Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

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*Since having posted this dream blog some years back, I was always fascinated why I was simply summoned to be with the actor, River Phoenix when he passed. I did mention that sense of feeling strong resonance at the time of cadre mates’ passing. This dream was a poignant example of being called into action, to be of service to someone with whom I have a strong and connected soul bond that spans multiple past lives.

This was something that I felt at Natalie Cole’s passing and, of course, she proved to be an entity mate. In the case of River Phoenix, whose overleaves I will include here and which can now be found in the revamped and tidied up Michael Overleaves Appendix page, not only is he also an artisan soul but he happens to be a greater cadence mate of mine. This dream would not have occurred if we did not share this very strong bond; as a result of my cardinal casting, I am often called into action in dreams such as this one when entity and cadre mates pass on.

Read these dreams anew and do enjoy!.

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Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, I would be transported to a cul de sac of the astral plane wherein I am not frequently focussed. It was Monday, November 1, 1993. At the time, as now, I did not own a television and hardly looked at it. Also, at the time, I hardly listened to radio or read newspapers et al. I was also much removed from most daily chatter as I had been off sick from work but did go in to participate in the annual Halloween costume competition which the year prior I had won when dressed in full drag and looking hotter than even Tina Turner herself in my high heels. The above photo of yours truly was taken at Halloween 1993, the day prior to this dream.

Thus it was that I would fall into sleep and immediately be summoned to be in service to the higher good. What is really interesting about the experience with the famous actor encountered in these dreams, I rather suspect that he may be a cadre mate from the tenor of the dream encounter. Too, there are a number of famous persons in my cadre and he seemed vibrationally not dissimilar to them.

That being the case, this likely explains why I was called on to be of service at the time. I am said to be rather cardinal in casting, which is clearly reflected in yours truly being inordinately gifted when it comes to fathoming the depth and breadth of the dream realms. Too, as these dreams were clearly focussed on the astral plane, naturally, there was dream flight. More than that, whilst focussed on the astral plane in the dreamtime, one did encounter at least two, possibly three, extra-human species.

As there is flight and levitation in these dreams, I pray that they will richly inspire you. Fly my darlings, fly, don’t even for a second doubt, just melt into a mischievous plié and start flying – cause you can… cause you are magic incarnate!

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A woman and I were together, in this the second dream, above the Arctic Circle. This woman did remind me of the woman, who had earlier been in the previous dream encounter with Niles Ben-Daniel and seemingly his lover. I was not fully certain that this woman was one and the same as, the one posing as Niles Ben-Daniel’s lover, in the prior dream. She had a couple of siblings whom she had asked to find out what time it was.

Here, they kept time quite unusually because there was no tundra about. They, as a result, kept sundials. They grew their grass such that they were able to tell from Sol’s shadows what time of day it was. Their sundial was a natural phenomenon which used the rugged flat landscape for keeping time. Standing there, I faced due north. Sol was still in the sky, but low, and at the two o’clock position. Sol was red and potent; it was almost serene-looking.

Over time, they had planted a hedge of Chinese boxwood, which stood a foot tall. From it were a series of radial-like spokes radiating out from the centre. All told, there were twenty-four spokes; of course, the spokes lined up with each hour of the day. Even in the wintertime, the hedge though submerged maintained an imprint of itself above – in the snowed and iced over terrain. It was quite nude (barren) landscape here. Sol’s shadow was presently pointing directly at the ten o’clock position though it clearly wasn’t. Ten o’clock could also have been four hours past midnight.

I decided that it had to be around four, in the morning, which is why Sol appeared in the sky where it was. This was the time of year when Sol never sets which made it difficult for me, a novice in these parts, to readily get my bearings. Quite a strange phenomenon because my body felt nocturnally phased, yet, there in the sky was Sol as plain as the Moon. She wanted to know what time it was because she was getting ready to go down south to the ‘Southland’.

She also referred to it as, ‘the land of the setting summer Sun,’ which did make sense. She had said all that in her Inuit tongue, yet I had been able to follow perfectly well as though she had been speaking English. More than being with her, rather, I was there as an observer and took in the minutiae of this unique culture. Certainly, we were keenly aware of each other and that we were both gifted telepaths.

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Next, in this the third dream, I was in a crowded interior. It was a waiting lounge in a large depot that was not unlike New York City’s Grand Central Station. A sandy marble, time-yellowed hue, the walls here were the same colour as at Grand Central Station. A high-ceilinged cavernous place it also was. The main hall had several wings that adjoined its considerable length. Here, there was natural light coming in from the bathysphere-like windows that sat way up the walls and close to the ceiling.

In that sense, this was not unlike the grand hall in which I walked with Merlin during which we encountered the exalted magus on September 4, 1988. I was seated on these large wooden benches that were old, comfortable and looked not unlike church pews. Semi-circular in shape, they gave a sense of inclusiveness to them. All around me exclusively were men. This place seemed, if you like, some sort of way station. One guy there was very slight-bodied, young and naïve-looking.

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Looking at him, he wore a navy-blue track suit. He came over to sit next to me, eventually sitting on my right. Patting him on the back, I told him that it was really good to see him. I wished him a safe passage and asked that he go in peace, “Have a safe passage. Go in peace and do have a good journey…”

Of all people, it was the actor, River Phoenix – he recently overdosed on heroin, early on Sunday, October 31, yesterday. This was a very vivid dream. I was quite lucidly awakened. Feeling great compassion for his tragic departure, I thought to be of comfort to him and to uplift his spirit in whatever way possible. There and then, I realised that this was a place where persons who had recently died came whilst in transit to their final destination as returning astral plane habitués.

*This, of course, did not surprise me. Right away, I was reminded of the sense of mammoth dimensions that also exemplified the architecture of the train termini, where I had run into Merlin in that momentous dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. END.

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Seated there, next to him, I exclusively turned my focus on him. I then began doing an enormous amount of energy transference, thereby healing his spirit, before he could move on. Who cares the attachments to this man, in the waking state? I have never followed his career but here, in his astral plane hour of need, we were souls and healing is the most generous gift of love. After having left his life in such a dissociate state, River Phoenix needed to be made more whole.

This is why he had seemed so naïve and as if in a daze. He saw me and purposefully began walking towards me. God only knows what he noticed in me that was different to the others. Until he was about two feet away from me, I for one had not realised that it was him. By that point, he had already been intent on coming to sit with me. He clearly needed my services.

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Phoenix, River 23/8/197031/10/1993

This fragment was a second level mature artisan – third life thereat. River was in the observation mode with a goal of growth. A realist, he was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

Body type was Lunar/Mercury.

River’s primary chief feature was self-destruction and the secondary stubbornness.

Casting for River is fifth-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three – greater cadence mate of Arvin’s. River’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

River’s essence twin is an artisan and he has a sage task companion.

River’s primary needs were: exchange, expression and power.

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin.

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At the level of soul, I could not have cared less who he was; his energy body’s vibration needed a good deal of realignment before he could move on. He chose me and I gladly obliged his wishes. When patting him on the back, I was keenly focussed on sending him a great deal of near-aqueous blue-white light. River Phoenix was saddened. Rather, he seemed to be in a state of shock, though, not horrified or enraged. There was just a degree of resignation as he came to terms with where he was at. When it was all over, in the brief moments that it took to lay my hand on his back, he got up to get going.

He was obliged to take his leave and move on. He seemed here truly dazed. Perhaps, these were residual effects of his having passed in a heightened soporific state. Seated there, I felt completely drained of my very breath itself. I was left feeling so overwhelmingly sad and strangely alone. Another guy had sat down, on the other side of me, whilst I energetically focussed on River Phoenix.

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I can’t, for the life of me, say whether or not the guy had ambled up to join us seated there or if he had simply materialised – on the astral plane – for having just projected himself into our midst. Looking Hispanic, more than anything, this man had yellow-coloured eyes. Absolutely bewitching they were. He wore cream-coloured jeans with matching cream-coloured jacket. There was a lot of black in the clothing. This was in the style of Hip-Hop fashions.

He was a very sensitive man with a Hispanic accent and was slightly older than River Phoenix; he was about 24 or 25 years – at least he looked about that age. His hair was thick, black and curly. By way of conducting focussed energy transference, my function here was to provide counsel. I would simply tap into their vibration and, by way of their chakras, realign their energy. All of them seemed to have passed suddenly, completely unexpectedly. Thus they had a great need to become assimilated to what was clearly an unexpected turn of events.

