belief, he was genuinely the real article.  He was an old soul and immediately reminded me of Jacques Blanc.  His demeanour was so gloriously at peace.

He had a sweet easy smile that made him look the most gloriously vulnerable.  I found it was hard to believe that any human being could be born into the waking state and progress to such an old age and remain uncorrupted as that smile of his indicated.

The greatest of energies were his.  On seeing them, he soon grew fearful of them.  He became concerned – assuming, I suppose, that they were witches and could do him much harm.

Things only got worse because he had actually seen me before, as I flew down the street, in amongst the treetops.  Looking up off to his right, as he walked past, he noticed me again.

On seeing me, he became startled so I began flying away; I did not care to disturb this mellow soul.  Though I must say, I did so think it strange that he should find my being in flight an oddity – especially for being here in the dreamtime.

Slowly, I began flying away towards and above the two women up ahead who still remained below on the street.  Seeing me in flight only made him upset because this, to his way of thinking, only validated his fears that this was something sinister.

Clearly, I had to fast rethink my assessment of this one being an old soul.  Basically, things were rapidly changing about him and for someone so ancient it was all a bit too displacing for him to absorb.  He was, sadly enough, left disturbed and fearful.

I was convinced that I was not sporting two or more heads here!

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After having flown ahead of the two women who seemed to be female archetypes of the magi, in this the sixth dream, I arrived at my next dream experience where here it was daytime out.

To the left of the same road, along which I had been flying, I saw an estate just prior to a fort on a high hill.  At this juncture, there were no longer any tall, majestic tropical trees looming over the same road.

Though I was fairly certain that it wasn’t, the fort reminded me much of Brimstone Hill in St. Kitts.  The estate was not unlike one of the ones, from the days of slavery, from which plantations were operated.

Going up past the embankment from the road, I went into the grounds of the estate.  The main house was a conical-roofed château, not unlike the château at Vallière, but it was not particularly French.

The building had such smooth gorgeous curves to its lines; an architectural gem, to be sure, it was.  Though slightly Bavarian in look, it was however very much so a French château.  However, the roof was made of stone and green and not painted blue in the French tradition like at Vallière or Chenonceau.

Centuries old, it was green because of a dense growth of moss covering the copper roofing.  Low lying, it was nonetheless a very heavy-looking imposing building.

Walking up from the main road, I had alighted by this point, there were some steps that took you up to the next level beyond the embankment.  There, one encountered another road and this one not as wide; this road was the one along which I went and it took one into the grounds of the estate.

Facing out to the right, the house was to the left.  Beyond that, there was a low fence and after which was a large road.  There were uniformed Black men who stood about talking whilst guarding the house.  They wore fur-covered hats which were like those of the British honour guardsmen’s.

I knew that this was the residence of the Lieutenant-Governor, the monarch’s representative.  Their uniforms were a grey-brown colour and rather beautiful material which was styled in a splendid design.

Colourful, they were rather original.  The scene here was distinctively tropical and sunny as all hell.  There was movement about the grounds as the score of gardeners and labourers worked the land.

The lowness of the structure did remind me of those low thatched-roofed houses in England which were current during Elizabethan times.  This, however, was extremely large.

Then, I noticed an old White male who was speaking to the others and giving them directions.  He seemed, perhaps, the lord of the manner.  On closer inspection, and without moving, I was able to zoom his face in to a tight close-up at will.

Seeing his right profile, in amongst his long, white flowing hair, he was liver-spotted and had a large broad-nostrilled nose.  There and then, I realised that he was a mix of all the races of this planet.

This was obviously a composite of all the lives that he had lived to date being borne out in his facial structure.  He was however predominantly Black and, at that, an exceptionally fair-skinned Black man.

Definitely, it was not a case of his being a White male with a deep permanent tan after having lived in the tropics for decades.  With that, I took to the air again and flew over the low level stone wall which was white stonewash; this was exactly the same schemata as the house’s walls.

In order to clear the wall, I had had to fly off to the right and went away from the mansion and the estate’s driveway.  I saw there another road along which came William Herbert, the Kittisian politician, in a Hummer jeep.

