Pink Chair I & II

October 24, 2021October 18, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Within days of George’s 44th birthday on February 9th, 1990, I had been to his McCaul Street loft, which looked east to the buildings lining University Avenue. There, on the top floor’s tiny balcony, we would retreat for some privacy, late at night and suck each other off with his son spying on us… ever he spied on us and it became a definite source of one of our many volatile breakups that George wanted to watch whilst his son and I fucked. I am not about doing anything that I find repugnant. George’s son’s legs are ridiculously bizarre; the space between the knees and ankles inordinately short – he also has too much gum for my liking. Did not matter to me that he was very thick and big; I was not playing. End of discussion. In any event, that winter, after George and I had riotously fucked with his son’s conspicuous silence in the open loft definitely indicating that we were being spied on, I fell asleep whilst George, thoroughly, noisily ploughed right, went to shit and shower, which was always alone and a very lengthy affair. On exiting the bath, as I soundly slept, awaiting my turn to shower, George grabbed his polaroid and took several snaps of me in his sole pink armchair as I remained sheathed in a used full and droopy condom.

By the time that George would present me with the iconic, masterful serigraph, he and I were not then on speaking terms on conclusion of the work. Months earlier, in November 1989, Merlin had passed and as George made it perfectly clear that he did not want to be in a committed relationship, I walked away. He was, of course, pissed but I was not getting the support I felt that I then needed. Truth be told, the relationship with George was ideal, I could no more have given two fucks about his friends anymore than they did me. George was totally controlling – energy body of 9 – and in that way, I was his muse and a great fuck; this left both his family and friends off limit – of course, there was obsession with his son, which meant me fulfilling his fantasy. Not happening. So as I did not play along and began taking lovers of my own, as George wanted to celebrate my life in the event that I, soon after Merlin, perished of AIDS – at that point, I still had not gone out and taken an HIV test; I was simply then too solipsistic to have been any support to Merlin who was then slowly dying of AIDS. So not able to bring himself to name the serigraph after me, it became Pink Chair; of course, for his friends, it was a great dig at me whom they thought of dismissible and an utter non-entity. Of course, I never said more than two words to anyone at that point in my life – that is, if I did not think you worth my time why bother saying fuck all?

For the next three years, George and I saw each other on and off. During that time, I was rapidly self-exploring. Of course, at the core of it all, there was the one ritual that grounded me, each day as I went to bed, I closed my eyes and smiled, knowing that on awaking, I would recall a plethora of dream experiences which before sleep, I could not readily have fathomed. Each morning I woke up, grabbed the tape recorder and began audiocassette recording my dreams. For this reason, as it had been a promise made to Merlin, I had no desire to be in a living relationship. No, I do not want to meet your fucking family, most definitely do not want to be caught dead, wasting a nanosecond of my time, listening to your loser friends and their redundantly specious regurgitated anecdotes – been there… fuck that. With Merlin’s passing, I had found a new groove: go to a few bathhouses, fuck a couple or a couple dozen hungry bottoms, head home by bike and listen to either classical or Jazz and get on with reading, writing and looking forward to travelling to the next art exhibition or Jazz concert and, of course, collecting art.

At one point, George moved out of his McCaul Street loft and with his possessive son remaining at the loft, this opened the way for us to get back together. This, of course, was not without its angst. One evening, I was hellbent on ploughing George to the hounds but he kept on begging off and finally blew up at me and told me to fuck off and, perhaps, he wanted to fuck his brains out with someone else. Are you fucking kidding me? No need to sit about when possessed of that irrational cocktail of obsession, passion, lust and mistrust. With regards his sexual activity, George always lied… I knew this. The first time that he had lied, I noticed the tell-tale sign – his right index finger and middle finger would involuntarily quiver and he would always try to cover it by rubbing his right index against his right nostril. Whenever this occurred, he would always get up and walk away to try and better cover up the physiological quirk. As ever, nothing escaped my eagle-eyed perception.

That night, unable to sleep and more importantly being robbed of valuable dreamtime, I got up and hopped on my bike in the middle of a bitching winter’s dead of night. George, who then lived at 62 Austin Terrace, had me pedal like mad in the biting cold and after locking my bike down the hill, made it up to 62 Austin Terrace, which stood right at the northeast corner of Bathurst Street and Austin Terrace. Truly possessed, I hopped onto the mountain ash tree and began scaling the damn tree as though at 0300 on a cold winter’s night with a street lamp nicely illuminating things, my being a black male, climbing a leaf-bare tree in the Annex, was a perfectly natural thing to be doing, among other illogical considerations. The lights were on in the bedroom; alas, he was not being ploughed by someone who was not me. Of course, George always spoke in his sleep and in one of his little pernicious moves, days earlier as I ploughed him good, he let out someone else’s name whilst pretending to be more asleep and or drunk than he was. Of course, seven years of being the lover of an award-winning director, Merlin, I knew fucking bad acting toute de suite.