They needed immediate supervision and companionship, until having become further acclimatised. Meanwhile, the persons around me were all being counselled by others – who were more solid-looking – whose role was like that of mine. I was, like all the others, a guide, companion and energetic facilitator to the arrivée habitués.

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Architecturally, this place was so immensely massive. It was also more ancient by at least 30 millennia than the rise of the Roman Empire. Clearly, there is no way to get around the fact that this was an astral plane experience. There was also no way to get around the fact that the first man, with whom I worked, was the actor, River Phoenix. What was really impactful for me was that River Phoenix, like all the others, had absolutely no emotions. He was in a place of total detachment.

Though a sudden departure from the life being lived, his soul consciousness was totally matter-of-fact about the situation at hand. The past, his recently accidentally concluded incarnation, was concluded and behind him. Period.

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Whilst we were all there, we were caught in some commotion when a Black guy appeared. He wore a blue jean jacket and wore on his face a flesh-toned fabric mask. He looked as though he had been in a burn unit at a hospital, I assumed, after having suffered massive burns to more than 95% of his body. It was the mask used for allowing skin grafts in such instances to take without becoming infected. My sense impression of his situation was that he had been in a violent car crash which turned into an explosive fireball. He had survived and was in hospital, for a while, undergoing massive skin grafting surgeries.

He also wore dark shades. The moment that he appeared, everyone instantaneously freaked out. All that one could see, was his mouth and nose; the image was upsetting, menacing. Right away, we all began fleeing that section of the grand hall. His arrival was simply instantaneous. He had simply manifested in plain view. When he came through, he brought with him a great explosive energy and immense suffering. This is what had upset the Chi in the place; it was quite an impactful energy wave that accompanied his manifestation. On closer inspection, I realised that he had not been a burn victim as he was still brandishing a large semi-automatic weapon.

Clearly, he had been holding up a business and got himself shot to death in the process. Thus, as is, he instantaneously appeared on the astral plane. The energy around his death was+ so immensely violent, as he went berserk, that it proved rather jarring for the rest of us. His body was violently sputtering away, as though, still echoing the massive volley of bullets that were being pumped into him. No doubt, a battery of over-armed police officers were only too happy to waste yet another ‘Black’ male.

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We all immediately started bolting because here was he, suddenly arrived and carrying a weapon, on the astral plane to which all these arrivés were not yet fully acclimatised. There was a group of urbane Gays over to one side who kept to themselves. The Gays went truly berserk, fearful of him, as this man was clearly a zealous homophobe. That too was the other thing about this place; one was able to accurately ‘read’ a person on their arrival.

As I sat there on the pews doing my energy work with River Phoenix, most of the light flooding the hall came from off to the right and rear. From the inner hall, I went bolting along with everyone else and took cover. The armed Black man had manifested across the hall from me. Making my way from what I thought previously was the main hall, I ended up in a grand hall that was easily seven times larger than the atrium in which I had been counselling River Phoenix and then the yellow-eyed Hispanic.

As everyone else had been bolting in that direction, I made a left turn. From the main hall, I was now in another atrium; this one, however, was considerably darker. This one was several storeys high with the same colour schemata as at Grand Central Station. Though there were no discernible floors as such, at each storey there were landings. I would then bolt down to where all the other Gays were ahead of me. In a bid not to be captured by this guy, who had no awareness that he was now dead and on the astral plane, I leapt over the railing and down onto the escalator where the Gays were.

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As they were all still clambering down the steps, this was not the greatest idea on my part; it was a truly chaotic scene. Deciding against pursuing the herd mentality, I willed myself from amongst them. With that I began levitating, above them and shot upwards, flying up into the nave of the towering complex. Goodness, this place was immensely massive. Soon enough, the man came to where we had been and made for the stairs from which I had just taken off. Being sufficiently distracted, I knew that he wouldn’t be able to either hear or see me way above him.

Too, he wouldn’t think to look up and see me. I flew in such a way that I progressed around a corner which took me into another wing of the massive complex. Here, there was a balcony whose wall was such that it had an indentation in the shape of an inverted top hat. Thus, the balcony was as if wrapped inside the hat. Hiding out in the cover of the balcony, I peered out – from time to time – where I saw others on lower balconies who peered up at me.

Others were off to the right in the inverted balcony. They discouraged me from coming because they thought that, somehow, my movement would attract the newcomer with semi-automatic weapon. They were of the impression that he was, in the first place, out to get me. All around, this whole episode was terribly unpleasant. It had all the chaotic madness that must surely exist, at present, in the streets of a war zone like Bosnia or Croatia.

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Deciding against hiding out, I sought to be rid of this place altogether. With that, I began flying upwards towards the very ceiling of the grand hall. The ceiling was as if a force field and not a physical construct. Thus, without incident, I was able to will my way through its parameters. I was truly relieved to have made it out of there. One had the sense of leaving one dimension and moving on to another, whilst seemingly clearing the grand hall’s ceiling, and into the next dream experience.

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Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside where I immediately encountered some young teenage females. All were sarcastic, bitchy solipsistic twits. They were on an empty city street. Racy-edged, in the extreme, were there. Especially for feeling the enervation that I did for the massive energy transference work that I had undertaken with River Phoenix, I really did not care to be around these people’s energy.

At the time, I was still in flight but had slowed down, hoping possibly to interact with them. Finally, I had no time for them and their bullshit. No need to be around their imploding energy. Without haste, I flew on and went onto a side street. There, I saw a really large building from which there were some persons presently exiting.

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It was as if one were looking outdoors, due west towards Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan. A young couple came from the building and entered a car which looked like a Bentley limousine. A massive stately old car it was and looked every bit as though it had been made from lead. A large structure stood to my left as I watched them drive away towards what seemed to be Fifth Avenue.

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Looking to the structure, I realised that the structure was in fact St. Patrick’s Cathedral which, of course, meant that I was at 51st Street at Fifth Avenue. Naturally, the car made a left turn and went south down Fifth Avenue. Here it was nighttime with lots of snow in the street, the sidewalk, and covering just about everything. The car wanted, once on Fifth Avenue, to go westwards along 50th Street, but couldn’t because that street runs easterly one-way.

There was also too much snow jammed there in the street. So, in the end, the car went down to the south end of Saks Fifth Avenue to try and get onto 49th Street. Here in the dreamtime, contrary to the waking state arrangement, 49th Street flowed easterly. This made me realise that its attempt to go along 50th Street was not bizarre. I guess that they then intended to go easterly along 49th Street, over to Park Avenue then up 57th Street, make a left at that street, to try and get across town that way.

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I figured that that major thoroughfare would not be impassable. I was keen to find out who was inside the car, which was a very regal, stately affair; they were a sophisticated well-bred couple. I was more intrigued by the car because it was mostly glass, with the rear windshield arching up to above their heads, as they sat there exuding their exalted classism. The side panelling on the outside, and where the rear windshield met the roof, was all solid gold. Atop the roof there was a beacon like on a taxi cab, however, it was made of solid gold.

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Really, it was more a coat of arms than anything so crass as a taxi’s beacon; this was a truly luxurious-looking vehicle. As I inspected it, I had been in flight hovering a couple of floors above it. Rising in the air, I began speeding down on the east side of Fifth Avenue over St. Patrick’s Cathedral. When I got over the cathedral, I noticed that – unlike its waking state counterpart – this one had flying buttresses. Though it was very dark out, as though the dead of a Dark Moon night, I noticed that there was activity atop the cathedral. There were things there which I found immediately intriguing.

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Abandoning my pursuit of the Bentley landau, I slowed down, coming closer to observe what was going on atop the cathedral’s roof. There, I saw wonderful fowl; there was a whole array of them which were quite large. One species was white with lots of black specs throughout its body. They were all on different ledges on the flying buttresses. All of them had nests that they were tending.

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One of the nests had 8 large speckled eggs inside. There was, however, no fowl tending to this nest. Flying slowly, within ten feet of the buttresses, I inspected everything with a keen eye. This was so very astral plane in focus. Considering that I had previously been counselling River Phoenix, who had recently passed, it made sense that I should be on the astral plane. In any event, the rooftop was pitch-black and covered in tar. The masonry here was also much blackened with time’s passage. Too, there was a lot of moss covering every available nook and cranny.