He looked older as he does at present.  He drove alone in the vehicle.  His spirits were boisterous; a grin on his ruggedly handsome face as dust flew when he made a hard left turn.  With that, he disappeared up a winding road which went up into the fort.

The road was about fifty feet away from the end of the road, which bleeds into the main road, along which I had initially flown up to the estate.  Going along the road, I kept aloft and surveyed the strange but eerily beautiful terrain.  Here, I was flying uncharacteristically low to the ground.

Eventually, I alighted yet again and joined the local teenagers who were all very West Indian-sensibilitied.  They were thankfully not the least bit fazed by my flying.

Here, there were a few old-souled-looking sprawling trees.  There were banyans and flamboyas here too.  This was such an august-spirited place whose energies were truly intense.

Meanwhile, persons were looking on at me. The children here were so august-souled with eyes that were so dynamically grounded, potent and lived in; their eyes were truly ensouled.  A very astral plane experience this was.

I would then leave with Fitzrene Wellington-Banks, Pia Banks-Abella’s mother, in an open vehicle.  I had wanted to go further up the road but the kids being in the middle of the street were as if a telepathic directive to me to not advance any further.

One had the sense that their opinion was that to have ventured any further would be on the order of prying.  So very good it was to see Fitzrene Wellington-Banks who was so incredibly solid and grounded.  Her manner was open, friendly and thoroughly genuine.

So utterly refreshing a state of affairs to be relating to persons without there being any façade or maya.  Fitzrene made very intent, direct and lingering eye contact.  I could actually feel her soul each time that she looked at me.  Truly, it was breathtakingly intimate and arrestingly sublime a beautiful experience.

As we were coming on to the village, we were stopped by road work that seemed not to have been construction-related.  Perhaps, there had been an accident or some such; I couldn’t though quite figure out what was up.  The disturbance was considerably up ahead of us at the time which left us slowed to a crawl.

To the right of the road, as we inched by, I noticed two low-lying, yellow clinic buildings; they were much like the ones at Sandy Point, St. Kitts next to Fitzrene’s apartments at Lara Wellington’s compound.  These clinics, however, had wide ramps in front of them which enabled wheelchair access.

The yellow was a dark rich tone and were not unlike the yellows of the Salvador Dali-like Moon and the walls of the salon through whose ceiling I had attempted to pass.

At that, we saw William Herbert’s very stout son leave the fort; he was in the vehicle that his father had recently been driving.  This young man was energetic, sexually dynamic and light-complected.  His hair was thick, black and curly.

His stoutness reminded me of the local, White Kittisian playboy, Ian Kelsick who was so fond of red motorcycles and who it would seem does have nine lives. A lot of Martial energies here infused this man’s body.

Now, I was returned to the other village from which I had come; earlier, of course, I had been up the tree looking on at the two women enjoying themselves.  Though considerably further along by now, I was on the same side of the road as the château-like mansion.

Beyond the clinics, William Herbert’s daughter was working and wore a light green smock.  Young, she was unbelievably pretty.  She worked with a blond who was very tiny and slight a man.

They were putting sulfur on the globs of blood which had trailed from the street to the clinic.  Apparently, a woman had gone into labour, her water having broken, and left a bit of a mess en route to the clinic.

The blond guy wore a very pointy helmet that looked very Thai.  He looked strange for being covered, as was she, with a lot of loose sulfurous dust.  Next to his blondness, it made him look most strange.

His lashes were already incredibly blond.  This gave him a decidedly extra-human quality.  This man did so have a cool, murderous edge to him.  What with the fine dust of sulfur covering his skin, he didn’t seem human in the slightest.

He had an abundance of Saturn close to his ascendant.  He couldn’t have been any more than 15 or 16 years of age, yet, he was already a right proper stern man of great fixity.

This man’s energies were truly unsettling.  They were bristly for me and reminded me much of the blondness of those kids with whom I would have a very traumatic experience, in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, in the summer of 1969.

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Next, in this the seventh dream, I saw the performer, Tony Orlando onstage looking very stout to the point of being unhealthy.  At the time, he was introduced by fellow performer and the very sexy, Lionel Richie – a man whom Merlin found so devastatingly sexy.