There were clothes on the bed that were not George’s but he could not be seen. Undaunted, I scaled and scraped my way down the tree with simian ease, passion-possessed and made it up Bathurst to the rear of the property where I scaled the slippery stone side of the hill and made it atop the garage where for walking across packed, crunching inches of snow, found George being plough on the large draught table in his study. I was beyond livid but wanted and gotten definite proof to slap down his lying when confronted. His response was, of course, feigned indignation at my having had the temerity to spy on him. As with all passionate lovers, that entangled, drama-rife bit of Sargasso was soon traversed to calmer seas. Months later, we got in from dinner, sat down for a drink at his Austin Terrace apartment and laughed and savoured our cognac, after having been out shopping in the early afternoon to choose a new frame for Pink Chair. As ever, George wanting to be plough long and hard, listened to Haydn’s Paris Symphonies – ever, I favoured the London Symphonies. I had just returned to Toronto after amour fou absolu had attempted to steal a dozen pieces from my art collection, among which was Pink Chair.

By March, 1993, I was hanging out in Washington D.C. with Bahamian relations when for walking out on my host, would meet Yuri, the most thoroughly consuming S&M bottom. This, of course, was at a time where all I did was crawl bathhouses partout, ever on the prowl, as finally I had discovered my metier with Merlin’s passing. S&M was the right groove at the right time in my life. So as I crawled predatorily the halls of yet another bathhouse, this one on the edge of a military base in the U. S. capital, I was hotly pursued by Yuri as my swagger and riding boots were just what and more his wildest dreams were in search of. We fucked for several hours, he professed his love and we returned to his place just southwest of Dupont Circle in Foggy Bottom that was the epitome of house proud faggot and way too minimalist for my liking. Alas, we went to his bedroom, which had a bed that was custom-built and made to service his every S&M whim. We were insatiable and it was just right. I looked past his drinking and excessive use of poppers, which second hand ever left me with a splitting headache, he had an actual freezer in which he kept handled bottles of vodka and the salacious bottom with the thick Russian accent was all mine.

Soon he took me to dinner, presented me a ring and demanded that I move to America and his position as lawyer in a queer law firm would allow me to live without the worry of working and the ideal Daddy to come home to. A city full of museums, he had season tickets to Kennedy Center and just a short flight to New York City for more culture and art, it was not very hard to say yes. Soon we went looking at places as I came down every other weekend from Toronto; we dined out and did all the things he had not before. On the off weekend, he had to himself with friends and family, which I made it perfectly clear were a non-negotiable in our relationship.

No sooner than having brought down choice pieces of art and much of my wardrobe as we chatted daily three to five times, I was returned that Sunday evening to no calls or calls going unanswered. Finally, that Thursday evening, he coolly answered the phone and wanted to know what I was bothering him for as, said he, he thought that he had made it clear that it was over between us. Perhaps, I was in denial but now he was with Tyrone who had a big 11.5 inch cock that he just couldn’t get enough of. Putting my master numbers to good use, I morphed and pulled out personalities 33, 47 and 56, all the while not so much as appearing remotely upset. Soon, he was answering the phone whilst being ploughed by Tyrone. Alas, my diamond cutter charm wore him down; we did after all have concerts to attend at Kennedy Center. So fool him, he accepted as Tyrone was going home to Philly for his mama’s 50th birthday – as if I could give two point five fucks.

Returned to Washington, I charmed him though he was wary and mistrustful – his guilt not mine. Finally, he gave in and we had one last S&M session. Tied up, he stood upright in the leather bedding with black bath sheets everywhere to catch his piss as I ploughed his arse, exposed by the thick leather chaps, rough, long and hard. I then slipped beneath the bed and got out the duct tape purchased earlier at Heckenger’s across town – everyone in the neighbourhood knew him and I had no intentions of anyone tipping him off. The hood zipped tight, revealing only his eyes and mouth, I smeared half a dozen strips of the black tape across his lizard-lipped cocksucker mouth and left just enough room for him to comfortably breathe.

As the opera fag neighbours below were in that evening, I turned up the music – Maria Callas CDs on the Denon stereo system – really loudly and pulled his big-boned body from the black leather sheets and hauled him by the harness through the 2100 square foot duplex apartment to the living room, took the strap to him as well he loved it; however, this was not about him, left him slumped and seated on the floor and quietly and meticulously cut my fucking art from the god fugly gaudy gold frames, into which the fucking racist moron had placed my stolen art, 12 pieces in all, including Pink Chair. Having returned my art into the tubes, in which they had months earlier been brought down from Toronto, I called my ride and with lots of time to spare its arrival, I hauled the blasted fool – who to that point had royally pissed off at least half my known 72 personalities, to his large bathroom, where clad in leather from head to toe, I heaved his bulky body – his legs and hands bound as he loved it during play, over the side of the tub, ripped out his butt plug, squatted down, violently ripped off the duct tape, replaced it with my gauntlet sheathed left hand whilst riotously fucking him hard. Hissing into his right ear, still hammering away at his ravaged mangina, ‘you fucking thief… what does that make you. That’s right, you’re a fucking nigger and don’t you ever forget it.’ Slamming the bathroom door shut behind me, my head ached from all the poppers he did. Coolly, I went to the freezer and got the handled bottles of vodka there, where else but America, and slowly undid his suit so that his welted body beneath could really sting from the vodka’s cold, unforgiving bite, after shoving his whimpering body into the tub. When I was done emptying all his vodka on his shivering, enraged body, I straddled his wet body below in the tub and whilst standing on the edge pissed and relieved my bladder which since removing my stolen art from his walls had been straining for release.