I suppose that this replica of St. Patrick’s Cathedral needed to exist, here on the astral plane, to provide some sense of continuity to the dearly departed recent arrivés of the Catholic persuasion. Here on the astral plane, this St. Patrick’s Cathedral was considerably larger than its waking state counterpart. As well, it was millennia older than the Roman Coliseum. The older dead moss had left the structure blackened – along with the centuries of pollution and soot caked on in layers. Naturally, in order to get up to the roof of the nave, I had had to rise higher and beyond the buttresses.

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Once higher in the air, I saw down between these two buttresses a group of Whites. They were dressed in animal skins and were, in the true sense of the word, barbaric-looking. They had not yet fully developed the ability to speak; thus, their speech consisted of a series of barks and grunts. Quite hirsute, they were obsessively fearful. Huddled on the top of the structure, they proved a smelly lot.

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Everything was quite ancient and scorpionic-hued. As well, there was a tribe of black-furred monkeys with some red in them. The Barbarians also wore a skin that had a reddish hue to it which was seemingly a doeskin. Theirs was, as well, a tawny reddish complexion. On noticing me, the monkeys went wild, climbing up to the tops of the buttresses; frantically, they pounced and screamed up at me. Goodness, they had such large vicious-looking teeth; thank goodness they could not fly.

Mildly horrified, I simply levitated higher into the air and stayed clear of their none-too-evolved noise. Exceptionally tiny, they were also very intelligent-looking. Truth be told, they looked much more evolved intellectually than their simian cousins, the Barbarians. Goodness, they were feisty and noisy. Wanting to investigate everything about the queerness of the sight of me, they were truly inquisitive.

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Going higher, I reached to the top of the nave where I noticed a couple lying there. They were lying on their backs. Looking not unlike the sphinx’s, theirs were the most abnormal-looking skulls that were splayed and large. Their clothing was unusual-coloured; however, on closer inspection, it turned out to have been their skin. Basically, their skin was as if a floral-printed fabric. Very brightly coloured, their skin was an interesting sight… to say the least. They lay there, looking not the least bit surprised at the sight of me. They also seemed not inclined to do anything but enjoy themselves in repose.

They seemed so mysterious. Looking down, I alighted to investigate. I spent some time looking down at their feet where their skin was also uniformly distributed. I had wanted to leave but decided to head in the opposite direction; as they lay there, their feet were in my way. I didn’t want to have to upset or interact with them. They seemed alien, in the true sense of the word, but were not in fact to be disturbed. Silently, they lay there and directly looked at me. One had the sense that they could have turned deadly in a femtosecond and gone at me like a cobra on the attack. They had very cool eyes that were powerful, truly scorpionic. Theirs were the kind of eyes that were beguiling but utterly untrustworthy.

*Their eyes much reminded me of that dream encounter with Lars Gamst, set in the British Isles some centuries back, wherein we encountered a litter of oversized cats, which turned out to be not only psychic but also feral. This was back in the summer of 1988 – before recording the dreams on audio-cassettes. END.

Soon enough, I flew away from there because this was much too astrally focussed an experience. I might add, as dreams go, it was one that was very much so real and quite layered. It was simply much too intense; so, with that, I withdrew being energetically focussed therein.

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Hope you enjoyed having taken this groovy little trip with me… Go on, hop to it, start flying. I love you more.

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

Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How quickly we do forget,’ I thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Crawl the Fuck in your Casket!

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Goodness, it has been a long time since I have posted a dream herein.  I have been busy putting the finishing touches on the memoir for which many of the dreams shared herein will be featured.  The subtitle for the memoir will be: Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoir

More recently, I was having a leisurely ride home in the morning up Yonge Street.  I had just ascended the last incline on Yonge before it cruises down to a level grade, then it is hang a right and cruise along Wellesley Street East and home.  Just as I crossed Carlton Street and begun the real steeply graded portion of the ride, a cab pulled up and immediately out popped a female in suit at the start of her business day; she was headed for the 24hrs Shoppers Drug Mart. 

Immediately, I opted to change course and rode around to the driver’s side of the cab and cruised along the little bit of leeway afforded as yet another condominium construction – Yonge & Grenville meant that the two lanes in each direction were reduced to only one.  As I cruised past ringing my bell, the cab driver suddenly began opening his door; I could not believe his audacity.  I shouted him down and insisted that he let me pass, to which the dirty-looking mid-aged Dravidian shot back, “Oh shut up as if you matter!” 

My heart was already pumping beyond the norm after the fright of seeing his door beginning to open as I rode alongside.  Indeed, who are we to think that Black lives matter?  As I was too exhausted to fight just then, I continued peddling hard then started back to the right and towards the curb where I always ride.  No sooner than had I made it round the front of the cab that the hairy back and arsed southern Mediterranean construction worker on the east side of Yonge Street holding up a stop sign, on having witnessed the near miss, shouted, “Kill him!  Kill him!” 

My heart only pumped even more deafeningly as his face became contorted with racially predatory hatred his ilk own so well but are forever careful to claim not to have any awareness of.  Exhausted and feeling like I was going to keel over, I soldiered on too proud to have to stop and deal with the ubiquitous ugliness that is racism.  Yes indeed, Canada is a racist hellhole and they are so stratospherically sophisticated at being venal racists that unlike their tormented neighbours to the south, they do not need the ubiquity of guns when they have quite effectively rendered Blacks as negligible as a weevil-infested bag of flour in the corner. 

Edging less gingerly up Yonge Street than normally I would, I was met two blocks north by more lane closure; yet another block long condo complex was breaking ground – east side of Yonge Street from Maitland Street south.  Riding past, I made eye contact with a mid-aged member of the local constabulary who on making eye contact smiled and nodded in kind; I have always found Toronto’s officers to be worlds removed from their counterparts in Montréal.  Getting to Wellesley Street, I realised that the store to which I would normally drop in to get my cache of lottery tickets and ice cream did not have my choice flavours. 

Thus, I hung right and began homeward east along Wellesley Street East.  Riding past, opposite the subway entrance to Wellesley Subway Station, I noticed three large 5 tonne trucks lined up along the south side of Wellesley’s eastbound lane; they actually were obstructing the bike lane.  Again, I grew understandably cautious and began ringing my bell on approaching the first of three trucks waiting to service the condo complex under construction on the north side of Wellesley where the three hundred pound-plus Dr. Edward Kamski with a drifting eye serviced one of Toronto’s largest group of AIDS patients back in the 1990s in an office low-rise tower that no longer exists.  

As I rung my bell and cruised along, I heard a male voice to my rear impatiently yelling for me to get the hell out of the way.  Finally, when I cleared the third 5 tonne truck, the White male pulled alongside on his bike to start shouting at me.  I was called a fucking stupid arsehole and a moron and called crazy for wearing a helmet with lights on at just past 0700 when the Sun had not yet fully risen.  Of course, White male bigot number 1 million and two wore no helmet and fixed me with hostile looks that were full of rage that had nothing to do with my having been in his way.  Naturally, his whiteness is his helmet and were he to have fallen, he could never possibly suffer brain injury of any kind. 

I am always so happy when the weather turns icy and snowy because all these casual cyclists who never wear a helmet and are forever speeding and illegally dashing through red lights are not a nuisance for a good six months.  Naturally, he let a green light turn red at Church Street so that he could wait for me to catch up to him after he had initially sped off owing to cowardice.  Now he had to return to get his fix of being hateful and seeking someone Black to blame all that was wrong and blameworthy in the world. 

Again, he started with the racially predatory yelling as though this was some moment in Apartheid South Africa and I was his bitch.  Because life is too short to suffer the White tribe and its fucked up psyche, I simply began singing aloud whilst drowning out his dreck – with a little change of lyrics, “Ooooh wooo wooo wooooooo, what a little sunshine wouldn’t do-ooooooo!”  Thereafter, I followed with loud merry scatting as though having to drive off another bothersome neighbourhood yapping stray dog.  You will never fucking-goddamn-arse snuff out the spirit of the people who invented Jazz!  Know that! 

Finally, I got to the store along Wellesley Street East where I have visited since it opened a few years back.  In the last couple of years, I have stridently avoided frequenting said store in daytime as there is a White female clerk there who from the first time that I entered the store, she was rude and has remained rude on the odd occasion that I would pop in. 