Tony Orlando wore a wonderful white suit standing way upstage whilst waiting to do a duet with Lionel Richie.  There was a cheesy-looking, shimmering green-looking, festive curtain in back of the performer.

Lionel Richie came onstage from upstage left.  Tony Orlando gingerly bantered whilst waiting for the star to come on.  Lionel Richie came on looking very haggard, fatigued and indeed very grim-looking.

One was made to feel terribly uneasy to look at him.  Lionel was very ill, looking very ill, as though in the later stages of AIDS.  I was acutely uncomfortable.

This was made even more obvious when he stood next to the very plump Tony Orlando who was all shellacked, pulled back and looking as though he had been oozed into his skin; he was all body fat which gave him that smooth flawless-skinned look.

This was simply bad theatre and you just know I had no time for the macabre.  With that, I got to my feet and took my leave of the experience altogether.

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I got home, in this the eighth dream, to find Isha da Braga cleaning up the apartment.  She was being very confrontational fast getting on my every which nerve.

Meanwhile, I went to the fridge to get something on which to snack.  There, I saw lots of soups and meals that I had made that were stored; they were for consumption later in the week.

Isha was so disputatious and her energies so unevolved that I said to myself that I no longer wanted to be around this woman and her bullshit.  I didn’t in the least want to be there.

So with that, I went outside to call Pandora da Braga about whom I have been concerned of

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I rode an elevator up to a twentieth storey apartment, in this the ninth dream, where I was joined by a giggly, young flight attendant.  He wore blue and hailed from the West Indies.

I had been there because I was quite attracted to this woman and wanted to get it on with her.  We then went off to the balcony where I fondled her.

Soon, she laid down on her right side whilst curled up in a near-foetal position.  She shivered growing moist and would eventually cum several times.  As she came, she called out my name and left me very much so excited.

Due to her position, I was able to crouch down and slip into her wet warm pussy and made it all mine.  I loved the strong sweet smell of her.  Excitedly, I began fucking her at which point the dream became lucid and phenomenally real.

I could even hear my heart cantering away as I intensely hammered away at her.  She wore a light blue fabric which I had shoved up over her shoulders – to get a good look at her gorgeous body.

The passion was strong; the silken slipperiness of her so real that, as she came calling out my name, I exploded uncontrollably cumming simultaneously with her.

This was so intense and real that I found myself fully awake and sporting a very moist hard-on.

*To say the least, on awakening, after having audio-cassette-recorded the dreams, I got about the business of auto-erotically celebrating being a phenomenally alive and beautiful incarnate soul.  She was a stunning redhead who proved very alive and passionate.  END.

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Photo: Singer, Florence Welch

© 2014 Annie Leibovitz for American Vogue.

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

Sigmund, Lucian, Carnivorous Lilies & Freudian Overleaves (Redux)

Lucian Freud sleeping nude

*Since these dreams were first published two years ago, I have since had Lucian Freud’s Michael Overleaves channelled.  Naturally, as I have dreamt of him with inordinate frequency, the possible links needed to have been explored.  

As it turns out, Lucian is an entity mate of both Merlin’s and mine.  These were rather good dreams and I am honoured to gladly share them again.  – July 2016.

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reflection_self-portrait

These next five dreams were lucidly lived with every fibre of my ensouled being on Tuesday, August 24, 1993.  At the time, the Moon then transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house – wherein is posited my natal Moon sitting opposite Mars and simultaneously squaring Pluto and retrograde Chiron as it is. 

In any event, the beauty of this dream could never be adequately conveyed by mere words.  Whilst in flight in this dream, I experienced nothing short of rapture.  Dreams are so very empowering. 

To hell with what Freud thought; Freud and his opinions are those of a younger soul than yours truly.  Besides, truth be told, Freud’s relevance in the culture has more to do with the need to messianically self-anoint rather than anything else.  Sheer folly it is for any one human to preposterously claim to know the meaning or the value of another’s dreams. 

There is no such thing as dream symbolism as dreams are lived.  Surely, it is not as though each night on taking to sleep, one ceases to exist and dies.  One does not; one continues one breath after the other until wakefulness on the other side and therefore, all experiences whilst being focussed away from the waking state are about being alive, perhaps, even more so than when awake. 

Dreams are part of one’s spiritual journey; they deftly reflect where one has been on one’s reincarnational journey and, as such, can never be analysed, studied and fathomed by mere professionals who seem more concerned about their career advancement and socio-economic status than knowing anything about dreams themselves for having shared theirs – if at all they actually recall their dreams which I highly suspect not to be the case – materialist boors as most such persons appear. 

I will, though, say this much for Sigmund Freud, the only purpose his having been iconised served is that it made it an easier journey for his grandson, Lucian Freud to have achieved his fame – which, alas, is always more desirable than infamy. 

Indeed, Lucian an icon, Sigmund, however, definitely not the genuine article.  For all the sublime art that Lucian Freud has afforded human civilisation, therein lies the value of Sigmund Freud’s worth… and nothing more. 

I have been places and done much reincarnationally, hence, I use more of my brain for being an older soul.  Likewise, that I have been around the block reincarnationally and am an older soul is reflected by the maturity of my dreams and the absence of fear being focussed at the core of my dream experiences. 

Here’s to your own spiritual journey and may these dreams richly inspire you.  Remember, religion is politics; it has nothing to do with spirituality.  Since religion is not sublime art, great food, company or banging sex, let’s not be charitable.  Religion is bullshit.  Cue the music,

“Straighten up and fly right!  Weee shabadoobe do wee yeah yeah… shabada doo ya… poom poom yeah… bada ba doo ya!” 

Now catch the groove, push off and start flying! 

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In this the first dream, I happened on a large body of water which seemingly was a pond.  This pond was quite beautiful, serene and inspiring.  Placidly nesting on it were the largest lily pads imaginable.

This did vaguely seem like the pond before Pogson’s Hospital in Mount Idle, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  Yet, here in the dreamtime, it would have been up on the hill before the clinic and across the main road from said hospital.

Large enough, this pond was about 40×60 feet.  Though teeming with an abundance of lilies of several species, the water was extremely black and murky.  There were so many life forms in this water; some of them looked like tadpoles, perhaps, they were incubi.

One species of water plants looked remotely nothing like lilies.  They had two large thick leaves that came together.  Where the stems came together, it left them with a shape that was not unlike that of ginkgo leaves.  They both joined the stem exactly as the ginkgo leaves do.

There was a little aperture around the juncture where the two stems met.  These water plants turned out to have been carnivorous because the apertures would be slightly ajar then when the creatures would come around their mouths, they would quickly move upwards clear of the water and closed in the process about the tiny creatures.  They thusly ate the tiny tadpole-like creatures.

I had arrived at the pond whilst in flight.  Very slowly, after having been more rapidly in flight, I had willed my way through the air.  On seeing the pond way up ahead, I had slowed down considerably and glided in so as to be unobtrusive to the activity there.

I wanted to observe the goings on therein.  My movement was as if some majestic crane that was slowly gliding effortlessly through the air.  A very beautiful feeling of abandonment I experienced at this point.

Were I to have flown any more slowly, I would have possibly fallen from the air.  I was as if a giant leviathan leisurely cruising through a dry yet aqueous medium.

After having hung back from the edge, I inched closer then directly hovered above the centre of the body of water.  Whilst looking down, I would move from one lily pad to the next by directly being over it to watch it feed.

Each lily pad was about one foot in diameter and anywhere from 10-14 inches from stem to tip.  These were quite beautiful plants that were the same hue as a green coconut’s shell or, if you like, green olives.

The blackness of the water had a deceptive quality to it.  The opacity made it very hard to exactly tell what, just below its surface, was going on.  One had the sense that it was an abandoned fountain which would mean that it could not have been very deep.

Yet, there was no water being recycled here nor were there any sculptural signs of it being a fountain.  Though daytime, it was non-too-bright here.  The thought occurred to me that if these were the incubi of mosquitoes, they would shortly be hatching and I would likely be eaten by these hungry hatchlings.

This was one scenario that I was not looking forward to; indeed, it was best to avoid the likely eventuality than to have to regret afterwards.  With that, I began flying again.  This time, I soared higher and faster in the direction of the brilliant light with Sol to my rear.

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Whilst inside a house, in this the second dream, I decided to step outside for some air.  On doing so, this was when I saw Marcel Agnew.  Here, in this dream, it was a wonderful afternoon which was not too warm; the light was bright but not too much so either.

The house was not any with which I was familiar.  I was standing just inside the doorway, to the yard, when I noticed Marcel.  He was making a phone call on a cellular phone.

When he called the party, he had had to leave his phone number as the party was away from the phone and had not answered.  His phone number was either 287 or 278 but the rest of the number was 8874.  Keenly, I had been listening to him say the number whilst simultaneously writing it into my left palm.

Then I made for the interior; there, I intended to commit it to paper.  Whilst speaking on the phone, he had mentioned that he would be coming down that way – to Ottawa.

He would then be heading down to Montréal; it was to that city which, at the time, he had been calling.  He wanted to know if he could get together with the person, on his arrival in the city, in a few days’ time.

Standing there, I was quite smitten by him.  He had never noticed me standing there and I certainly had no intentions of calling him over.  This man can be very rude and dismissive of me.

He has a marked homoerotic streak which he is rather keen on denying; at least, in his relations with me it informs his rejection – which, of course, speaks volumes about him rather than not.  After all being associated with me, could only cause others to question his sexuality.

*Of course, in time, I would happen on Marcel at a bathhouse on Yonge Street.  Naturally, after that chance encounter at the bathhouse, his open animus towards me was dissolved.  Naturally, Marcel feared me running off at the mouth to co-workers which he and I both know I am quite capable of doing.

Then again, what do I care?  Marcel is of little consequence; he is a repressed bore despite that cock of his looking like something one is more accustomed to seeing on a young elephant’s face….  END.

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I was in a doctor’s office, during this the third dream, with a female technician.  The doctor was concerned because I had turned out to be rather anemic.  There was a large black machine on the doctor’s desk which was about the height of a Macintosh Classic computer.

There was a monitor with the computer too; I guess that it was, in fact, a futuristic computer which was black.  The technician was brunette, middle-aged and stout and the one who would be running the tests on me.

All that one had to do was put a finger on a pad.  There was no longer any blood drawing done because of the risk of HIV contamination, as well as Hepatitis and other blood diseases.

What this machine did was sample some bit of skin or a hair on the back of the hand and in that way get a thorough reading of an individual’s DNA.  The information gathered was precisely what was required to make an analysis of every aspect of a patient’s health.

This was quite advanced, indeed, revolutionary medicine.  Placing my right index finger down, I felt a slight-to increasing warmth from the dark glass pad below the finger.  This laser-generated heat caused my skin to heat up and sweat.

The briny bodily fluid, which contained the DNA, they needed to analyse a patient’s thorough health.  In mere seconds, the machine gave a result which was completely impartial.

Since it was machine and not human, there was no emotional considerations here.  This approach was strictly an academic one.  The test results indicated that I was HIV-; therefore, without the technicians having to be overly protective, I could go on with the rest of the treatment.

Jan Hartley, who was present, immediately assumed that the machine’s answer of ‘No’ meant that I was not healthy.  She took it to mean that I was HIV+.  She quickly went on blabbing away as though I were some inanimate object.

In any event, she was arguing that I had to have been HIV+ because she knew what a nasty little Jezebel I was.  She dismissed me as a flighty little idiot who no doubt didn’t use protection.

Of course, she added, I had to have been long ago infected.  She was so convinced; rather, she so wanted me to be infected more than anything else.  Truth be told, she was rather rude and abusive.

The grey-walled room was tiny as a matter of fact.  Three chairs sat on the side of the desk which was about six feet long and L-shaped.  I was on the long arm of the desk in the reception area.

The atmosphere here was rather soothing; one had no way of knowing what time of day it was outdoors.

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Whilst walking along, in this the fourth dream, Doug Addergen came towards me; he wore navy-blue overalls.  There were a couple of other people about.  As though to imply that his cock was large, he suggestively held a white ruler in his hand.

He came together with the guys, this after I had passed them, in the high-ceilinged hallway of an industrial complex.  Here, it was near-dark.  The legs of his pants were rolled up such that you could see his very shiny hairless shins.

He wore short socks (Oxfords) and sneakers.  Going down the hall, Doug had been making a number of suggestive remarks about screwing.  He obviously could tell that I was interested in him; this was why he was behaving the way that he was.  He was flirtatious and a bit of a cock-tease.

He kept on mischievously grinning at me then walked down a hall; the hall was perpendicular to the one that we were on.  When he got down a stretch of it, he looked back at me, flirtatiously raised his brows, grinned his non-too-smart-looking face off.

He was really enjoying stringing me along.  Better yet, I was simply playing him.  Of course, he in his solipsistic daze didn’t even realise to have been the case.  He was such a conceited prick.

I then sat there on a window sill where I noticed that there was all this garbage strewn about the place.  Who should come down the way, in these gorgeous bellbottomed pants, but Ghennifer Voss?  When she saw me, she casually remarked,

“Hi Arvin, how are you?”

Though she was being gracious, I could tell that she was uncomfortable.  This finally was the only way for her to have dealt with an unavoidable situation.

Clearly, she had been mindful of relations back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet School and how less-than-gracious she had been at times towards me.  Not an issue for me was it.  To put it mildly, those had been frosty times.

In kind, I warmly greeted her whilst she collected garbage from the parked flatbed.  Jumping off the sill, I did so not to go help her but rather walked away.  Then, I sat down at a work desk where I busied myself and forgot all about her.

A fat White Gay then came down and proceeded with this not atypical, snarky idiotic behaviour.  Since I neither cared for him or his attitude, I simply and completely tuned him out – to the point where I could no longer even see him.  Several persons in the meantime, kept on passing by the area.

Later on, I saw Ghennifer in an eatery where she sat at a table with friends.  Going past them, we looked at each other and acknowledged the other with genuinely warm smiles.

There was no other way to have related; there was no great loss about any aspects of how we related in the waking state that was wrong.  Besides which, it had all happened too long ago experientially to have emotionally been of import.

I chose to be my true self and generously extended of myself.

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In this the fifth dream, both Pandora and Isha da Braga were in an unfamiliar house with me.  We were getting moved into the house whilst Maxwell Bowleson was giving us a hand.

Harella da Braga, who was also present, was concerned as to how many items I would actually be moving in.  How many boxes, trunks and large items, I had, needed to be assessed.

Afterwards, there had been a lively discussion between us.  After having just eaten the chicken, which I had prepared, Maxwell was grinning away.

I was non-too-pleased that both he and Pandora had had the meal which I had prepared.  Having cooked the food, I had hoped to at least have had some of it; I really did feel cheated out of things here.

I had been so looking forward to eating that food, later on, after having toiled at the task of getting moved in.  So far as I could see, there was a great deal of politics at play here and none of it I especially liked; the politics here did not bode well in my favour.

After that, Maxwell had asked me to come accompany him down on the elevator.  I had had to help him bring up some more items from the move.  This new apartment was quite beautiful.

The hallway was absolutely beautiful.  The carpeting there, which led to the elevators, was the most plush-feeling, gorgeous tone of red.  This was a very tony affair.

The elevator doors were silver and rapidly hissed open then collapsed shut, just as quickly, after having remained open for a few long seconds.

When we got onto the elevator, as soon as the doors closed, Maxwell looked over at me and sincerely smiled into me.  Reaching forwards, he lingeringly kissed me.  This was so totally unexpected that I hadn’t a clue as to what to do.

As he affectionately rubbed me on the back, the bond between us was very warm.  We got down to the lobby and, as we parted from kissing with the doors hissing open, I came to lucidly awake.

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Art: Leigh on green sofa 1993

Oil on canvas

17.1 x 22.9 cm

© 1993 Lucian Freud.

Provenance:  Private collector.

Exquisite Lucian Freud of Leigh Bowery.

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