From there, I hightailed it to New York City and stayed a few days at Valerie Pringle’s only brother’s West 16th Street walk-up where I grounded anew by going to all my favourite museums by day and crawling the village in riding boots, making further conquests, which usually began whilst gyrating and face-fucking on the tiny dance floor down the mirrored winding stairs at the historic Stonewall Inn. Returned to Toronto with my art, over dinner at a tiny Spanish restaurant off Yonge Street, after we had taken Pink Chair to be framed, raising a glass of red, I winked at George and said of the vanquished amour fou, the best way to piss on a fool’s grave, is to do so before they actually are dead and buried. Dinner was beautiful and with that, we returned to his apartment at 62 Austin Terrace and George was no end of happy, reaching back and holding on to my riding boots, his arse high in the air, as I ploughed and staked my claim to his heart centre as never before.

‘What the fuck are you calling me for?’ On my return to Toronto, I lethally hissed down the phone at the racist boor in Washington D. C.. ‘We have no business together. Obviously, all you can handle, is nothing more than 11 IQ points. Let’s make this perfectly fucking goddamn clear, since your HIV status – that’s right, I have known all along, precludes you making it across the border, you will stay the fuck where you are and get over it. You’re a fucking thief.’ He then violently demanded that I return ‘his’ art and be man enough to bring it back. ‘What the fuck has AIDS and poppers done to your fucking pea brain? Bitch are you fucking nuts? You are dead to me. Shit, I already pissed on you… you are as good as fucking dead! Cutting him off as he launched into his foul, drunken nigger this, nigger that, I boomed down the phone into his gutted soul, ‘Hang it up! Hang it the blasted motherfuck up! Now! Go on, hang up your fucking phone now. You fucking drunken diseased rat. Now! Hang it the blasted motherfuck up now! Hang it up! Finally, the line dropped, collapsing his weak sobbing. A bottom to the core, he never dare dialled my number again.

Also, at 62 Austin Terrace, I announced to George that I had accepted a job offer in Vancouver and would be leaving in mere days. George was devastated as he felt that he was being abandoned for not having been fully engaged in a committed relationship. In the end, not long after I was happily ensconced in Vancouver’s West End, that George visited. We had some of our best sex deep into the musky wholesomeness within the woods of Stanley Park, lorded over by centuries old Sitkas. There in the dead of night, George buried his left cheek in the mud, held on to my riding boots as ever he loved to as I ploughed and took us both to beyond the edge of ecstasy. George’s first visit to Vancouver – there was a second, was passed going to galleries, having an early dinner, likely on Davie Street, going home for a nap before getting up late at night to go do that most primal of deeds, fucking surrounded by the sublime beauty of nature.

On the eve of Bob Marley’s birthday – a very brightly, crisply cold Friday in 1999, my wife and I emerged in full African garb onto Saint Laurent from Montréal’s palais de justice accompanied by George and my sister, Pandora, both serving as witnesses. That evening at our lovely Cote des Neiges home, the four of us were joined by a lovely Jewish boy from Hampstead. George and I were reunited after too long on the cusp of his 53rd birthday and among other things, we warmly celebrated his upcoming birthday. The evening was beautiful. Five years later, my wife and I relocated back to Toronto as both our fathers experienced health crises. My first visit to George’s Borden Street penthouse was beautiful, the view looked north to one of my favourite high-rises in the city; it is a deco affair at the northwest corner of Spadina & Richmond Street West. I am always reminded of Merlin and New York City where we met and how much he loved the architecture of 1930s New York City. Paris, my wife, and Pandora were invited to dinner in the late afternoon.

George seldom hung art about his homes, and rarely any of his; there was one however which moved me the moment I walked into the room. Who is it, I asked, to which George laughed and said, ‘it’s you, of course. It’s the companion to Pink Chair… it is Pink Chair. Back in 1987 when we first met, George had asked me to sit at his loft on Brock Avenue in the Queen West Queen neighbourhood. As a result of our carnal passion, George experienced a new creative drive; he became more creatively focussed and produced more. George’s attack was dazzling and he created with feverish speed. He was always grateful for that time, he was not yet 41 when we met and for him, it proved the mid-life crisis he needed. It was great, too, because Russell, a lover of his, had slowly been dying of AIDS and I became the anchor that kept him focussed here and now.