Last June close to the end of the school year, I dropped in the store to get a couple of lottery tickets in the afternoon whilst en route to work.  Naturally, there was a gaggle of giggly, bubbly youths from Jarvis Collegiate Institute, the city’s oldest high school.  As I patiently waited, I admiringly observed three Black males who were negotiating with their Filipino and Somali female friends.  They were giving them cash and a list of what they wanted. 

Said one youth, when asked by one of the scarfed Somali why don’t they just get their stuff themselves, “She’s a bitch!  I’m not going in there to be yelled at.”  Another of three out rightly dismissed her as a racist bigot who was always targeting them for being Black.  Straight away, I knew to whom they were referring.  Finally, I made it into the store where as I got my tickets again, the cigarette-smoking, mouth-breather whose idea of post-secondary education will amount to how to successfully cock-suck and breed more ignorant offal just had to be rude, snicker and fight-pick. 

I ignored her because again, life is way too short to have to suffer shit that just does not count.  Previously, I had walked out the store to avoid having to operatically scream at her sleepwalking hateful arse.  Of course, on that occasion, I got home only to realise that my lottery tickets had not made it from the store with me.  I then returned hours later when she was already concluded her shift to pick up my tickets. 

So there I was, after having been met by three rounds of racial animus all within five minutes of each other and mere hours of these persons having awakened; at least I was near the end of my day.  All I wanted was my blasted ice cream, my lottery tickets and go home, turn up my ever turned-on BOSE to JazzFM and have Garvia Bailey lay some culture on me.  For the brief time that I was in the store, as ever, the racist White boor kept up the usual sotto voce remakrs and insisted that I get the hell out of the store and take my bike with me.  The bike she has always used as her crutch for dicking with me and since I have always had the manager’s permission to bring my bike into the store, long before she ever dropped out of high school, I had no intentions of being bullied by her. 

So I ignored her bullshit and had quite had enough when she said, “Are you deaf too; like don’t you hear me, just take you and your bike and get out of the store.”  Taking two steps back, I began channelling Leontyne Price after she has just stridden victorious offstage to rapturous applause in Tosca, to Nina Simone singing with stinging rebuke Mississippi Goddamn, to Diana Ross in her live 1992 show in New York City singing with callous brutality, Strange Fruit, to Betty Carter wrapping it all up breezily singing, Thou Swell – and you can always count on Heather Bambrick to drop some Betty Carter when she is on-air hosting on JazzFM. 

“Why don’t you go lay your fucking grey arse in the sun…” I lethally shot back, to which she rebutted aloud, “Excuse me!  Why would I want to lay in the sun?  Like, why would I want to look like… you?” 

“No sweetheart never mind that, the sooner you lay your hideous grey arse in the sun, the sooner you’ll get cancer and crawl the fuck in your casket.”  Of course, never before having had her daily fix of racially charged aggression challenged, her feeble comeback was another, “Excuse me?” said with the sort of lisp that likely meant that her brother and or father were devout cocksuckers as is one’s wont. 

Always having to have the last word, she then added, “Go on, get out the store, you are blocking the aisle.” 

“Shut the fuck up and get some sun, you fucking hideous lizard-lipped fraud.  Not only are a poor excuse for a human but you long ago used up your quota of oxygen.  Go on, crawl the motherfuck in your casket!” 

“Yeah whatever, get out of here!” 

Life is all about choice: you can either play Rodney King or you own your power and be a proud motherfucker like Lena Horne or Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones for that matter.  As I began leaving the store, right on cue, the morning radio show chimed in with the opening sounds of Robert Nestor Marley crying out, “Oh Yeah!” at the start of his famous anthem. 

Oh ye fucking gods, never before had Bob Marley sounded so sweet… been so empowering.  Getting to the automatic doors, I drowned out her bullshit as the White loutish effete Athenian – whose thick moustache likely stunk of phlegm and faeces – who was in the store observing what went down, got to the counter and began saying some shit about ‘them’; singing for joy, I joined Bob Marley and shouted, “Rasta-far-I” as I slipped through the door and into sunlight which suddenly seemed more crisp, indeed, more vibrant. 

In having taken the time to take this racial predatory boor to task, the universe had synergistically harmonised and lifted me higher as Bob Marley’s infectious idealism took control.  Never before had Marley sounded so beautiful, been so right.  Had I done as too many times previously I had, I would have suffered the indignity of being driven out of the store by the racist lout and missed out, most importantly, on that Bob Marley tune. 

I then got home, had Garvia Bailey’s magical energies groove me back to centre.  But enough of me kicking racially predatory arse; let’s then focus on the business in hand.  I found this wonderful dream of the most glorious eccentric who much informed my upbringing in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  She was the original, the real McCoy… a true eccentric.  Unlike that other Florence (Foster Jenkins) there was nothing lunatic about the eccentric Kittisian Florence (Pole). 

These marvellously uplifting dreams, which had also included a right proper astral plane fuck, were gloriously lived on Thursday, April 1, 1993 whilst the Moon then bugalooed through Cancer and my second house.  These swell uncompromisingly beautiful dreams are to found in volume XV and were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty-seven. 

The second dream of eccentric Florence Pole was dreamt on Saturday, March 10, 1990.  At the time, it was a full Moon in Virgo and thus Luna transited my fourth house whilst being conjunct my natal Pluto and simultaneously opposing retrograde Chiron and square both natal Luna and its opposition to Mars at the ascendant.  This dream of Florence was the most lucidly awakened dream poetry imaginable. 

Go on drink from the chalice that is this rare beautiful flower; but don’t get too close and definitely do not get out of line ‘cause I’m a rapaciously carnivorous motherfucker who will hand you back your arse roughly ploughed and bloodied – beautiful flowers always have to protect themselves from being preyed on.  More than that, please know that your support these past three years have been immensely encouraging. 

I quite look forward to sharing the bounty of dreams and the story of Merlin and me in the memoir which will be dropping in coming months.  Be well and always straighten up and fly right, you cool shamanic kindred-spirited cats!  Sweet dreams whether focussed in the waking state or dreamtime; anything less is just not living. 

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Arriving at Florence Pole’s, next door to our Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house, I ventured indoors.  Naturally, in this the second dream, the entire house was boarded up.

When crossing the veranda, I had cautiously treaded; I knew that the floorboards there had a history of being broken or rotted away.  On entering the doors from the veranda, in place of a living room one immediately entered a bedroom.

This was the easterly room off the veranda which, in the waking state, had always been the living room.  A large single, metallic bed sat in the center of the room.

Seeing it brought back childhood memories that were pleasant to the touch.  Though it was fairly dark inside, I knew that Florence Pole was in the house.

At one point, she called me from across the house; with that, I went in search of her.  From the room, I made it into a large, impressive hall which seemed too large to be contained in the confines of her quaint Kittisian bungalow.

I was quite surprised that it existed and its high-ceilinged beauty was inspiring.  Though the entire house from the exterior appeared to be completely boarded up and thus shutting out any possible light of day, there was a great deal of light flooding into the hall.

Several beautiful area rugs were strategically placed on the floor of the hall; the rugs, however, never overlapped.  They were in the center and were placed in square formations.

The parquetry, down the centre of the hall, was so well polished that it shined.  To see all this splendour really blew my mind.

Seeing that she is such an eccentric, I thought that perhaps she would been some celebrated aristocrat in a past life.  She certainly is an intellectual aristocrat; Florence is so fine-tuned that she is beyond the ordinary.

This makes it impossible for her to relate on the level of the mundane.  How good it was to see her ensconced in such splendour.

She is certainly an eccentric, mature-souled, evolved creature.  A breed apart and onto herself, for that matter, I thought as I moved through the palatial hall.

On further reflection, I realised that her inner life would really look this opulent.  There would be nothing but splendour here; after all, all she gets in the waking state is social ostracism and derision.

The rugs were genuine Persian rugs and were in tiptop shape at that.  They were well preserved and of the finest quality; seemingly, they were hundreds of years old.

There were two long ones, on either side, which ran the length of the hall.  Between them and the dark, rich panelling of the walls were some two feet of empty space.

The grid, which formed the rectangle of exposed parquetry, was some five by twelve feet long.  Wanting to hear the sound of my feet when striding through such a majestic place, I kept to the parquetry as much as possible.

The sunlight flooding the hall left the space infused with the very warmth of Florence Pole’s spirit.  Eventually, I entered the room off the central hall from which she had called me.