I was invigorated by this second Pink Chair, which had been completed in 1992 but which he had never shown me. Finally, George and I met separate of my wife, Paris, who has since transitioned and become Denver, for dinner at his Borden Street penthouse condo. Even though I had become a portly little cock-bottomed, short-breathed eccentric with age, I still wanted to return to being George’s muse and, of course, lover. As ever, we dined on another exquisitely prepared meal, which featured a George staple – asparagus and another sublime sauce with the right accompanying wine. At this dinner, however, George began opening up and told me of a murder at University of Toronto where he taught printmaking; it was a murder, George shared, for which he was a major suspect. For the next couple of hours, I watched George come undone as he talked of how unrelenting the authorities were in surveilling him. At one point, as he slumped in the chair across the table from me, George sprang back to life and said that he wanted to apologise; said George, all the years of hearing me speak of the insidiousness of racism and the effects it had on one’s wellbeing, he had dismissed and for that he wanted to apologise.

George trembled at times and he seemed to age before my eyes. Keenly, I kept a raptor’s gaze fixed on his every move. Never once throughout that dinner did I fail to look out for George’s right index and middle fingers’ movements; they never once quivered. George shared that he was terrified of sleeping because he constantly suffered nightmares of losing everything with his being pinned with the murder, going to and dying in jail. George said that he constantly felt as though his every action was being monitored, analysed to discern whether he was the murderer or not. Getting up, I went and knelt at his side at the dining room table and held him, hugged him. I let him know that I was there for him. Slumping forward, George hugged me and dissolved in tears, we both cried. I cried because I realised that there was no way that George could ever be passionate again; there could be no sleepovers – he talked constantly during sleep.

George and I never met at his condo again. Walking away that evening, I was struck by how neutered and consumed with fear George had become. At one point during dinner, with his back turned whilst cooking dinner, one of my notoriously loud sneezes exploded. Though George had heard that loud explosion countless times before, he responded as though a high speed train had unexpectedly zoomed past. George and I seldom spoke by phone and rarely emailed after that dinner. As a matter of fact, apart from meeting twice to catch a movie, we only saw each other whenever I turned up at Dr. Tsang’s. It was one of these visits – whenever I went to the doctor’s, George happened to have been there, George shared that he had cancer. I was stunned. Over time, George’s stomach became more distended, his look more wounded and what pained me most, was how much he remained as if possessed, thanks to having been a major suspect in the murder of a colleague.

After dinner, as I made to leave and we hugged long and hard, we then looked at Pink Chair, another of his masterpieces, George kissed me and said that whatever happened, it was mine; George wanted the piece to eventually become mine but for now, he was holding on to it because it reminded him of the passion we shared and how intensely I had inspired him to create and drove him, drove each other mad with the passion we shared. Getting down to Borden, I was so immensely drained at George’s despair that I walked with bike a block south to Adelaide, hailed a cab, securely tucked the bike in the trunk and silently wept on the ride home. I got in, lit beeswax candles everywhere, listened to Haydn’s Paris Symphonies, then had an extra hot soak in the tub with rose petals and Epsom salt, smudged my home afterwards with sagebrush, crawled into the pyramid, gathered crystals and upped my frequency whilst collapsing through the labiate folds of sleep’s sweet, welcome embrace. George died a dozen years after my return to living in Toronto from Montréal, and all attempts to acquire Pink Chair have proven unsuccessful. A lover scorned… indeed.

As ever, Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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

November 16, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

I readily knew that I was dreaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Shamanic Dreams Aplenty.

May 31, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Schadenfreude: Acts I & II… And A Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

April 7, 2019October 22, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Recently, I caught up with an old friend from last century – that sounds so deliciously cool… in any event, whilst hanging out, I got a call from one of those deranged clowns from the world of the theatre to whom one’s only response was to simply hang up and readily call-block the damn nuisance. Who has time for yet another egomanical twat who drones on ad nauseam about life decades long past?

In any event, soon there was talk about Winnipeg and had I not heard the news? If I am honest, Winnipeg is the only place on the planet that I would never revisit… ever. For two years whilst there, if I spoke more than a thousand words, I spoke a lot. Diana, Princess of Wales’ astute remark in her televised interview with Martin Bashir, deftly betrays the hellishly bruising isolation that I knew for living in Winnipeg: “There’s no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.”

For two excruciating years, I, the school’s only black, was the most invisible, ignored, objectified, ridiculed and dismissed. More than that, each of those two winters, on especially cold days when the windchill approached -40°C and below, a male colleague would piss into my locker and into my sole pair of shoes and socks. Those walks home in piss-soaked socks and shoes which by the time I made it home to my 380 Assiniboine Avenue apartment, my feet would be frozen and swollen.

Sitting across the desk from the hairy back-and-arsed, glass-beaded-eyed male in the near-dark clutter of his office, I knew that this man was the most venal, to say nothing of transparent liar. So after he sat there with that smug grin on his face, I approached him a month later, asking if he would let me become the school’s janitor to help my sorry financial situation.

Naturally, I was confident that this dim, shallow, transparent bigot hadn’t a clue that I was as shrewd to say nothing as intelligent as I am. Months earlier, after having been relentlessly pursued by a pudgy, local tea room devotee, I gave in and ended up being blown and rimmed like it was nobody’s business. Pretty soon, my paunched lover got to the business in hand. Surprisingly, he was an ex-lover of the man across from whom I sat being boldfacedly lied to. Adamantly, he insisted that I not get my hopes up because his ex had an almost violent repulsion to blacks and there was positively no way that I would ever make it into the company…. over his ex’s dead body he had declared.

That notwithstanding, I daily did extra minutes of daimoku in hopes of magically spiriting my way into the company. As long as I live, I will never forget the pain of icily frozen feet, glazed in loud syphilitic piss and the smirk and goofball idiotic grin of the circus freak fare whose cock more so resembled an extra girthsome angel trumpet flower and pushing either side of six inches when flaccid. Once my feet were so swollen that I went into my sparsely stocked kitchen and broke every glass by hurling them across the tiny space.

That episode was the only time that I have ever felt suicidal and the only thing that saved me was the thought that the fucking idiot would be the one to laugh loudest on hearing of my demise; truly, nothing more than a bipedal, STD-riddled petri dish. Neither technique nor his idiotic personality can ever explain this person’s decades-long sojourn in Winnipeg save that the glass-beaded-eyed one was dismissed by his ex-lover to be the city’s most notorious size queen.

So alas, a career which ought never to have been then morphed into many things as no size queen ever wants a prize catch out of sight. So there was I, for the few weeks that I did the job of custodian at the then Portage Avenue studios, rushing feverishly through the tasks of brilliantly cleaning the place so as not to give cause for concern, then into the offices I would take. Whilst there, because I was ever confident that for being only perceived as “black” far be it from them to passingly have associated a shrewd intellect with me. Meticulously, I pored through this man’s files of every male student dancer and then made handwritten copies of what he wrote.

Years later, whilst living in Vancouver, I reminisced with an alumnus of the school and classmate. As he spoke of why he took leave of the school and his troubles with the glass-beaded-eyed one, it suddenly came back to me; within those notes, there was the portrait of the sexually predatory taskmaster. I vaguely recalled that his description of the fellow alumnus validated what my classmate shared; he had no desire of being bedded by and being touched inappropriately in class and feeling like he was being groomed into submission – this resulted in a tense confrontation between both men once during the barre section of class.

Not only is an obvious bully a sexual predator, in my experience, said bully also proved a racial predator – despite the fact that neither academia nor medicine will acknowledge what clearly is fact. No one made me feel more dread, repulsion and loathing than the source of current infamy associated with both the company and school, the latter with which I was familiar and the subject of current media scrutiny having been for those two years a classmate.

He did not exist in a vacuum and his enabler is just as culpable, having groomed, promoted and harboured overlong said predator when of negligible talent; trifling talents, I might add, which were allowed to manifest by any means to allow and support what masqueraded as creative artistry. More bruising than having to walk home in piss-soaked socks and shoes, was having to sit there in the dark during the dress rehearsal of the company’s 1981’s production of Romeo and Juliet where the predator’s mentor sat a few rows back of me in the house and laughed his head off at my not being in the production. Indeed, so exquisitely isolated was I that I was the only one never to come down with mononucleosis when it ravaged the school. Truth be told, never once during the two years of being in Winnipeg did I have sex with anyone from either the school or the company.

Well, it certainly was well worth the wait to have the truth karmically surface and expose that vile dog as it finally has to eat its vomit. Go on bitch, start licking; ain’t a damn thing like schadenfreude to embalm old wounds.

Finally, I caught an air pocket after the spiritual turbulence that was Winnipeg and ended up in New York City without knowing a soul there. Within a year, I was dancing independently and got reviewed in the New York Times. More than that, I found there, away from the hellish, racially predatory madness that was Winnipeg, the most gloriously soulful pair of eyes yet met in this lifetime. Into my life, one cool Friday evening strode the very magical Merlin from a dream dreamt four years prior.

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These rather lucid astral-projected dreams occurred whilst Merlin was still then incarnate in summer of 1989.

I have come to realise that many of the dreams that have to do with being astral-projected to past or future lives often occur when the Moon transits cancer. For whatever reasons, this seems to be a strong likelihood in my experience.

I really don’t think that it matters much over which house my Cancer rules. Rather, it seems more telling that ruler of Cancer, the Moon, is in my case found in the seventh house.

Too, it should be noted that though much of my second house is dominated by Cancerian energies, Gemini sits on the second house cusp with the cusp of my third house being 20º of Cancer.

Truth be told, they were rather insightful dreams to have experienced. As such, these dreams occurred on Sunday, June 4, 1989 whilst Merlin was then incarnate.

Too, at the time, the Moon magically transited both Gemini and my first house wherein my Mars sits nicely conjunct the ascendant. This placement of Mars – along with its grand mutable square associations to Luna, Pluto and Chiron, tends to have me attract persons of less evolved spirituality who are ever ready to project their base emotions my way.

Of course, it goes without saying that I am always unwavering in deflecting that dense energy with lightning shamanic speed. Keep your dreck away from my aura!