When I entered, she greeted me grandly and was truly eccentric.  She recognised me, right away, and was warm and genuinely excited to see me.

Her energies were thoroughly theatrical.  All that I could think was how wonderful it was to see her again.

Here, in this room, there was an identical bed to the one in the guest room; this one, though, was in a far corner of the room.  This room was sparsely furnished.

Over in the far southwest corner of the room, the head of the bed was facing due south.  The door faced eastward and into the hall.

There was no disputing the fact that the interior of this house was considerably larger than her waking state house.  As a matter of fact, it was palatial in dimensions and the home of a very wealthy person.

This, of course, was a metaphor for this woman’s considerable wealth of spirit, intellect and creativity.  Florence Pole has substance and it was being borne out in this dream.

That no one in the waking state actually perceived her, for her true self, is not the issue.  They frustrated her because of their intolerance but ultimately, she was not lunatic, crazy or demented.

This dream encounter validated my suspicions, held since my childhood, of her.  Style and character were innately hers.

Florence Pole had this one particular painting which was in the far, northeast corner of the room.  The painting was on the northern wall but towards the eastern edge of it.

This painting was the most incredibly beautiful work of art.  The art was held in an ornate wooden frame that was gold filigree; the frame was about two and one half inches thick.

Bevelled, the frame graded in towards the painting.  The painting was oil on canvas and was quite rich.

There was a wonderful sense of the ‘blue’; indeed, it was an aqueous sky.  On the ocean was the most magnificent large ship.

The ship was from the age of the buccaneers.  Right then and there, it dawned on me that the painting hearkened back to a past life of Florence Pole’s.

Thus, I presumed, she perhaps had been a pirate; a European pirate who had come over on one of the galleons during the 16th or 17th centuries.  Perhaps, I further speculated, she had come to St. Kitts and had so loved the place that her soul had decided to pass a future lifetime there; of course, that future lifetime is the life that she is now living.

She would definitely have been European, perhaps, British, French or possibly Spanish.  That experience, as it were, had ended up planting a seed in her soul.

There was no mistaking that this lifetime of hers presently hearkens back to a disputatious lifetime of hers; a past life in which she was White of European descent and deeply involved in the pillage, rape and plunder of the spoils of colonialism.  She had clearly had a swashbuckling lifetime somewhere back there.

The ship was brown and black with three masts.  Two of its sails were unfurled.

The ship was the most majestic vessel imaginable.  Never before had I seen a painting that was so alive with sheer realism and creative genius.

She stood there whilst admiringly looking at me as I rather admired the painting.  I knew that Florence Pole knew that I was getting the gist of the ship’s importance.

The oils used were as if still wet and slowly, hypnotically in motion.  This painting was as captivating as when I stood before Rembrandt van Rijn’s Night Watch back in 1992.

Quite simply, I was blown away by the languorousness of the painting.  This was not static; it was as if having a window onto a past in which simultaneously said ship was on the high seas centuries across time.

To say the least, Florence Pole in that past life would have been on board that ship then and there.  Perhaps, she was even the captain of the vessel.

The colours here were so masterfully rendered.  A truly realistic reproduction of things this proved.

In that sense, it truly was magical as it simply seemed to be the seed point from which the actual vessel was created.  The blues of the sea, as contrasted to the blues of the sky, were so subtle that it was mind-blowing.

This was a very rich blue with different tonalities to it.  In its subtleties, this work of art was so sublimely magical that it was mind-expanding.

Also, in the room were two antique chests of drawers.  There was as well an antique rocking chair.

This woman was so very regal and dramatic.  I rather got off on being in her presence.

We completely connected; there was no way to get around the fact that we were not strangers to each other.  She did very much so appeal to my Sagittarian energies.

Our sense of self and style were completely harmonious; in that sense, we were kindred spirits in the true sense of the word.  So very good it was to see her that I said, “Oh, it’s so very good to see you…”

With that, I grabbed her by the hand and energetically squeezed it.  She warmly smiled and together our hands remained at our sides.

The touch of her hands relayed to me that energetic spark of her soul itself.  The feel of her vibration was readily familiar.

She was showing me around the room; together, we spent much time looking over the oil painting of the galleon.  Florence Pole then told me that it was her very favourite painting and held a special place in her heart.

This, of course, made perfect sense to me as it was clearly a pivotal lifetime of hers.  Clearly, it was a lifetime in which she commandeered on the high seas and was quite the adventurer.

There was no sense that there was something lacking in her life, in this lifetime, because she was isolated.  There was a lot of processing going on in her life at present.

I had the sense that she was in the process of transiting soul ages; as a result, she was having to take stock before making the next big leap forwards.  There was nothing wrong in her present lifetime.

She was an older soul; of that much I was, for having experienced her, certain.  I then left the room and walked about the hall more leisurely whilst exploring the various rooms off the central hall.

Meanwhile, Florence Pole could be heard very beautifully singing as though I was not even there.  This was the kind of inner musings in which she constantly engaged without as much as a thought to others’ opinions.

This was one of the most pleasurably rapturous experiences.

*To have been in this great eccentric’s presence as she was simply being herself whilst caught in a groove, I thoroughly understood.  This truly was an utterly amazing dream odyssey.

Here, it was quite nice and uplifting.  More than ever, this astral plane encounter impressed on me how very rich a life this woman is leading.

She was letting me into her innermost lair whilst following her inner voice.  This was the most beautiful and intimate of dances of souls.

I thoroughly connected with the every complex idiosyncrasy of her being.  Florence Pole, contrary to waking state misperceptions, was quite grounded and completely aware of her selfhood.

This woman has achieved a great deal in this lifetime and I am very honoured to have been witness to it; a totally admirable soul.  During childhood, this woman was the object of intense study for me.

Every time that she would fly out onto her veranda, taking to the stage, I would become as if possessed by her.  There was no way to get around the fact that this was great theatre; every time she appeared, I was captivated by her every stunning, quicksilver innuendo.

What I learnt most of all, about her self-absorption, was that it does not matter what it is you do.  You simply have to go ahead and do it because ultimately no one can either stop you but you.

When it is all said and done, Florence Pole was simply exploring her beingness.  For flying out onto her veranda, in full operatic rant, she was fulfilling herself.  END.

When I ventured into another bedroom, I found there a man.  He was mesomorphic, tall and blond.  Although his body reminded me of Storm Isbister’s, I could not make out who he was.

He called me over to join him in bed – even better than I would have scripted it myself, “Oh, my goodness!  Yes… let’s make love…”

The sheets were a quilted satin, the most luxurious touch, as I seductively slithered into bed.  Passionately, we groped each other’s hard-ons whilst groaning and hungrily looking into the other’s eyes.

We truly delighted in each other’s bodies.  All the windows to the house were of course closed; thus we were provided with ample privacy.

Climbing atop him, I rubbed my cock hard against his.  As he lay back there, into the propped up pillows, his body reminded me in its largeness of Karl Weller’s.

Nimbly, I straddled him whilst making his body familiar territory and all mine at that.  We grabbed a hold of both cocks whilst frottaging atop the other.

His cock was longer and considerably thicker than mine.  He was also uncut.

What really freaked me out about the whole experience was how wonderfully real it was.  I could smell his maleness: his balls, cock, precum, armpits, sweat and breath.

Our passionate play was profoundly grounding.  After pinching hard his nipples, with my left hand, I flipped around.

Now I straddled him with my back turned to him whilst still frottaging.  With that, he righted himself by propping his upper body with the elbows.

Grabbing a hold of my contracted scrotum, I began rubbing the ridge between it and the anus against his hard, throbbing cock.  Sweaty and on the verge of going wild, I cried out to him, “Yes, oh god, let’s fuck.”

With that, I went to get a vial of lubricant that sat across the room on a bureau.  Straight away, he drew my attention to the fact that this was the dreamtime and there was no need for lubricant.

More to the point, his referral was to the condoms which I brought back to the bed.  Irritated, he shot at me, “Come on, let’s not use them.

“Look, at you.  Look at where we are, will you?”

Yet I felt the need to use them, of habit, as in the waking state.  He did not protest any further; I then began squeezing some of the lubricant into my palm.

The feel of it was so cool and luxuriant that it made me shiver throughout.  I so wanted him that I lunged at him and began passionately kissing him.

We both hungrily struggled in the other’s arms whilst consumed with one another.  The experience was so incredibly intense.

I did take note that his eyes were very waking state in focus.  That is to say, there was nothing soulful or old-souled about them.

He was very grounded, young-souled and sexually dynamic.  I am not quite certain that this was indeed an encounter with Karl Weller.

His face was not distinctive; besides, I was too overcome with lustful desire to have paid his looks that much attention.  All the way through, I kept on groaning whilst completely enjoying myself.

Nothing else in the world existed whilst being alone with him.  I was not the least bit self-conscious about Florence Pole being close by in another room of her palatial digs.

In all honesty, it was hard for me to transcend my lust and get into him.  All I wanted was to have my size queen’s every yearning fulfilled.

Nothing about him mattered to me but his cock.  I wanted his cock inside me; I wanted the feel of his powerful body all over me.

On my knees in the bed, I faced out whilst he got well lubed and slippery.  The slippery bulbous head of him was just comfortably past the plush, relaxed rim of my butthole when we heard Florence Pole noisily rushing down the hall towards us.

From outside the door, she called out concerned and wanted to know what noise was this.  Stealthily, we both leapt from the bed whilst still engaged and onto the floor.

We threw ourselves onto the ground, on the far side of the bed – north side, away from the door.  Somehow, in our energetic manoeuvre, I had managed my way on top of him whilst he was now completely buried deep up inside me.

The feel of him was mind-altering and exquisite.  Florence Pole then entered and projected her usual feisty, argumentative waking state persona.

Right away, she demanded to know what we were doing; this, of course, was her way of feigning ignorance.  She then grandly announced that she did not want us messing around or carrying on like this in her house.

Speciously, I called out to her and let her know that we were not doing anything untoward.  My left elbow was on the bed, bracing me up, whilst he was lying behind me on the floor; at the time, he was totally hidden from view.

I sat squarely on his cock, with my back fully elongated, whilst yogically breathing.  Whilst she stood there and stayed her ground, I tried to stave off her intervention but the feel of his cock thrusting unabated and rhythmically deep into me was fast rocking me to a cerebral orgasm.

To not lose it and shriek at her to get lost, it took every fibre of my being.  Consciously, I began elevating my vibration whilst simultaneously projecting this process onto her.

The object here was to quiet her fears and elevate her life condition to a place completely removed from all fears.  Try as I might, she would have none of it and simply stayed her ground.

Florence wanted to have whatever we were up to, on the other side of ‘that’ bed in ‘her’ house, to be readily concluded.  Fussily, she told me to get up and be decent.

I was not, after all, even wearing any clothes.  At this point, we had long since ripped off all our clothing.

Florence then insisted that I get dressed and immediately get going.  Pulling up off his cock, I groaned aloud as there was a vacuum tug created in the wake of his bulbous-headed departure.

I could not have cared less that she had heard it all; there was no way to have controlled such intensity of emotions.  This was the kind of cock which on seeing it in the waking state, one had to readily sublimate one’s usual posture as top and pay homage by way of experiencing a momentary lapse and play bottom.

She came over to the bed whilst insisting that we both get up and take our leave of her house.  I then suggested to my uber-lover that we slip out the house, by way of the side doors, which would have faced Jestina Hendricks’ house to the south.

He did not like the idea of being seen together when leaving the house.  Agreeing, I offered to meet him down the street after heading out the front door.

He was mindful that no one suspect him, or us, of having been physically intimate.  I then offered him to come home with me as I had to be heading back anyway.

With that, we parted and left the house at opposite ends.  Eventually, we came together around the corner of the house; there, we pretended to have just met.

We then went walking along the street.  What was really interesting was in my haste to get dressed before Florence Pole went truly wild, I had pulled on my blue jeans and forgotten to put on the underwear first.

Funnily enough, I had only remembered the underwear when I saw it fall out the left leg of my jeans.  The underwear had slipped out ahead of my pointed foot as I hurriedly got dressed.

Quickly, I grabbed it up off the floor and tucked it into my waist.  I secured it there so that it would be held in place beneath my shirt by the belt.

All that I could think of, when we were alone outside, was the fact that we had not used condoms.  All this even though I knew pretty much so that this was a dream.

In my mind, I went through a battery of fears about him being riddled with STDs of one kind or the other.  I became quite concerned and fearful.

I then got in and on entering the house, I could feel Isha da Braga’s vibration about the interior.  Pandora da Braga was there with a brown-folded brochure for a concert or some such.

We were looking at it when she began naively asking, what I had been doing; there was so much implied about the super stud with whom she had seen me out in the street.  Deflecting her intrusion, I told her that I had merely been next door to visit with Florence Pole.

Next, I pointed out that the guy was there with her.  We met and he decided to go for a tour of the place with me.

Earlier, as we walked home, I had been urging him with the suggestion that we go get a room at a bathhouse; there, at least, we could fuck our brains out.  All I wanted to do was to be with him and fuck ‘til daylight.

I told him that there was no way that we would have any privacy at my family’s.  Looking disappointed in me, he let me know that he never went to places like that and did not like my idea of finding nothing wrong in frequenting such a place.

“That’s not my scene.  I wouldn’t want to go to a place like that, at all.

“I just wouldn’t be comfortable,” he protested.

Nonetheless, I was persistent, “Come on.  It’ll be just you and me.

“We’d be together in a room, away from being spied on by anyone.”  I could see that he wasn’t going to get into it.

Contrary to the waking state arrangement, the walk from Florence Pole’s to our house was unusually long – especially for being a next-door neighbour.  Both houses are separated, in the waking state, by the narrow earthen lane.

Outdoors, it was quite sunny and bright.  This, too, had been the case inside the sky lighted grand hall at Florence Pole’s palatial digs.

Sol’s intensity here was also a metaphor for what I was feeling, deep within, as I had literally been walking on air – after having played St. George to this veritable dragon of a schlong.  Well quelle scandalle!

He would have none of my deceptive banter.  Just like that, he put in and let Pandora da Braga know, “No, no, no.  We were over there, in bed.

“And we had a good time.  We really connected and we fucked.

“I mean, we didn’t get to fuck as much as we’d like to.  But it was really a good, good fuck nonetheless.

“It’s like we didn’t do anything.  Yet, we did everything…”

Talk about being completely mortified.  Yet, there he stood all man and no bullshit.

There was no way to get around his candour.  Obviously, he was feeling the depth of sublime connectivity as much as I was.

The passion to be sure was there as well.  Though we had not been able to go all 15 rounds, it was all around a pretty damn good fuck.

Interestingly, Florence Pole’s interruption and nonstop banter moved us onto an alternate, totally unexpected plane.  We were arrived at a groove where we were able to experience the most meaningful of orgasms: an intellectual high, communion of spirits.

What passed between us was quite incredible.  Overwhelming it was and thrilling too.

He was pleased at what we had experienced and, for that matter, he could not bear to have the beauty of it marred by my being in denial of what had had transpired between us.  Finally, I felt embarrassed before both.

Pandora meanwhile, to say the least, did not much care to hear about any such thing.  Adroitly, before being possibly late for some appointment or other, she declared that she had to get going.

With that, I took my leave of them both.

*Back to Florence Pole, she was channelled by Sarah J. Chambers as being a mid-cycle mature sage.  Previously, Florence had been the daughter of the Maharajah of Jaipur in the 15th century.

Too, she has had many celebrated lifetimes on the stage; furthermore, she had had an illustrious past life in Rome.  There, she had been a celebrated sculptor some of whose works still exist.

More than that, as is obvious, she was no stranger to either Merlin or I.  Of course, Florence never did meet Merlin.  END.

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I was on the veranda of 20 Amelia Street and this old White couple who live here in Cabbagetown were present.  They live on Metcalfe Street right at the corner of Amelia Street across the street from Mark Stuartson’s.

*This same august-souled couple also worked at Canada Post Corporation.  They worked there until long years after their official retirements.

They were going home from Parliament Street across Amelia Street.  They stopped because this man was coming towards them; he stopped and they took the time to talk with him.

He was telling them, “Oh yes man.  Yup, Florence Pole died.”

I immediately ran down towards them.  I was truly stunned and called out, “Ou true!”

I ran all the way down and around onto Parliament Street.  On entering Cabbagetown’s Parliament Street, it immediately became the main road in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.