More than that, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on audio tapes nine through ten and are to be found in the as-yet published Volume II of the dream opus. Sweet dreams as ever and as has been recently observed – nothing says wretched existence like bipedal canines who fixate on their quadripedal kin.

One can only hope that most of these otiose overbred castoff humans do not eventually breed. What do they know of either art or dreams the lot?

*I am reposting these dreams as subsequent to having shared them in July 2015, I have since had the Michael Overleaves charted for two of the persons featured in these dreams. To that end, at each dream’s conclusion the Michael Overleaves for the applicable person will be shared. As ever, I am most grateful for your ongoing and burgeoning support. Sweet dreams and don’t forget to indulge your shamanic skills: shapeshifting, manifesting one’s aura, rendering oneself invisible, walking through walls and, of course, pushing off and starting to fly!

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In this the first dream, I saw Nicole McHugh. She was cooking with a White man in a kitchen.

He was standing around and was quite friendly so offered to help out, that sort of thing, out of the goodness of his heart. She had these large trays of food.

She was cooking a great deal of food for a great many people. The flame was an open blue-white one and, somehow, he put his hand over the flame to pull out a tray – yet it did not burn him at all.

He did not react to it. I thought that he must have been cooking for quite some time, and been accustomed to these flames, to have had the flames not burn him at all.

He did go off and he had a glass of water – some of which he drank. I went over and I thought of saying to her and did, “Would you like a spritzer or something?”

She did, in fact, say, “Yeah, that would be nice.” She had sweat on her brow because she had been working very hard.

I then went outside to look in my locker because I did, in fact, have a locker there. In an earlier scene, I had put some stuff in said locker.

There were some washing machines – tiny, tiny washing machines. This place resembled a dormitory in the basement area of a co-op or building where people lived.

I was somewhat upset because my locker had, somehow, been displaced and replaced by washing machines. They were tiny, little brownish washing machines.

I had opened the lockers just to see if maybe my lunch was inside them where, in fact, it should have been – inside the fridge. There was, however, nothing inside the lockers.

There were one or two other lockers at the end but mine was more or less in the left of centre. There, in place of my locker, was where the washing machines now were.

Nothing was removed except the one locker. I did open it and it wasn’t mine.

Inside were the contents of somebody who reminded me of that Black guy who worked part time at Nature’s Own. Tall, handsome; his mother had nicely positioned him into the company.

I then went off to get the stuff when I saw a man who seemed to be Bert Jacques but it wasn’t him. He was walking a little girl who was one of Madella Jacques, rather, Maryse Jacques’s daughter.

She was a sweet little girl who was wearing a blue dress. She was quite light-skinned and sunny.

He was walking her outside and coming across the bridge past our yard in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was in the yard and where the orange tree was under the genip tree, in the waking state, I was putting monies into a slot.

I remember taking money out of my pocket to put in – 50¢, I had had two quarters. I noticed that there was a token as I took the money from my right pocket.

When I saw the token mixed with the money I thought, ‘Oh I must be aware not to do this.’ I then got the dime and I was trying to put it into the slot but it was having problems going in.

As a result, I moved away the metal part of the slot. Interestingly enough, you could then see the tree.

I then put in the coin but you still did not hear it fall inside with the rest of the money. I then peeped up because the slot was higher than my field of view – higher than eye level.

As a result, I had had to poke the money in; it was a dime. However, it was sort of flat on its side; it was standing up so that the face of the coin was looking out at you.

I was poking it in to help it to fall in. At this point, whilst I was on the veranda of the house, I was aware that Nicole McHugh was coming down the lane.

I had been looking into the garden where the curtain trees were on the south side of the property. Here in the dreamtime, however, the curtain trees were gone.

In their place were three or four little baby curtain trees coming up. The rest of the land was dug up and it hadn’t been watered.

The soil was drying out and so I said to myself that I would have to water it. I thought I would have to go inside and get some seeds or plant some wonderful little flowers that were going to bloom.

Until the curtain trees grew up, I figured that they would add beauty to the place. So on remembering, I said to Nicole, “Oh yes, let me get you the spritzer.”

So I went and I got her the spritzer. She came and was then going in the house.

A lady then came out of their house and there was some sort of consternation. As it turned out, a White woman had a little terrier-like dog.

The dog had a black collar and the same fur as a Calico cat. This had been Nicole’s cat which the dog had obviously bitten up or eaten it up or whatever.

So there was quite a great deal of consternation. Nicole was standing up outside a wooden half-dilapidated house.

On the far right side, there was a cement staircase much like the arrangement at The Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. That part of the house, the cement part, was also crumbling.

Vida McHugh was there with Nicole and someone else – a little girl. The girl who had had the terrier was being rude.

She was cursing and saying, “Watch yourself wid me.” She had wanted to get in the door, from out on the landing, but the McHughs were in the way.

So she cursed and carried on. Eventually, she ended up rushing her way into the house.

Then I immediately was on the inside of the house where I watched this drama unfold. The events were as if an Opera and I said to myself, ‘My goodness this is Opera.’