You could see all the people in Crab Hill.  They were hanging out around Florence Pole’s house.

They had her corpse lain out on the veranda.  I went up filled with love and paid my respects.

I was really pleased to see her because she did look good.  Florence was the picture of ethereal serenity.

Laying there, truly in state, she was truly at peace with her ruggedly eccentric, accomplished life.  Though she obviously was not breathing, there was no getting around the fact that she was aglow.

Everybody was laughing and basking in storytelling tributes to the dear old soul.  Then somebody had us all howling when they said, “Is all dem cussing why you see ‘e live so long ‘o know.”

Truly, it was a testament to her marvellous spirit that it seemed as though all of Crab Hill, if not Sandy Point, had turned out to pay their respects.  Rightly so, Florence was being deferred to.

She lay in a vivid purple casket which sat on three sturdy-looking typical dining room chairs as those popular in West Indian homes.  Her head was facing due south towards Brimstone Hill Fortress and her feet towards the north, the main exit from the veranda and our home.

Florence wore a rich multitoned blue dress which was muted by a thin film of white diaphanous linen.  All about her body were a rich array of local flowers and that green vine whose leaves looked like miniature Christmas trees.

Though it had never been used when she was widowed, the official stairs from the main road up to the veranda was opened.  Persons would arrive to pay their respects by mounting the official, though never used, stairs from the main road.

They would then move about the casket with some speaking lovingly of her.  On the side of the casket closest to the house stood a group of women – they were actually fairly androgynous-looking persons.

Their sole purpose, it seemed, was to fulfill their role as astral guides.  Perhaps, they were astral plane habitués with an obvious soul connection to Florence.

Truly impressed, I had taken my time and stood beside her coffin.  With head cocked to the side, I lovingly looked on at a truly remarkable life in full which had been lived with the greatest panache.

Whilst admiring the collapsed lips of her supremely serene face, my already enthralled lids slid shut.  They did so more for being hypnotised by Florence’s regal beauty than for being intentionally slid shut.

Just like that, my lids reopened.  The moving dream vista before me, however, was totally gone.

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Art:  The Mary Rose and Fleet

Artist: Jean Walker

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved

This Corona’s for You!

mango treeb

On my return from a giddy trip to both Washington D.C. and New York City – which Merlin ever referred to as Babylon, I would dream this most exquisite of flying dreams.  Too, this dream of bucolic splendour occurred on the eve of that truly rhapsodic adage – previously shared herein – entitled: Won’t Take the A Train. 

At the time, I had decamped to Babylon – after having cut short a trip to Washington D.C. and having secured part of my art collection from a roué Russian boor who, after having attempted to con me out of my art with the offer of setting up a home together, then crawled into my ear, calling me the N-word and let me know that it simply wasn’t going to work between us; this on my return to Toronto from the latest trip down to be with him. 

Naturally, for good measure, he thanked me for the art… as he hissed his racially predatory bile in my fucking ear, my nostrils drew on a few quickened breaths as raptor-like this shrewd intellect of yours truly began rapaciously charming my way back for just one more visit.  Of course, he could have the art but we had after all planned on going to Kennedy Center and the wedding of a friend of his. 

He acquiesced… the damn fool.  Returned to Washington D.C., thank goodness he was into S&M because his neighbours were little bothered as tied and gagged, I took to him with leather strap wrapped tightly about my black custom gauntlet as opera blared through his 5ksqf condo.  After having riotously owned his ploughed under arse, I dragged him to the living room where whilst he remained crumpled, bound and gagged, I patiently removed my art from his previously naked walls, left the god awful gold frames on one, rather than both hooks, as previously, carefully wrapped the prints and placed them in the containers in which they had been transported from Toronto weeks earlier. 

As the music soared, I moved his bound body to the bathtub, slumped him inside, relieved my bladder in his face as he ever loved during regular play… this, though, was anything but regular play.  Truly enraged, as is the custom at such times, I said nothing whilst my eyes remained illegible beyond my shades.  After I was done fucking with him for having fucked with me – I deal with karma here and now; besides, who would want to meet this boor in any future life – I called a cab and went to Union Station.  Took another cab to the airport, changed my flight itinerary and made it to that glorious island like none that I knew whilst growing up in the Caribbean. 

As for the roué, I called his best friend and told him that he, perhaps, ought to go check in on him as I had been out in Dupont Circle and my amour fou – and his best friend – was not answering the phone.  Of course, we both knew that apart from S&M our drunken Russian regularly engaged in auto-erotic asphyxiation.  Since I had met someone at a bar in Dupont Circle, I shared that I intended to go home with him and, perhaps, he ought to go and look in on his best friend.  As expected, he readily agreed and hurried me off the line – to say nothing of permanently out of my life. 

That done, I hung up the payphone at the American Airlines lounge at the airport, boarded my flight and as the plane roared down the runway, the one music I always listen to on takeoff, Jessye Norman gloriously roared whilst singing Richard Strauss’ Four Last Songs. 

Lids languorously collapsed shut as the memory and thought of what should never have progressed beyond a one-night stand drifted away.  Seriously, where would have been the fun of having to pass my life time-wasting with an ill-equipped man of less than five inches… quelle fuck-all joie ça! 

So there was I returned to Babylon having secured MY art.  I then had to prevail on one of Merlin’s oldest friends – a Toronto WASP Brahmin with a penchant for being a classist boor – to say nothing of bore… god who on Avenue Foch knows or cares about these people?  At the time, my other lover, Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem was out of town and working at his bread-and-butter gig. 

As I was not prepared to pass an evening with Carl Leroiderien, Merlin’s friend, being socially snide and all that transparent silliness, I got up in a pair of high heels, hot pants and tied my shoulder length permed hair in a ponytail and went crawling further south into the Village and ended up dancing at the Stonewall Inn which was recently made a national monument by President Barack H. Obama. 

Of course, whilst I shook arse in my high heels, I had some big-handed, intensely beautiful-eyed Canadian lawyer from Montréal end up bump and grinding against me.  Soon enough, back at his hotel, I discovered there was reward in having recovered my art and not having settled for trifling fare – my Italian stallion proved a girthsome ten inches of delightfulness. 

More than all that, the tree you see accompanying this exquisite flying dream, I planted after having returned to Nevis for my 7th birthday on August 2, 1967.  My mother, Harella da Braga, knew that seven was my favourite number and asked what I would like for my birthday.  As I had relocated from Nevis to St. Kitts at all of 7 months old, there simply was no other gift that could do it for me.  The day trip to Nevis was the most lucidly awakened dream this side of the dreamtime had – at least to that point in my young exciting life.   

The following summer, my mother who was as cold and emotionally remote as can be imaged, came to the door in that photo of the house we then lived in – after having been unceremoniously excommunicated from the Pilgrim Church down the street – and presented me with a lone large mango.   Naturally, as the lastborn of six children, getting a whole of anything – let alone a mango – was simply unheard of. 

However, the enigmatic Harella shared – after I had scrambled down from the genip tree where I daily retreated to take naps, dream and imagine myself on fantastic voyages and sometimes, though, rarely read – that the mango was from Nevis and she knew how much Nevis meant to me.  I was floored by the gesture. 

So whilst I sat making love to the ‘Nevis’ mango, my adorable sister, Pandora edged down onto third to last step to quietly sit – just one behind me – and asked for a bite or two.  Ever precocious, without missing a beat, I assured her that she could have as many mangoes as she wished of the tree that, in time, the half-exposed seed of the fruit that I thoroughly relished would yet bare. 

Always a man of my word, I then promptly planted the seed and – never, of course, having afforded my sister a single bite – erected a flower garden about it.  I made sure to plant it outside my bedroom window so that each day, I would be greeted by its burgeoning beauty on throwing open the bedroom window. 

Life is about giving – giving of self.  I have never tasted a mango from that tree.  The last time that I returned to St. Kitts – 1993 at least whilst the tree yet lived; it was gone in 2002, I am simply too eccentric and too much an off-islander to ever return there – the tree was promptly felled on my departure.  The locals, as human society can ever be expected to react to anything remotely outré, decided that my being long-haired, a ballet dancer, in riding boots and multiple bracelets on each arm was too gross an affront. 

Pandora did have many mangoes from that tree and I was always proud on my first return to St. Kitts in 1989 when Nicole McHugh (6th mature sage) said that she made sure that the tree was protected as it had been planted by myself and she always hoped that I would return one day and see what I had accomplished… indeed. 

There comes a point where high heels, riding boots, long hair and all that run their course.  More than that, I will damn well not go putting myself in harm’s way amongst persons who would just as readily dispense with the threat of my outréness as they did a perfectly beautiful and innocent mango tree. 

That aside, this dream and the corona experienced therein could never have been perceived and experienced had I never planted the seed of that Nevis mango.  This photograph remains my most prized possession… and with good reason. 

The dream was dreamt on Thursday, July 8, 1993 whilst the Moon then grooved its benign waning beauteousness through Pisces and conversely my tenth house, conjunct the cusp of which is my retrograde Chiron which opposese Pluto in the fourth and simultaneously squares both Luna in the seventh and Mars in the first conjunct the ascendant… yes, I can be operatically combative when provoked, though, I have much mellowed of late – fuck it, life’s too short to be doing battle chaque fois… partout… 

Goodness, it’s been awhile since I have taken the time to express my gratitude at your continued patronage.  Too, it gives me no end of pleasure to be of inspiration and wish that you will ever take the time to push off, start flying and make as sweet as that Nevis mango your every dream.  I love you more! 

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At night, in this the first dream, I walked towards Cleverly Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts in the streets of The Alley.  There were some guys sitting along the roadside who seemed, perhaps, Italian, Lebanese or Syrian.

They might well have been light-skinned Blacks.  Four of them in all, they wore white t-shirts with different-coloured shorts.

One wore red shorts, another black, one white and the other a blue pair.  I was more connected to the one wearing the red shorts.

They were excitable guys who drew my attention to the large screen, high definition TV that sat just inside the window of Rosita Gould’s old green house.  I could hardly make things out but the action seemed to be occurring in liquid slow-motion.

A young couple were very intimately making love; there were lots of extreme close-ups here.  The guys were very excited by all this, of course, as they sat across the street from the house.

As they hung out liming away, they were closer towards the large drain that dissects the main road.  There was a crumbling wall; the foundation was the remnants of an old house which was long-ago abandoned.

They were commenting on the fact that Hesketh Gould Jr., whilst fucking a woman, was in the house looking at porno.  I couldn’t quite figure out who the woman was supposed to have been.

Going over towards them, I began checking out the guys and found them rather attractive.  They all had rather light-coloured alluring eyes.

Certainly, there in Sandy Point, it was unusual to see such light-coloured eyes.  The one in the red shorts was the definite ringleader.

I approached him and openly groped him.  So bold and uncompromising was I, he could have done nothing but surrender to my forthrightness.

Of course, he was sporting a rock solid hard-on.  Relaxing him further, I then began caressing him gently on his right shoulder.

I looked at him rather lovingly and sweetly.  He surrendered; sweet smiling eyes complemented his colouring as he blushed.

Though these were not energies that he was accustomed to experiencing, I telepathically told him not to be afraid whilst the others remained perfectly arrested by our interactions.  I casually suggested that, perhaps, we could go off somewhere and be alone.

He replied that he and the guys were actually about to head off somewhere.  After having looked at his buddies for a bit, he then offered me to join them.

We ended up in the lobby of what seemed a cinema.  In order to check out the movies, down a flight of stairs we had to go.

Naturally, since being in the dark side-by-side could only lead to greater intimacy, I was all for the experience.  Whilst in the lobby, it was quite busy with lots of Blacks everywhere.

Different group settings of tables were scattered about one section of the lobby.  There were several concession stands about the place.

The usher, a teenaged Black guy, wanted to know where my ticket was.  I told him that my party had the tickets and had gone ahead and that I had come out to get something from the concession stands.

They had actually gone ahead of me and at no time had I seen them show any tickets.  Not that I didn’t have the ticket stub to show but I really didn’t feel like being messed with by anybody.

Showing my legendary impatience, through and through, I got confrontational with him.  He wore a company suit as part of his uniform.

The confrontation occurred at the half-flight down’s landing.  One had had to turn to the right to go down another semi-flight and to the cinemas.

He stubbornly refused to let me go any further or, for that matter, to go call the guys.  Finally, I got pissed off so headed back up the stairs to the lobby and stormed out of there.

When I left the theatre, I became aware of a group of guys close by who were intent on chasing me.  There was no way that I intended to be party to any such scenario.

Looking at them, I said, “No, no, no.  You are not going to.”

With that, I chose to rise above all this and decided to start flying.  Pushing off, I began flying quite slowly.

Nice and peaceful, I thoroughly enjoyed myself whilst in flight.  Rising higher, I grew dissatisfied with my speed and so willed myself to progress much faster.

Going alongside the road, however, I did keep close to the trees.  I always seemed to have problems willing myself to fly higher or lower.

At certain times, it proved problematic when trying to negotiate the branches.  There were times, when it seemed that I would even crash into some of the branches.

Then I reasoned, “Hey there, now Arvin.  Wait a minute now.

“This is a dream and you can do more than fly.  You can make your body even more malleable.”

With that, I upped my vibration and began progressing ahead.  When I came to the next thicket of branches, I effortlessly moved through the branches and leaves without being obstructed by their solidity.

In short, to the point where I became light itself, I had intensified my vibration.  This enabled me to pass through everything without the slightest discomfiture to my body.

In order to have to negotiate safe passage, through the unobstructed air, no longer did I have to go up or down.  Regardless its vibrational density, I had become at one with the light which permeated everything.

I intuitively knew that everything’s vibration is imbued with light, as per the subject’s light properties, which allows it to be a perceived entity.  Becoming pure light enables one to pass unhindered through the filter of all matter.

Therefore, to get through denser matter, one would simply have to will one’s light body at a faster speed so as to continue progressing at undiminished accelerated speeds.  To have attained this degree of focus afforded me even greater expansiveness of spirit than for being in flight.

Next to the weighty confines of being bipedal and earthbound, flight itself had already proven fairly limitless.  Thus, being focussed in the light body proved quite a wonderful experience.

Pushing ahead, I willed myself to fly even faster… soar even higher.  At this point, even if others were on the ground, they would not have been able to see me.

Still following the road, I saw way below a six or seven-year-old White boy playing in the streets.  He did see me, much to my surprise, and came running down the road after me.

He was so excited at the sight of me.  Certainly, it was not as if I was dangerous for being Black and in flight.

The road had at one point veered off to the left, then down a steep incline, into an open expansive valley.  At times, the road was earthen but on the whole it was a paved affair.

Where the road fell down into the valley, I began having problems because I kept on looking down below me to get my bearings.  Part of my problem was experiencing fears, for being that high up, whilst in flight.

There was this sudden apprehension that left me feeling that there ought to have been branches close by; so that, if need be, I could readily grab ahold.  Fears of losing focus and falling from the sky began taking form and assuming a life of their own.

I think that much of the reason for experiencing problems was the fact that I had been of the impression that for making myself light, vibrationally, I could not be perceived.  So that when the young White guy in the road below had seen me, this left my confidence as to what I had been up to understandably shaken.

Before becoming fearful, there had been a point when I had soared high above the treetops.  At those heights, it was fairly obvious that there was a corona of energy that towered up semi-spherically above the collective crowns of the treetops.

Though not perceived, it was raw pure energy which was distinctive.  Energy it was which fed my own light body’s energies.

The really beautiful part of all this is that, in the process of becoming light-energied, I was able to leave tendrils of my light energies whilst moving through space.  Everything, with which I came in contact, also left a residue of its light energies mixed with my own light energies.

In the true sense of the word, this was about becoming one with everything.  Beingness, that state of total acceptance – wherein one is at complete oneness with all nature… all life – I had clearly achieved.

A thoroughly uplifting experience this was.  Becoming infused with aspects of the trees’ collective life-force was akin to the experience on Boxing Day 1972III.

All in all, it was a healing experience.  What alas could be more rejuvenating and uplifting than, my trusted familiars, arboreals?

A very energising experience this proved.  In the final analysis, I was able to recover and not become weighed down in negative vortices of fear based – fear it was which was based on the notion that I couldn’t will myself to stay aloft.

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

Surface of the Sun.

Surface Of The Sun 1993 Patterson Ewen

Acrylic on gouged Plywood

1993 Patterson Ewen

Provenance: Permanent Collection, Art Gallery of Ontario.

Beautiful; it’s always lovely seeing Canadian works on display.  

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