Truly, this was much as if Opera. Then persons were coming in and there was movement – people coming down and pointing their feet.

They had on wooden toe shoes. As the movement progressed, there was advancement then retreat.

There were different forces of people. Like a ballet really, it was all being done in silence.

They had on long period costumes. The dramatisation was interesting.

Next, there was a sense of seeing the same woman, and everybody else, being extremely studious. The one woman was in a large area that had stained bronzed, clay-coloured, sand-coloured glass.

She was in the pews with the man who had been helping Nicole earlier. This was set in a large area and she was studiously reading the Bible.

She did take the Bible to be the literal word of god. Everybody else was more or less of that bent – I thought that it was so sad.

At this point, I was struck by the fact that this was where the Christ was going to be reborn. London, England, in fact, was where this was going on.

At this particular point, Diego Lunamas was about because there had been lines of people who were in the balletic part of the opera. Diego had been one of them.

At the time, he was sitting down on a set and it was lit by blue light. He was being grilled by this asinine White guy who was talking about, “Well if you believe in oversoul 7, then you also believe in overbigtoe 7, and what about oversole 8, and overhead 7?”

He was making fun of the philosophical concepts by way of the anatomy because oversoul could have been spelt, as though ‘sole,’ as in the sole of your foot. He was really stupid.

Diego was saying, “I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.” On Diego’s behalf I interjected saying, “Through my experience, I’ve read the Seth Material which I find far more well put together an idea construct.”

At this point Seth did, in fact, come through and began channelling. His voice was booming and it shook the entire place to the beams.

This was happening outside in the street between the McHughs’ and our houses in Crab Hill, Sandy Point. A stage had been set up in the street – a bluish-white lit stage.

I thought about Diego and the guy who, was in front of him, wore a blue-white costume. The booming voice was coming from behind the McHughs’ house.

Everybody was absolutely scared because here were these god-fearing, fear-obsessed people. Totally dismissing them, this was a booming voice which claimed to be Seth; the channelled voice then began calling them fools.

They were very fearful. I thought that it was absolutely great.

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In the second dream, I was in a wooden dance studio. The floor was wet because, in place of resin, they used water.

I had a sense that it was in the past, however, I seemed to be my present self. Even so, there were aspects of me that were different.

I remember the way that I postured and used my face; I knew that I had very Caucasian features. I could see the tip of my nose and yet I felt like I do now.

*I was not so much Caucasian-featured, if there’s actually such a thing – frankly there isn’t. I was, though my present self, actually Caucasian.

I was present in the exact same body and I was my usual-personaed self. However, the body was no longer Black but White.

The packaging had changed but nothing else had. END.

Ahead of me was a guy in black trousers – nylon stretch trousers. He was, in fact, the reincarnation of Vaslav Nijinsky^† and again male.

Again, he had very mercurial energies and he was a mover. He had exceptionally large thighs.

He could phenomenally jump and leap about. He was just incredible.

When at the barre, I was directly behind him and then just behind me was Pandora. Although, truth be told, it wasn’t Pandora herself but an aspect of Pandora’s.

I never really had made eye contact with Pandora. I remember after we had finished the barre, Nijinsky went and laid down on his stomach – in the frog position to work on his turnout.

The girls then went and they were feeling his muscle tone because it was quite unusual-looking. His feet were so pliant and flexible as well as his calf muscles.

He had eventually turned over because Dannie Cyrta, who was one of the instructors at the head of the class, was saying, “Guys, just leave him alone.”

When we were then doing the grands battements, I remember being really elongated and holding my port de bras. You had to do it turned out, doing grand battements, turned out to the front.

You had to do it out, towards the centre of the room. Also, then in second position, you were facing directly ahead of you. When doing grand battement en arrière, you did it out again.

The arm positions were up and in second position. When you did grand battements en arrière, you would put your arms up again as though you were peeping under your arm – when you were in arabesque doing the grands battements.

I remember before I was doing the exercise, whilst I was doing the current exercise, I was thinking of how I would do the position and how I had to use my port de bras. So I remember standing there in développé and you had to do these grands battements in plié and, somehow, I was in plié and I was holding my back up in port de bras.

My back was absolutely perfect; my port de bras and torso were perfectly open and I wasn’t sticking out my chest. I was thinking, ‘This is so improved.’

I remember my neck being quite elongated, with head held high, as a result. I was wearing a navy blue woollen set of tights and white dance slippers.

My feet were beautifully pointed. There was a sense of looking up.

Interestingly, my whole sense of self – attitude and posture was all about looking down my nose. This was when I realised that there was something about me that was Caucasian – physiologically.

*There was a half-mirror across the room and I was never at the front – the girls, of course, of custom were. That was when I looked and found myself, I was indeed Caucasian more Tartar than not – dark-haired.

I had a strong sense, for looking at myself in close-up without moving, that my eyes were smoky-green-coloured. My nose though aquiline was flared in the Tartar style and my teeth were gap-toothed.

This is not uncommon a feature when someone is currently Caucasian but was Black in their immediate past life – in fact, I was told by Sarah J. Chambers that it is always the case without exception as she was instructed by the Michaels.

Case in point, Madonna Ciccone, the Pop icon, who in her immediate past life was Black American entertainer, Bessie Smith – she has the same gruff raunchy persona. Prior to that, though not immediately before that life, her soul was then incarnate as Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

Vis-à-vis Madonna, her life is a completion of the agendum she set out to accomplish, in her immediate past life. She thought that it sucked being Black and a woman in showbiz.

However, her immediate past life did give her an understanding of the way the world works. So she decided to take the world by the balls, a ‘give-me-what’s-mine’ approach, as it were, this time around.

Madonna, as per her immediate past life has the same talent, same drive, “Now give me what’s rightfully mine!” Power to her! END.

Dannie Cyrta was, unusually so, very nice to me. She was saying, “Yes, yes Arvin. This is perfect and is much improved.

“Everybody look at Arvin because this is the way it should be. This is as close to perfect, as you can get, in the way your torso ought to be.”

*Imagine that – the Mormon princess, Dannie Cyrta, being remotely civil towards me. She even feigned to pretend that I was not a strongly projecting phantom as she treated me back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s School. END.

I remember the Nijinsky-like character, coming off the barre to look at me. The other people who were behind me were peeping around to look at me.

I felt very open and joyous. Mine was a really good, good feeling.

When we were doing the exercise and I was holding my torso, Dannie Cyrta and the rest of the people were discussing and saying, “This time he’s really ready to go out and perform and he’ll be okay.”

I felt that way too and I knew that I was going to be okay when I went out and performed. My body was quite together.

I was prepared within myself to face an audience. I felt really good for being in the studio.

*Dannie Cyrta’s energies were extremely unusual and contrary to what they were during Winnipeg days. I felt there was a good feeling in this class.

What was really sad, though, was that Dannie’s behaviour had much to do with the fact that I was not Black but Caucasian. In that sense, she truly was ‘the blind’ because she still did not realise that it was me.

To her, it was someone named Arvin but more importantly it was someone who was White. More than that, Vaslav Nijinsky is a mature sage entity mate of Merlin’s and mine. END.

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In this the fifth dream, I saw a beautiful hairless White boy who seemed Tartan. He was dark and handsome.

He also seemed to be a mélange of White, East Indian, Oriental and Black. He could well have been one or any of all those ethnicities because he actually had a bronze or even Hispanic look.

He had a bronzed hue to him. He was not however, for being so hued, extra-human.

Such that he seemed somewhat High-Yellow, he had taut smooth skin. He was extremely good-looking.

He seemed like a male prostitute or a gigolo. He was half-naked and teasingly aroused.

I was quite attracted to him. I made a play for him.

He seemed to be in the lane up by ‘Aunt’ Edith Dean, outside by Beryl Babbin’s wall, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I made a play for him but he dismissively brushed me off.

He then moved off and went along his way. I felt quite rejected and naked really.

Afterwards, I was thinking that perhaps I should not have made a play for this person. Nonetheless, I had and I was not fulfilled in my desires.

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

*What’s really interesting, too, is that he was basically a younger version of the Tartar, green-eyed, ‘Arvin’. So, in essence, though in the body during the dance class, I would see myself at a younger age.

At that time, however, I was outside of my younger-future-self’s body. I was resoundingly rejected by him – that is precisely what I would have done at that age.

Later on, of course, I was taking class with the reincarnated, Vaslav Nijinsky. A class it was which was being taught by Dannie Cyrta.

I shudder to think that in my next life, I will be a male prostitute, gigolo. Then again, it would not have been the first life passed in the much-maligned profession of providing succor to the sexually-repressed and the sexually-obsessed.

Long after this dream, I have since learnt that my essence twin^† is now reincarnated. He is male and was born during the second decade of the new millennium.

He is born to German, Japanese parents and lives in Germany. Our overleaves are quite similar though he is a realist.

They are, in fact, rather writerly overleaves. Too, one or both of his parents are artists; I believe that the mother has been a dancer and the father a portrait painter.

Perhaps, I was picking up on him in this dream. If not, it may well be me in a near-future incarnation. END.

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Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

Sandy Point, St. Kitts seen from Brimstone Hill Fortress.

Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.

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At Last, The Day Has Finally Arrived.

December 9, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photography can never do this masterpiece justice.

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

Can you hear my soul purring…

Phenomenal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Always, I Will Remember & Celebrate!

November 18, 2017November 13, 2022 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Merlin 21/7/1947<O>18/11/1989

Always I will remember and celebrate the greatest explosion of light, love, joy and intellect encountered in many lifetimes. The One. The Man. The Shaman. The Lover.

Merlin, I love you… and of this there can never be any doubt.

These memoirs are the story of Merlin and I as mandated by Merlin within days of his passing 28 years ago, this day. The first two of six volumes are now available, along with their accompanying Michael Overleaves Appendices. Available everywhere books are online.. get yours and as ever, thanks so much for your support!

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Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

May 29, 2016November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment