Crawl the Fuck In Your Casket!

27.10.201607.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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 remarks 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.

____________________________________

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 16^th or 17^th 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 15^th 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.

___________________>0<______________________

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. END.

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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Do It to Me!

30.04.201607.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Horne, Lena 30/6/1917 <O> 9/5/2010 NYC

This fragment was a fifth level mature warrior – 4^th life thereat. Lena was in the power mode with a goal of unmitigated growth. She was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lena’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance with a secondary chief feature of stubbornness.

Lena’s casting is in the second position of the second cadence in the seventh greater cadence. She is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – another entity mate.

Lena’s was a Saturn/Venus body type.

Essence twin for Lena is a warrior and her king task companion did exert some influence.

The three primary needs for Lena were: expression, power and exchange.

There are 10 past-life associations between Lena and Arvin whilst there are 7 past-life associations with Merlin.

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Back in Spring, 1994, I was standing in my West End, Vancouver bedroom getting dressed – after having made dinner for Bower Carlyle-St. Clare and me. At the time, he was recently full-blown with AIDS but doing well. As he sat out in the living room in the rocking chair which had been Merlin’s favourite piece of furniture, I was busily getting ready to head off to work on the midnight shift.

Just then Ross Porter, who was gigging on the CBC’s late-night Jazz show, began introducing a recently released album. I screamed and rushed out to the living room, turned up the sound to full blast and directly stood in the centre of the perfectly placed speakers.

Said Ross Porter, it was a new album by Lena Horne – a cut of which he was nicely setting up. Since as long as I could remember, this woman’s every performance always made me feel good throughout. The opening of the song, Do Nothing ‘Till You Hear from Me, began with the bass working its magic.

For the next several minutes, I stood there flying-without-moving. Admiringly, Bower sat there silently drinking in the visual of me as I stood in black stretch jeans tucked into riding boots and nothing else with hair long and out.

with lids closed, I drank every note of the performance; I was truly besotted. Then the song got really groovy and at one point, just past the four-minute mark, simultaneous with Lena Horne, I let out the exact same whoop as she did. Stunned, I placed my hands at my mouth and threw open my eyes.

Bower was convinced that I had heard the recording before. Soon enough, Lena Horne’s album, We’ll Be Together Again, was blasting my West End apartment on a daily basis. One day, Bower called up and declared that we were going to New York – he had never been.

To hell with work, he had declared as I tried begging off. Not having it, Bower shot back that he was taking me to New York City because I knew it and always spoke so fondly of my time there.

Early October rolled around and we held up at the Hotel Chelsea – he had booked the suite as he knew that it was Merlin’s favourite place to stay in New York City. We went to the show and although, he had been hoping to see Diana Ross – chiefly why he wanted to go to New York City, we ended up having a blast at the performance way up in the balcony. The next day, I stood around in Times Square and scored us tickets to, Kiss of the Spider Woman, at the Broadhurst Theatre.

A couple of days later and we were returned to Vancouver as giddy as two kids who had just had the wildest adventure. Sadly, for being full-blown, Bower developed a nagging cough which dragged on for long weeks; nonetheless, it was a magical adventure and I was especially grateful that he had made possible, the trip to see Lena Horne in concert at Carnegie Hall.

As Diana Ross was his favourite performer, every film of hers he had taped. He understood my love of Lena Horne when finally, he took the time to appreciate her performance in, The Wiz – directed by her partner Sidney Lumet.

Back in 1978, when seeing, The Wiz, on its opening weekend with Owen Hawksmoor – a man of truly equine proportions – This brief appearance and performance by Lena Horne made the film for me; everyone else paled by comparison.

Back in 1969, whilst vacationing in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands, one briny Friday evening the 1943 film, Stormy Weather, was on television. This was my first introduction to Lena Horne. I was thoroughly captivated by her.

My response to her has always been visceral; she is energising, captivating – her eyes both raptor-like and thoroughly empowering to lock on to. If there was no essence bond, it is highly improbable that I would have such an intensely visceral response to her.

I then found it hard to sleep that night after the film. Not surprisingly, in light of our essence bond as entity mates, I did that night dream of her. Furthermore, I have noticed that the passing of entity and cadre mates leaves me especially splayed – I don’t feel impending doom, I just feel as though a portal has opened up and I could drift off and find myself on the other side… an astral plane habitué.

I think that because of my casting’s cardinality, I tend to act as a beacon – somehow, I tend to sense when cadre mates are on the cusp of departing. This used to be fairly frightening when younger; now, I have learnt to simply give of self and realise that someone in the fold is moving on.

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Sick Room.

23.09.201505.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oil on Canvas

38.1 x 40.0 Inches

Provenance: Estate of Hugh Steers.

One of the most poignant AIDS-related paintings of the last century. Truly moving.

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The Racial Predator and A Fistful of Dreams. 2.0!

24.02.201504.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

*After having spoken to WordPress, I was assured that they did not delete this blog post of dreams and commentary which was originally posted on February 20, 2015. Again, if you find anything herein objectionable just move along because, just so you know, apologies and obsequiousness are both foreign to me. Again, if you follow this blog and believe in an artist’s right to be free from all forms of terror and censor please do reblog this post. END.

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Dreams involving travels in consciousness to anchor point metropolises are always welcome. These next dreams represent just such travels to far-off distant worlds as transported to via the astral plane and through the expediency of the dreamtime.

At the time, it was Monday, September 4, 1995 and the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape number one hundred and ninety-eight. As such, they will yet be found in Volume XX of the XXV volumes of dreams. The Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house.

As has been previously stated, my Saturn retrograde is posited in the eighth house which, in concert with my Venus/Uranus conjunction in Leo, afford me this commendable facility which I would trade for no amount of platinum on this or any other world!

Speaking of worlds far-flung or otherwise, what a maudlin little backwater world of a planet we’ve got here. This past Tuesday, February 17, 2015, I was well aware that it was an 8 day and with a life path of 8, there are times when on such days it is best to stay indoors and avoid it all. This past Tuesday was just such a day, nonetheless, I elected to head out into the big bad world.

As I am never late for any of the three jobs at which I income earn, I had headed out 1.5 hours before start of shift. Before leaving my Jazz saturated home, I had mapped out how best to do my banking whilst en route to work. Off I went through the icy streets of Toronto where there a few water main breaks which left spots of the route an icy mess.

Luckily, I had long weeks earlier switched to my steel-studded winter bike wheels which when partially soft make riding on ice or in snow feel as though riding on sand. Alas, no need to go slipping and crashing for no good reason. I rode along the bike lane on Wellesley Street East, hung a left and headed south down Sherbourne Street.

The major water main break just south of Dundas Street East had me abandon the bike lane for the street where the single southbound lane was an icy slushy mess. I was rather impressed at how well my steel-studded wheels navigated the thick ice without incident. The past couple of days have been the coldest, snowiest, iciest and windiest in long memory.

At Shuter Street, I hung a right and headed westward to Church Street where I made another left and headed south to Queen Street East. There, at the southwestern corner of Queen Street East and Church Street is a Scotiabank in one of those old buildings which has been around since before the start of the last century; however, this being Toronto, it is highly likely that in 1.5 decades it will have been gutted to form the podium of yet another condensation-prone glass and steel condominium; these gems are readily gobbled up by offshore investors and soon infested with parasitic parvenu dreck that have neither class nor intellect.

As all the bike stands on Church and Queen Street East close to the bank were buried in at least 1.5 feet of frozen-solid snow to make a path for pedestrians, I ventured into the large-interiored structure which I have always favoured. A few years back, when I worked in the neighbourhood fundraising for the Royal Ontario Museum where I brought in three times as much money as the second best in sales, I loved frequenting the lovely building to do my banking.

Having safely left my bike in a corner where I could clearly see it, I progressed south down the length of the narrow bank and waited in line where there were two female clerks attending to the male and female customers. I smiled and readily turned off the front light on my helmet when the teller on the left whose hair was a hennaed affair, much reminding me of Québec, dramatically frowned and covered her eyes.

Since I noticed her from time to time looking away from the dumpy Sri Lankan female before her at the counter, I made a point to avoid her and use her blonde coworker when the other customer took his leave. I had left the light on the back of my helmet on – as for that matter the lights on my bike on, one in back and front.

Even though this was a less frequented bank, I had a good view of my bike and kept on looking at it. Back in late 2011, whilst riding westerly along Carlton Street and coming up on Jarvis Street where to the right in the low-rise condo the actor, Gordon Pinsent resides, I had a man in a black Ford F-350 with monstrous tyres open his door without looking whilst talking on his phone.

I went flying and nimble soul that I am I got from the streetcar track and scurried me and my trusty bike to safety. I then watched a grown man with the softest blues eyes become a nervous wreck as he cried and profusely apologised for having opened the door on me without first looking. I had actually clearly seen him in his side view mirror and he honestly hadn’t been paying attention. Though I had cautiously rung my bell, I was just as surprised as he would be after the fact when he opened his door.

Since then, I have worn lights on my helmet and kept them on regardless the time of day – you can never be too safe; besides, vehicles sport lights all hours of the day so why not bikes.

As I can spot a racial predator from here to Times Square in a heartbeat, I elected not to go to the teller on the left as both customers simultaneously took their leave of the tellers on concluding their business. Approaching, I watched the menopausal woman with a bit of darkened fur on her upper lip leaning to her blonde coworker and say something.

At the time, the blonde was busy finishing up the paper work from her last customer. I approached and avoided the faux redhead whose looks were hostile and predatory. Leaning in, she said something to the blonde who immediately looked up as I approached her. She was both startled by what the faux redhead said and the sight of me wearing two balaclavas, a toque and earmuffs beneath my helmet – being in motion on a bike in -37° Celsius.

As I have several times over the years frequented the bank and in past winters entered said bank in my winter face bike gear, I specifically chose it as branch into which I could slip where it would not be too heavily peopled and therefore would not have to take my balaclavas off and all that head gear – the nylon balaclava is a great fit but it is the most bothering thing to both put on and even harder to take off when sweat sheened.

Though I had not paid the faux redhead any mind and was now standing before her blonde coworker who fixed me with a cautious smile, old dry-pussied, displaced lazy haus frau just had to prove my instinct for spotting racial predators to be still sharply focussed. Again, though I was not at her counter – why would I? – she spoke up stating,

“Please remove your mask, we feel threatened by you?”

Imagine that, the racial predator has now evolved to the point of being telepathic even empathetic… NOT! Of course, it does go without saying that many of the university-educated other bank employees who were comfortably seated in their offices to my rear had seen me whilst I waited and some I recognised and they too recognised me from my many visits to said branch.

However, our estrogen-challenged faux redhead just had to go proving that yet again when you assume you make an ass out of you and me. At no point did the blonde utter a word; frankly, I rather suspect that she was more in shock by having been prompted into fearfulness by her coworker faux redhead than anything else.

Meanwhile, one of the bank managers, a jovial large-bodied fellow, left his office and walked past me to go and speak to a contractor in blue uniform towards the back behind the tellers. I had seen this man before on prior visits to the bank and naturally, I should think that if he found my attire threatening, he would have approached me and said something.

In a cool but civil tone which readily betrayed my loathing for having to deal with bullshit of any kind, I graciously greeted and informed the blonde that I would like to deposit my pay cheque into my account.

“Remove your mask; we do not have to serve you. You are threatening us with your mask.”

My god, what if I were carrying a gun and intent on holding up the bank? Did this dumbass think that she would be the first to deflect a bullet with her stupid insolence?

“You have no such right to tell me to remove my balaclavas. When was the last time you asked a Muslim to remove her burqa because you found it threatening? That’s right, you don’t find that threatening but strangely enough you find me threatening.”

She began mouthing off yet again at which point I interjected, “Tell you what, I will just go to the main branch where they know me. Happy Black history month to you, too!”

I took my red Scotiabank card and cheque placed them in my red Metro Toronto Convention Centre marvellously waterproof, wind and winter jacket all-in-one and began the long stretch of the bank to my bike. I was not surprised, on turning back, to see old hirsute-lipped monster come into the aisle to approach me.

That’s right, the same one who claimed to have been so threatened by me, leaving the safety of her counter to come address me. She looked down the way at me with that vapid smugness her ilk owns so well when letting me know that she was putting out an alert on me so I would not be served anywhere.

Regardless of the fact that on the video any Legal, Human Resources, Public Relations professional at Scotiabank would readily conclude that this faux redhead did not provide their customer with good service. What could possibly have possessed this supposedly threatened woman to come from behind her counter to face down the aisle at me as I got my bike to leave the branch?

Again, whilst she called out to me that she would alert the other branch, I wished her a happy Black history month to which she callously laughed after replying, “Yeah whatever, same to you!”

I got from my bike and left the branch, headed down Church Street and made my way westerly along King Street East crossed Yonge Street and headed a block still westerly for the main branch at Scotia Plaza’s gaudy, blood-coagulated-maroon, 68 storey marble edifice. I got in line as I had many times before in the same winter gear. This time an Indo-Canadian teller turned around when free and noticed me. I could not make out if she had gestured for me to join her or not. As my bike was locked outside, I carried both bright yellow paniers in hand.

As I watched, I noticed the same teller saying something though she was alone; perhaps she was speaking via intercom to someone. Again, she gestured, this time her motion was less confusing; she really meant to invite me to join her. I walked around the circular island and said hello and placed my card in the handset and entered my PIN then signed my cheque whilst sharing that I would like to simply deposit it.

Whilst finishing my signature, along came another Indo-Canadian female. The look on her face was rude, ugly and confrontational. Right away, she launched into her racially predatory assault, “Remove your mask or leave the bank. We are not serving you until you remove your mask.”

Again, as elsewhere, I informed the ignorant boor – whose clit failed to have fully descended leaving her, for all intent and purpose, a lifelong-frustrated pussied man – that I had no intentions of inconveniencing myself by removing my balaclavas which were not a mask simply because she said so. Too, I pointed out that there was no need for me to remove my balaclavas when she would never make any such request of a burqa-wearing Muslim.

You can bet she was full of more bile as she let me know we were not talking about that but I was being threatening and she would rather I left that bank than not.

The intense racial animus from this woman was so repulsive that I simply took my card from the machine picked up my paniers off the floor and said, “Hey, Happy Black history month to you, too.”

I now got from the bank feeling more than a little bit impatient. I am never late for work… ever. By now, it was within an hour of the start of my shift which for me is late. I rode along the sidewalk and turned onto Bay Street heading north for a couple of blocks to the Scotiabank on the west side of Bay Street between Queen Street West and Richmond Street West. I managed to tie up my bike atop a two-foot frozen bank of snow to a bike rack.

Once inside, I recalled what inordinate focussed grace I had had to impart when a few weeks earlier I had been to the branch to deposit another cheque and replace my demagnetised bank card. For more than 40 minutes, I had been asked a million questions and kept waiting again and again. At the end of it, the beautiful, raven-haired Muslim teller had laughed and said in a lowered tone to me, “You are a very smart man…”

She, of course, knew that the rest of the tellers – almost exclusively White save a lone Black woman who was segregated to sit by herself at a desk in the middle of the floor where the rest of the public comes and goes – were doing their best to provoke an impatient response out of me.

To say the least, it was not going to happen and did not. I got my card replaced that day, though, they made every attempt at having me return to my home branch at Yonge and Wellesley Streets and for no good reason.

Finally, it was my turn to see a teller. A tall White male with facial hair likely in corporate security and wearing a tattoo on his right forearm proved the most remarkably human and civilised interaction that I had had that day.

He very charmingly began by letting me know that he would prefer it if I were to remove my ‘balaclavas’; I replied that though he had been the most civilised customer service representative thus far, he was not within his right to ask me to remove it anymore than he would presume to think that any Muslim woman would remove her burqa when asked.

More to the point, I asked what kind of society is this when you would never think to make any such demands of burqa-wearing Muslims as you would myself being racially profiled during Black history month.

As I like giving as good as I get, I charmingly reminded him that in this Black history month, it bears mentioning that Blacks have not flown planes into buildings, shot soldiers in their backs or stormed Parliament et al. He smiled, my balaclavas remained in tack and when he assured me that if security were to ask me to remove my mask I would have to.

Cutting to the chase, I assured him that I was well aware that he was corporate security and both he and I knew that he had no legal right to ask me to remove my balaclavas as it was not summer outdoors, it was not a mask and I was protected by Canadian laws against being treated differentially with regards to a burqa-wearing Muslim entering all three branches visited in the last hour whilst trying to make my way to work on time.

Finally, he conceded and with a smile reminiscent of the raven-haired Muslim teller of a few weeks earlier, asked me to sign the cheque which already had been. Addressing me as Mr. da Braga, he asked if I would like any cash back or just a straight deposit.

Of course, I knew he was corporate security as he appeared in the teller area soon after I entered and proceeded to call out that if anyone strictly wished to make a deposit to please see him. I was the second person so inclined of the six or seven of us in line.

Damn right, it was high time I got service that I deserved.

Of course, it goes without saying that a good one-third to forty per cent of women in the workforce are emotionally unfit to be in professional life. Period. The only cause for concern either woman at both banks should have articulated is if I had presented in balaclavas whilst it happened to have been 30° Celsius outside in July. Just so happens that it was -33° Celsius that day.

Naturally, I had switched to Scotiabank close to a decade earlier when on leaving my employ as civil servant after 15 years of what was truly no end of constant workplace harassment and strife, was then made to wait for three-plus hours at the Bank of Montréal’s 72-storeyed headquarter branch at Bay and King Street West. As part of my separation, there were two settlements one was in a cheque for several tens of thousands of dollars.

When first presenting the cheque to the teller, the little silly-looking, cumfarting twit took off to go lisp and snicker to his equally otiose coworkers. Naturally, there was much snickering and giggling as one experiences of Whites when being racially predatory towards Blacks in public. This is behaviour they exclusively engage in and reserve just for Blacks.

After 20 minutes, the little cumfart – who would probably suffer a collapsed lung of sneezing and coughing incessantly from the sight and smell of pussy for the first time – approached and thanked me for turning in the cheque and asked where I had found it. Within a femtosecond the thought of pinning his empty skull beneath my booted foot and fucking his brains silly was soon dashed aside as it would be just what the little manginaed twit would hungrily, noisily crave at any of the few bathhouses left in the city.

After several hours of being made to wait whilst their ignorant staffers made calls to god-knows-whom and passed off the cheque to several of their colleagues to shuffle about whilst dicking me around, I asked for the cheque went across Bay Street to the Scotiabank headquarters and offered to start an account with them using the cheque; they were only too happy, with one look at the cheque, to have started the account.

That cheque in 2006 was the result of my travails with the same corporation which made it possible for me to continue my employ whilst living in Vancouver and Montréal. Of course, on arriving in Vancouver from Toronto, I had finally been made fulltime and sought to buy a first home. I had been looking at condos and naturally my Bank of Montréal branch on Denman Street had had to be in touch with my employer as I investigated getting a mortgage whilst looking at condos in the West End neighbourhood.

Just like that, I was thrown out of work and when returned to work five months later did so, on the proviso that at any time whilst on probation for 24 months I could be fired. Naturally, a stipulation for my return was having to see that little Egyptian Semite who told me on my final visit that Merlin, in fact, never existed that he was all, like my dreams, a figment of my imagination.

There he sat within mere feet of me pouncing and ridding the planet of him with that little blissfully smug grin on his face known only to the fraudulent few who feel themselves chosen of a fictitious god.

From arriving to work in February 1994, to being dismissed in November 1994, I was on a daily basis harassed with glaring, alarmingly perverse intensity; I was after all the first fulltime Black male in the workplace in Vancouver. On four separate occasions, I had my cheque withheld for a day or two.

This only ever happened when a former police officer who allegedly had been kicked off the force for targeting visible minorities would hand out the cheques and let me know that my cheque had not arrived. Too, it involved being constantly name-called an ‘anti-man’ – West Indian term for Gays, by a thuggish Indo-Canadian lout from the Southern Caribbean.

One Saturday morning – November 5, 1994 – whilst I worked overtime in a bid to save towards purchasing a condo, I had the usual onslaught of racial animus as two White female coworkers next to me carped on about both the Susan Smith case and the O. J. Simpson arrest and upcoming criminal trial.

Whilst I slowly did neck rolls and deep breathe – it was my first autumn in Vancouver and the constant rains were making a mess of my back and neck injuries from a decade earlier when dancing. One woman said of Susan Smith that she at least had the perfect alibi; it was too bad that she had to be found out. Meanwhile, the other said of Black men that they were all nothing but trouble and should be all put away.

Soon, the one who had spoken of Susan Smith’s perfect alibi got up and went to get the Indo-Canadian louse for a supervisor and lied when claiming that I had been sleeping rather than working. Of course, her shift never got overtime so clearly there was some degree of grudge.

After being relocated and made to stand, I then had the Trinidadian louse claim to his Japanese-Canadian manager that I had three times been to the bathroom and when told to go home rather than do the overtime was told to fuck off and that I was not going anywhere.

I stood there not believing what I was hearing. Though I protested, the Japanese-Canadian manager claimed that being insubordinate was unacceptable and for that reason, he asked that I leave. Said he, I was free to file a grievance if I felt I ought not to have been sent home. With that, I returned to my locker, which twice I had had to move – once there was nigger scrawled across one, the other had been smeared with faeces.

As I came downstairs from the lockers, there was the fat overbred swine cackling his head off with, surprise surprise, the White ex-cop. To avoid the hideous sight of them, I elected to take an alternate route and returned to the area where I had been initially working to sign out using the electronic system.

Whilst standing with my back to them at the machine when signing out, the shorter of the two women yelled, “Go home and don’t come back!”

Turning around, I spat in their direction and told them to fuck off and go to hell. Quite the little ham, the dwarfish troll screamed out, “Oh my god! Oh my god, he spit in your face!”

She immediately began calling for the supervisor who had speciously had me sent home – just like she was speciously alleging I had spat in someone’s face who was more than ten feet away from me.

As I left the area and exited the building the portly bigoted Indo-Canadian from the southern Caribbean and his equally racially predatory White male ex-cop colleague came chasing after me as I exited the building.

I got home that Saturday, November 5, 1994 and had a good phone visit with my father who promised to make a gift towards buying my first home; it was also his birthday that day. The following Monday morning, I received a registered letter informing me that I had been suspended for having physically assaulted a coworker and then leaving work without permission.

I was dumbfounded. What proceeded for the next 4.5 months was the most soul-gnawing travel through the six million levels of hell thanks to the venal invidiousness of the union rep who can only be charitably described as a hybrid bipedal bastard of Jabba the Hutt’s.

That Monday, I met with the porcine fucker at dawn at the union offices where she informed me that since I was a member of two known high risk groups: Blacks and Queers, I needed to immediately go get an AIDS test and let her know the results because my faux accuser, in whose face I had not spat, and her family were hell-bent on pressing charges and they were fearful that I might have infected her with AIDS.

I assured her that I did not have HIV/AIDS and had no intentions of jumping any hoops of hers by going out and getting tested. What business was my medical history of hers or the faux accuser? As agreed, I provided a copy of a letter to the accused wherein I apologised for my inexcusable conduct. I made it perfectly clear in the letter that in frustration at being sent home, I had lashed out her when being profane but beyond that, I categorically refused to apologised for having spat in her face when I had not.

A couple of hours later, we met with the employer’s labour relations and human resources personnel plus the very two persons who had laughed their heads off whilst I made my way from the locker to sign out days earlier that Saturday.

Both thuggish supervisors sat across the narrow table from me whilst I was flanked by two union reps: Jabba’s offal and another female, also Jewish. The letter was proffered and though I was made to believe that it sufficed and that it was understood that my actions were isolated, I received another registered letter later that day informing me that I had shown no remorse and was indefinitely suspended.

For the first time, I truly considered suicide as I crumpled to my bathroom floor and came undone. Finally, pulling myself together, I decided instead to sacrifice my full mane of thick gorgeous hair and cut it all off. For the next several months the only thing that saved me was doing volunteer work with persons with AIDS and offering my West End home as a place where PWAs could stay overnight whilst they were in town for a battery of tests and appointments.

Too, during that time of unemployment, I discovered and became readily devoted to the sexual bacchanal in the deep woods of Stanley Park just a few blocks away.

For the next several months, Jabba’s Goy-hating offal lied, lied and lied with hungry relish about when I would be returned to work. Naturally, for being a unionised worker, there was no chance of filing a human rights complaint into the matter. Eventually, after someone from the union’s regional offices assured me that there was nothing to be done because, ‘let’s face it, she is a Jew and you are Black and she is just not going to be challenged,’ I knew that other avenues had to be explored.

Finally, when I told the porcine boor that I had been in touch with Labour Relations Board who felt that I definitely had a case, I was hastily offered a meeting with her at the union offices where the fugly scum proceeded to demand that I, in essence, submit the exact same letter of four-plus months earlier to be returned to work.

I got up and walked out of the union offices got home and proceeded to unload on her by phone the most violent verbal abuse I had to that point articulated. She had actually had the fuck-all temerity to huff and gag because this is truly how she breathed and talked, “You know, I do think that you are anti-Semitic.”

The next day, the Ides of March, 1995, I was offered to be returned to employment without a letter of apology as she refused to put in writing her demand that I take an AIDS test.

Too, before walking out, she had stated that anyone could have typed up a letter and back-dated it, then made a photocopy of it; this said of the photocopy to the original letter of contrition offered in an interview which was all about racial predators having a field day.

There was I returned to work then having to see a psychiatrist for 24 months whilst on probation for being an out-of-control, violent Black male in the workplace about whom people felt unsafe, unsure and uncomfortable.

During those 24 months, Jabba’s offal had cunningly provided work for a Jew with whom she was well-acquainted, she had shared in that none-too-charming way she had of name-dropping, when telling me of the terms for returning to employment. With that, the chance of buying a condo had taken flight.

Whilst in the workplace, I endured no end of intense harassment whilst the O. J. Simpson trial endured and most definitely thereafter, for such is the power of television to fuck with the sphinctered and well-groomed-into-somnambulance collective psyche.

This included having my return from breaks, arrival at work changed in the computer to reflect tardiness. I was spat on… surprise, surprise. I was pushed, twice got crazy-glued to my combination lock. Further, I had a rather beguiling-looking Muslim supervisor, who was featured in the corporate magazine as a sign of the company’s diversity – she with the uncanny resemblance to Benazir Bhutto – tell me with lethal calm, “Get out of my sight before I don’t kill you.”

She was being confronted on yet again having changed my time, though, she and every supervisor swore up and down that there was no way for them to change one’s time in the system. Of course, a Rhodesian-born Chinese coworker whose husband also happened to have been a supervisor told me that there were at least four plans in the works to have me terminated – one apparently involved me seemingly leap from the company’s rooftop.

Alas, somehow, I managed to have upped my frequency and spirited my way out of that hellhole. The day that I had gotten my transfer to Montréal, I took off a few days to pack and it was known that I would be returning to work for half a shift to clean out my locker and say goodbye; I never did go to my locker because who wants to be crazy-glued to a lock for a third time?

Naturally, as Jewish guilt knows no end, there was phlegmy Jabba’s hybrid offal standing outside the doors to the office on the sidewalk. She had actually had the guts to air out her bedsores by getting off her fat arse at the union offices to come by the workplace and gawk.

Naturally, Jabbette was standing there talking to someone or other whilst making sure to lock eyes with me as I exited the building. Of course, as I never miss a chance to give back, I paused whilst making for the attendant cab and hissed, “Of one thing you and I are both certain, you will rot in hell eating your god, Hitler’s arse.”

With that, I returned home, took a nap, dreamt my last dreams in Vancouver then made my way to the airport and caught an overnight flight for Montréal. Just when I thought Vancouver to have been a god-awful work experience, Montréal was hell-bent on giving it a run for its money.

Boy did Montréal prove a marathon and then some… Stay tuned, for as you shall yet see, until you have lived in Québec, you cannot truly claim to know Canada…

For now, sweet dreams as ever and may these dreams continue to richly inspire your own spiritual journey. For your support, I remain ever grateful. I love you more.

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This was a night-time dream and the first that was set in an amphitheatre. I had had to step-in for the host who had fallen ill. The crowd was large and this being at home in St. Kitts, to say the least, they were hostile.

Though nervous, all audaciousness and charm, I stepped up to the mic. Once centre stage, I began eulogising for Euleka Gumbs; Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s daughter.

Whilst speaking, I did see a woman who reminded me vaguely of her but I was not certain that it was so. I then went on to thank Juan-Carlos de Madrid for his work as host.

Whilst standing there looking over the crowd, I saw a ball of white light explode. This was the most glorious sight imaginable. From it shot the most joyous spray of white light sparks.

This was something that resonated with the soul itself. This was on the order of the uplifting essence contact experienced in that dream on Tuesday, September 22, 1992 – it is dream blog entry herein entitled A Rose Like No Other. The same degree of inspiration and sublime beauty was experienced again.

For having experienced this manifestation, there was no way that one could not have had an ecstatic moment of transcendence. For having overcome my fears, of going out onstage, here was I having the most blissful of experiences.

Funnily enough, no one else here experienced the manifestation. This was such a thoroughly grounding experience.

Once I was onstage, the audience soon became hushed; they were readily impressed by my eloquence and discernible intellect. I was really pleased to have seen Euleka Gumbs whom later I would learn was indeed Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s daughter.

_______________________

Pericles da Braga and I were together, in this the second dream, and I had to fast take control of the situation. He began insisting that I was sexually obsessed with him. Talk about taking oneself way too seriously.

We were face-to-face and, despite there being some serious bones of contention discussed, the energies were rather intimate. One had a true sense here of Pericles’s true nature.

There was a deep sense that he was fearful of me. Somehow, it was as though he knew at the level of soul that he had reincarnationally wronged me in past lives.

Thus he has been plagued with a sense of dread and fear of me that, somehow, I would get him. There has never been any such scheme in my thoughts. I have been keenly aware of this man’s manipulativeness and have always guarded myself against falling prey to his head-trips.

His eyes here were strong, clear, direct and shamanic.

______________________

Sting, the performer, was backstage waiting to go out onstage in this the third dream. Goodness, this was such a lucid experience. Sting was very real with a real puckish glint to his playful eyes.

Eventually, I ended up going out and introducing him to the stage.

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Here, in this the fourth dream, I progressed up the paved incline into a large schoolyard. There were lots of Black and Hispanic kids playing here. A large glass and steel, black tower in the style of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe that was very minimalist in design looked over everything.

Sleek and nondescript it most certainly was. These were Babel-like buildings in proportion; they stretched on for some six city blocks. Easily they were, the smallest ones at least, all 100 storeys plus.

They were quite layered affairs with some storeys having an architectural theme. One to the other, the sections were vastly different. The school building had a second section that had walls which, rather than vertically, moved outwards from the base.

These sections were each ten or more storeys and maintained a single architectural theme. Even though it was an overcast day with heavy grey clouds, I could clearly detect klieg lights to the southwest.

I then asked some of the kids for directions but they were non-too-forthcoming with me. I could immediately sense that there was some danger in their being so guarded with me.

I passingly joked about gangs when next, a dark-haired guy and I were being hotly pursued by Black youths from a gang. This decidedly was astral plane an experience in its intensity.

We were then cornered on a side street before a large building. This did not at all feel as though here on Earth. What with the massiveness of these buildings, it may well have been part of an anchor point metropolis.

The Blacks here were so beauteously dark-complected that I would hazard to guess that not even Nubians closely approximate their purity of melanin intensity.

Just because they were gangsters does not imply that they were African-Americans which they certainly didn’t feel or look like. These were very strong, proud Black people who had never been enslaved nor were they dredging through life oppressed beneath the weight of that most hideous form of low psychic terror, racism – the racial predator’s birthright.

Soon, their leader stepped forward and there was no mistaking him. He turned out to have been the Rap star, Tupac Shakur. Beyond his open black leather vest, I could make out that the pock marks of his bullet wounds had been filled in with solid gold.

Seemingly, this was the fashion statement du jour, here on the astral plane, for gangsta arrivés. Throwing caution to the wind, I felt like bolting rather than having to face such hostility; I did not care whether or not I would be shot in the process.

Of course, I would not have survived. After all, this was a dream so it was not as though I would ultimately have died. I just didn’t care to be caught up in a jam like this… no how.

_______________________

A large sprawling apartment at night time, proved the focus of the fifth dream, plus a man with whom I had just become involved was getting moved in. Trying to figure out how they worked, we were playing around with the curtain rods.

Each was four to six inches thick with vary-sized grooves for different pins. Just then, Moses Znaimer walked in at which point, I went over and introduced him to my young beauteous friend.

I then asked Moses Znaimer if he knew how the bloody curtain rods worked. Not remembering his name, I introduced Moses Znaimer as Mr. Hoffmann by which, of course, I implied to my friend that he was Jewish.

Clearly, Moses Znaimer took offense but I could not have cared less anyway. I had no desire, in the first place, to go sucking up to him.

_______________________

Photo: Toronto February 2015, Queen Street East, looking north towards Yonge & Bloor Streets.

Bubble Nebula.

Sting.

Tupac Shakur.

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Hymn to Freedom.

13.02.201504.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Piano: Oscar Peterson

Bass: Ray Brown

Drums: Ed Thigpen

Heals the very soul every time! When in Winnipeg at the school of the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, I was the only student not included in the mounting of Romeo and Juliet, the company’s first full-scale ballet since David Peregrine and Evelyn Hart had won the bronze prize in Varna, Bulgaria.

This music, this giant of a genius, this album literally saved my life.

I felt such shame at having been excluded; having been properly isolated and rendered invisible, one then had to proceed as though one’s exclusion was not the most hurtful rejection. The only thing that spirited me away from the abyss of self-implosion was this music.

A beautiful, male Jamaican-born nurse had given it to me on the second weekend of my stay in the city. He had played the album after his truly elephantine cock had just ravaged my soul and I did nothing but stay there in bed flying-without-moving – and he was a damn good cook too!

Years later, after Merlin’s passing, I sat in the corner curled up with sage entity mate, Daryll Newcombe – now dead of AIDS, at every performance of Oscar Peterson at the Bermuda Onion Jazz Club on Bloor Street between Bay Street and Avenue Road.

The Bermuda Onion had great atmosphere. More than that, it proved the only Jazz club in Toronto where one’s race did not preclude entry therein.

I was truly healed for being at those performances; I had survived Winnipeg and gone on to meet Merlin. I had to have attended each performance, for Oscar’s sheer genius had not only enriched but it had literally saved my life. So it was that, in later years, I was grossly disappointed by his glaring humanity.

His self-karmic issues notwithstanding, this was one genius of towering, staggering magnitude. Much of the beauty of this giant’s genius is how pure, simple and warmly enveloping it ever was.

Indeed, one has much to be fiercely proud of in celebrating Black History, Black culture, Jazz, because of shamanic healers of the soul like Oscar Peterson.

______________________________________________________________________________

Merlin.

17.11.201404.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Merlin.

July 21, 1947 <O> November 18, 1989

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I could never have imagined surviving Merlin by 25 years. More than that, I could never have fathomed how immensely enriched I would grow for having known and loved Merlin. Certainly, I would never have imagined that our relationship would continue, merely otherly focussed, beyond his passing. However, as many dreams herein have attested that we most definitely did and have.

I offer the links to three dreams had after Merlin’s passing – all of which are to be found in the ‘Dreams of Merlin’ category. The first dream occurred as Merlin passed, the other two dreams three and four years after his passing. Do enjoy and I trust that for your own loved ones, these dreams will inspire you to remain open and focussed on being attuned and ever in love with loved ones when they transition to merely being at a different vibration as astral plane habitués.

Incidentally, Merlin was reincarnated on December 2, 2006 as a first level old scholar in an old soul northern European country’s capital city. Merlin’s soul has chosen in this lifetime to be female and yes, I have dreamt of this beautiful-eyed young woman. Love ever endures.

These dreams, without a doubt, attest to Merlin and I having shared a most remarkable love affair. All is choice. Sweet dreams and love you and your loved ones even more!

________________________________

Photo: Merlin 1977 in Montréal.

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Anointed By the Exalted Mentor, Merlin!

24.02.201311.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

As the Moon progressed through the early degrees of Gemini, transiting my first house, I would on taking to bed slip up past the folds of restfulness. There I would awaken into the most lucid dream experiences had in long ages.

It was Saturday, July 25, 1992 – long after Merlin’s passing.

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The first dream was set, at night time, in Sandy Point, St. Kitts where I had spent my childhood. I was playing in the street, well past midnight, with three local youths.

All Rastafarians, too, they were all in their twenties. I was my present age – thirty-one. They were younger.

Everything about them was very real. There was a direct focussed tenor to their gaze; they looked into you. I felt very edgy with all this probity.

We had been acrobatically playing, in the street in front of the church, in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. Of course, that same church Harella had built twenty-two years prior in the waking state.

I tried not to outshine them, with my leaping tumbles, for fear of escalating the tension in the air. There was an edge to our interactions. It was a tension born of my having been so long off-island and their being suspicious, I thought, of my outré sexuality.

Just then, I noticed a light streaking across the star-punctured sky. In a bid to diffuse the tension between us, I drew their attention to it. However, I soon noticed that its progress was unusual.

There was also something distinctly different about this light. It caused me to recall similar icons in dreams past – each had presaged rather momentous visions.

Like all those before it, this streaking light seemed a silent observant probe. Immediately, I became open to what this comet-like streaking star could later reveal.

I began to explain to the youngest Rastafarian who was an impish, sexually-dynamic beauty – he was not the least bit self-conscious of his missing front teeth – that it was no doubt a very high geostationary satellite that had bombed and was now crashing to Earth.

Further, I speculated that it was no doubt an orbiting space shuttle presently reflecting Sol’s intense light. As I spoke, I knew that I did not really believe either explanation but I thought that the ideas were a good way to ameliorate my position in the dynamic.

The ruse failed to have done the trick. On returning my attention to the group, I was sent bolting – the leader was menacingly lunging through the air towards me, with a raptor’s ease, in eager flight.

Soon I also was in flight being chased through the streets of a Sandy Point, St. Kitts which quickly morphed and shifted becoming, more and more populous, like parts of old Havana. I was not certain which city this was but I was definitely still in the Caribbean.

I managed to escape into a house where I very energetically fought off their advance, securing the locks to the front door, thereby shutting them out. I climbed up the narrow and steep flight of stairs, in near-darkness, to the safety of the second storey.

Winded and more enraged than stunned, at their behaviour, I took the time to gather my breath. I briefly visited with my aunt Pilar do Aragão† and Pandora – the latter whom Merlin favoured the most of my siblings.

They were unaware of the tumult that I had just endured.

I took refuge in the darkened front of the house’s second storey. Next I found myself, in one of those rare dream moments, actually falling asleep whilst lucidly dreaming.

I nodded… on recovering, I found that I had come to in an apartment. It was one more opulent than the one in which I had just grown suddenly drowsy.

On a red antique chaise longue, in the most beautifully dark, wood-panelled, high-ceilinged digs that I had ever seen, I was now seated. Across the room was an open door that led out to a veranda.

A dark awning provided ample shade and allowed just the cool tropical breezes to laze in satiating the spirit. To have awakened into this new dreamspace had left my awareness more sensitised… more absorbing.

The dream became more lucid and any sense of time dissolved. This left every moment infused with a sense of mysticism – magic even. It definitely felt like the West Indies here, perhaps, old-money Haïti or Guadeloupe if not Cuba.

Slowly, I drank in every detail of the stately furnished room. There were, on both walls to my left and right, floor-to-ceiling shelves which were not untidily crammed with old leather-bound volumes – some red, some brown, most were black.

Slowly, from where I reclined, I pinpointed my vision to check the titles of some of the books. Thus I was able to see and read them, as intimately, as if I had gotten up and gone to stand before them closely peering.

They were mostly ancient volumes. However, the script was not vaguely recognisable like any of the innumerable ones on the other, more familiar side of the dreamtime.

My spirit soared, as I felt fully relaxed, in this most bucolic of dreams. Strangely, though not unusual for the realm of the dreamtime, I felt that for having looked at these laden bookshelves my mind had absorbed the library’s voluminous wealth.

Just then there was movement, to my right, across the room. I saw a cat that looked much like Whoopi. It appeared from behind one of three sofas, skulking towards another, situated opposite across the room.

Each sofa, like the chaise longue on which I reclined, had beside it a small round table. Each table was covered in either rich, dark earthy damask or actual rugs in deep though muted red. I was immediately reminded of the round table, across which sat the sibylline woman from Merlin and I, in the dreams of September 4, 1988.

I sat up calling her name,

“Whoopi! Whoopi!” at which moment, the cat shimmered and became Julio – our black cat at 20 Amelia Street in Cabbagetown who, like Whitney before him, was killed in a hit-and-run as he ran across Amelia Street on New Year’s Eve, 1987.

As I watched the cat disappear behind one of the three sofas, which accompanied my chaise longue, my mouth froze open in amazement. Whilst I assimilated that one and thought to myself that this certainly was a most unusual and lucid dream, there was utter stillness.

The cat’s metamorphosis had discernibly shifted the vibration of the dream. Now time seemed considerably measured as compared to its usual frenetic rhythm.

The door in the far right corner then opened… into the room walked Merlin.

*I can’t here relay the rapture I felt on seeing him but the ecstatic descriptive of dream audio-cassette recording, for that day, comes fairly close. END.

Overwhelmed with emotion, my body quivered throughout. I tried to rouse from my reclining position. My arms outstretched to him, I greeted him squealing with delight.

He stood, just in the entrance, raising his brows with the left familiarly arched higher. Staying me with the index and middle fingers of his raised right hand,

“No, don’t get up…” I heard Merlin direct me with the quiet familiarity that our intimacy knew.

This directive I telepathically experienced as though we were squinging up in bed, in the dark, at 20 Amelia Street in Toronto’s Cabbagetown. Our souls tickled, at such times, as we listened to some glorious thunderstorm drowning out the dog days of a too-hot-and-humid, Toronto summer.

I obliged, sitting upright on the edge of the plush chaise longue, for the first time placing my feet on the beautifully designed and predominantly red rug. His face warmed towards me in a smile.

At once my mind expanded, simultaneously processing on multiple levels, becoming even more awakened. Rapture… pure rapture – I was enthralled.

Here again, Merlin wore all the evolved energies that he had in that first dream encounter – that dream, of course, set in a Pacific west coast rainforest that was not unlike Vancouver Island’s Cathedral Grove in July 1978. A dream, of course, which occurred four years before I would physically meet him in the waking state.

Slowly, he walked the short distance of the room towards me. A breeze coming from the veranda not only cooled the place but it shifted the ambiance and made the place grow dimmer.

The dimness highlighted the definite soft yellow glow that girdled his entire form. I sat there thinking,

‘My god, I can actually see your aura Merlin.’

He smiled and I was reminded that everything that I thought was instantly being telepathically shared.

I was passive… moreover I was ripened as though I had just experienced an Alfred Brendel recital. I felt so lightheaded that I firmly pressed down both my palms, into the chaise longue’s plush red velvet, bracing myself.

Merlin came and stood before me. He was casually dressed in loose, earthen woollen clothing. A cloak he wore stylishly draped about his narrow shoulders with its cowl removed.

As I looked up into his face, besotted by the beauty of his soul’s magic, he slowly arched his left brow in the way he had always affected when he wanted to be intimate. Merlin’s magical expression was exactly as it was, that gibbous-Moon October night, when we met in Babylon – which now for him was truly a lifetime removed.

My face liquidly melted away in a smile. I was warmed by the knowledge that I was dreaming and that here before me was a man, Merlin, with whom I had shared such wonderful fortune. He had shared his grace, along with his beauty and his intellect, in the most magical combination with me.

As we made eye contact, still never having said a word, he slowly knelt into the bay of my open legs. Enthralled, my eyes slowly and unflinchingly shifted to look down into his as now he knelt before me.

He wore his glasses, his beard cropped close, his hair styled in a leonine full-bodied mane.

Moreover, I was moved by just how much this pose reflected the last night we had spent together – November 17, 1989. With an acuity rarely achieved in the waking state, my mind lucidly assimilated this rapturous encounter.

Here before me knelt Merlin. Merlin was the very embodiment of wholesome health, healing my spirit, releasing me from so much of the pain that I had endured.

Like that last night of his life, before dying of AIDS, I was overcome with emotion. However, owing to the healing that this moment affected, now I wanted to melt in tears of joy.

More than that, the moment’s poignancy rose from how uncannily it mirrored our final encounter.

About his slender long neck, Merlin wore a necklace of thick, copper-coloured coil that looked not the least bit malleable. The coil was half an inch in diameter and set with beautiful large crystals of various colours.

The coil moved through each stone’s centre and each stone was deeply etched with golden hieroglyphs. Although Mayan hieroglyphs bore the closest resemblance, the inscriptions resembled none in this planet’s long history.

The effect of the bronze-coloured coil and crystals was grounding. The crystals gave off a low rumbling hum that was felt. It was akin to the definite effect of my pyramid, in the waking state, but easily thrice as intense.

There were seven crystals in all. Principally, there was the large, smoky rough-hued quartz set at the bottom of the circular coil.

Its design slowly shifted from within but its glow seemingly originating elsewhere. It was huge and by far the most powerful.

One quarter the way around the circle, which was duplicated on the opposite side, there were three crystals. The crystal in the middle was like nothing imaginable in the waking state. It was a coppery-bronzed colour with hints of blue-lapis lazuli dust throughout which actually glistened.

With any slight movement, the dust shifted becoming copper-coloured. When the colour shifted, I experienced a correspondingly subtle shift in the serenity that I felt.

The unusual central crystal was flanked by two small and perfectly clear crystals. They were more radiant and powerful than any multiple-carat diamond yet found in the waking state.

It was actually difficult to sustain my focus on their exquisite beauty overlong. They were dynamic and seemingly made of the heaviest element imaginable.

I was so pleased to see Merlin. The necklace he wore was like a grounding conductor. Seemingly, in order to manifest from his dimension to this dimensional dreamspace, he needed the energies of the crystals to join me.

He wore an argyle sweater that was not unlike one of the pastel ones I had bought him one Christmas. This one though was an earthy brown which he had, years earlier, interestingly claimed to have preferred.

He effortlessly removed the crystal necklace placing it at my feet. The humming abruptly ceased. The crystals’ effect immediately shifted. I actually felt a cool energy, from the crystals, buzz through my entire body travelling from my feet to the crown of my head.

I watched as he detached the different crystals and made sure to leave the central one on the coil. Somehow, he was able to remove the six crystals from the coil though the coil remained a perfectly whole circle.

As he kept placing the crystals, in different circular formations at my feet, he kept looking up at me with the warmest direct stare. Each formation affected a different temporal lobe and corresponding area of my body.

I was experiencing crystals with a potency that never before had I known in the waking state. I felt splayed by the experience.

There were times that I felt as though my body and head were being stretched – elastically elongated with an ease nowhere else possible except the astral plane in the dreamtime.

I thought then how absolutely incredible this man Merlin was – how truly fortunate I was to have met him, to have known him, to love him.

The lights noticeably further dimmed in the room. Next, the central large crystal grew black changing into the most unusual design. There had been an incredible energetic drain from me – energy which I suppose was collected in the now-transformed crystal which had remained about the coil.

From his left breast pocket, Merlin retrieved a little black pouch. As he looked down at it, I said to him,

“Oh my god Merlin, you are so beautiful…”

I knew that I was dreaming and I was thinking at the time,

‘…I will never be able to meet you, again. I’ll never see you again. You’ll never be that perfect mélange of bloodlines that created the magic that was your every idiosyncrasy.’

He looked up and smiled making me again realise that everything, we said without speaking, was so very clearly, readily known to the other.

As he opened the little black pouch, my lips trembled. I looked at those utterly gentle fingers that, I thought in passing, were now ashes in the earth at Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery,

‘Oh yes… those fingers, those beautiful delicate fingers.

‘Oh my god, yes…’ I simultaneously thought,

‘…These fingers, I will never see; they’ll never touch me again in the waking state – they’ll never exist again.’

Then, as if to eclipse my melancholy, he gently took my right hand in his. Merlin’s still-sensual hands purposefully began pouring the little, black pouch’s contents into mine.

The touch of him was as intimate and as gentle, an evocative memory, as absent waves heard distantly lapping ashore on the beach in Pump Bay during childhood. How, as in the still of the night, my mind would race wondering of what new vistas I was yet to dream – when I was a child in St. Kitts.

All along, I had restrained the desire to touch him for he seemed so much more evolved. Truth be told, I was afraid that to physically reach out to touch him would only dissolve the dream.

Naturally, for becoming emotionally overwhelmed, the fear was that I would undoubtedly whiteout. However, his touch was so real and so very familiar that I let out a heavy familiar sigh.

Into my palm spilled a dozen, perhaps more, of the most beautiful tiny crystals that were quite powerful. The touch of them actually made my mind further expand.

My head seemed to contort, once again, with an élan that matched the lightning speed with which I assimilated the intense energies from the clutch of crystals into me.

They were more leaden, easily by ten times, than their small size betrayed. They glowed and they were decidedly hypnotic. They emitted a sense of music that was more experienced than heard.

In spite of the fact that they glowed, I brushed aside the beauty of them and chose instead the real magic. I took his free hand with mine and began holding it, rubbing it, squeezing it.

Even more intently, I looked overjoyed into his arrestingly soulful eyes. I began groaning, moaning, I was overcome with intense emotion.

This was, by far, the most alive and most lucid dream with Merlin since his passing some three years ago. I wanted more… I wanted no moment of this great intimacy to stop.

I asked him to remove his glasses so that I could really look at his eyes. He obliged and when he removed them his eyes weren’t their smoky grey-hazel-faded blue.

They were brown, in fact, but they were his eyes and I thought,

‘My god, you’ve got brown eyes,’ to which he slightly blushed.

He wore a beard; it was the usual bushy affair. His lips were so moist, I said,

“My darling, kiss me.”

Taking the lead, as I had when we met, I held the bottom of his ticklish beard and reached up his face to mine as I bent down. We kissed each other.

It readily became a wonderfully slow and timeless dance high up our entwined greenhouses. My spirits soared to even greater heights. It was the greatest pleasure.

It was quite simply a sensory whiteout. We did not use tongue. We just kissed each other on the mouth. Throughout, until it was no longer possible, our eyes remained perfectly glued to each other’s.

I turned my head to the right to kiss him, again. It was a soft lingering kiss; it was a kiss of complete surrender in which was communicated so much.

As though he and I were two leviathan creatures swimming together in a sensual medium of liquid blue light, our intimacy was pure movement. This aqueous light medium was immensely heavy and inhibited our progression to a slow-motioned crawl.

Progressing playfully, as though so many nanoseconds were deleted from each time-stretched moment, we effortlessly danced alone. We were together and enraptured in a universe just for two – Merlin and me.

It was such great pleasure that, in its shared intimacy, it reflected the idiosyncrasies that we had known so well. It was a continuation of the dance we familiarly had always intimately known.

It was such incredible intimacy that when the kiss was concluded the dream dissolved…

I sighed, on a deep sustained breath, besotted with the beauty of Merlin’s spirit. This was a most rare dream, a most soulful of dreams, with the dream magus.

The sound of my breath was so loud that I actually felt the weight of my high-dreamer self as I crashed back into my body from, being astral-projected, high up the astral plane.

I felt fatigued, I felt spent, as is customary with such dream travel. Whilst remaining still, I kept my lids shut.

Focussing on my weary breath, I allowed myself to drift upwards again. This time, I melted into true sleep where I could rest and recoup my energies.

I awoke, about an hour later, in the nearly dark room of my tiny Queen Street West apartment in Toronto. Rested, I was truly rejuvenated after all that astral projection in the first sleep cycle.

As is customary with reparatory sleep, there were no dreams recalled of the second sleep cycle. I cried… I cried for joy.

The realness of Merlin was so intense that after crying, for the first time since his passing, I grew aroused after dream contact. I savoured the beauty of this man, Merlin, my elfin-dream magus.

Pulling the black, satin blindfold back over my eyes, I slipped onto my stomach between the red satin bedding. Tightly holding on to a pillow, my left cheek pressed into it and the bedding drawn up over my head, I withdrew into a sweat lodge where I could continue communing with Merlin’s very soul.

My right knee drawn up, I allowed my rock-hard cock to ride up against the bedding and away from my tummy. Slowly, kneadingly, I ground my winding pelvis into the luxury of the bedding.

Ploughing away, beyond its wet folds, I massaged my lusty thoughts deep and high up into the magical greenhouse. Whispering his name, my lips, my abs and body quivered.

From time to time, I managed my way up onto my toes. This allowed the exquisite play of cock and bedding to draw out greater pleasure.

My abs ached. Whilst sweat sheened throughout my shivering body, I shuddered as the inside of my thighs violently tremoured. Merlin still knew how to work his magic on me.

Losing myself, my breath collapsed in repeated noisy, exhausted, shuddered grunts and groans. I whispered his name proclaiming my love to that point.

In no other way could I have celebrated this truly profound astral plane encounter with Merlin in the dreamtime. As ever, hands-free auto-eroticism resulted in a most profuse and exquisitely pleasurable orgasm.

So richly deserving was I to have lost myself this way – beyond the usual daily auto-erotic ritual. I needed to savour this momentous dream encounter by making a solemn ritual of pleasurable thanksgiving.

I had been moved anew by Merlin’s magic.

*Regardless your combination, there is no greater gift to receive than the love of another whom one has chosen to completely give of self. There is no greater validation of love’s superiority than to experience love from another, who has transitioned onto the next octave in that soul’s maturation, in a lucidly awakened dream as this shared between Merlin and me.

We have all loved and been loved and may you dear dreamer, by opening yourself up, experience your own moments of rapture as I did in this rhapsodic astral plane encounter with the one, the man, the elfin, the fuck-all fabulous, the ganja-smoking, groovy shaman from Babylon, Merlin!

The mark of a truly great love affair is the fruit it bears… dreams.

Sweet dreams you, I love you more! END.

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Photo: Merlin & Arvin Niagara-on-the-Lake, autumn ’87, photo by actor, Wayne Robson.

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Tantric Transference With Famous Actor (*Adult Content).

23.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Astral-projected, this next dream would prove a most lucidly awakened, lyrical adage. It was a most beautiful drink for the soul.

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The dream was an encounter with a famous person, on whom I was neither especially focussed – in the waking state – nor about whom I was impressed favourably or otherwise.

These dreams simply unfold and I do not pass judgment either on self or the dreams as they progress.

The dream occurred, on Sunday, June 21, 1992, whilst the Moon on the summer solstice transited both Pisces and my tenth house wherein is posited Chiron retrograde. It was a most potent dream – shamanic even.

A house sat on a yard that was very West Indian-looking. It was all dark exposed earth and raw. As though it had lost all its topsoil, the soil was very hard. There were lots of these marvellous tropical trees about.

From the front, the garden and house reminded me much of Esmeralda da Braga’s house in Brown Hill, Nevis. The front garden was filled with an abundant array of cacti most of which were gloriously in bloom.

They were all very tiny plants. As it was such an arid place, the plants could thrive quite beautifully. Since it hardly ever rained here, the cacti garden made more sense. I noticed that there was a hose about the garden.

Then too, I saw that some of the hens-and-chicks cacti were, for lack of water, brown and shrivelling up. I was saddened by the sight. I impulsively ran over to try and take care of them. I knew that they desperately needed the nurturing touch of my caring heart.

The door to the house was opened and afforded one a look inside. There I saw a woman lying in bed asleep with her head closer to the window. I could only make out from the crown of her head to the chest.

In the second room, back from the front of the house, she was asleep. Her head faced to the front of the house. The house itself was set up exactly like Esmeralda da Braga’s house in Brown Hill, Nevis is.

If it were set in Nevis, then I was on the side of the street and house that is closer to the gut which is also where the garden was. That means that when facing the house, I was on the right corner of the house looking through a window. It was a glass-louvred window.

The woman laid there on her back as though she were asleep or, perhaps, even dead. She was quite dark-skinned and wore a floral-printed dress with some dark tones in it. As this person was so dark-complected, I thought that it could not have been Esmeralda da Braga.

I carried on with taking care of the garden. Then after awhile, I came out and went into this wonderful canopied area which was up on a different level on the street. It was part of the property but in a different section.

It was as though the street in Nevis did not exist because obviously it was not set in Nevis, finally. I came into the covered area which appeared to be a house. There I saw a man who was lying on his stomach and seemingly asleep.

His face was down into the pillow thereby only affording me a partial look at this left profile. He was White but he had such pale skin that he seemed a luminescent tone of actual white.

In addition, his skin was excessively wrinkled. Goodness, did this man look ancient? It was as though he were easily several millennia old. Such a wonderful, soft wise-looking face he had.

As I had entered the space there was a number of these large canvas drapes that were drawn up. It was bright out. Incidentally, I had never gotten around to picking up the hose and watering the parched cacti because I had come inside to curiously explore.

As I had stepped up the few stone steps, to enter the canopied pavilion, I had noticed that his eyes were opened – at least the left one was. On hearing my approach, he had closed it and pretended to be asleep.

He laid there wearing a robe that was pastel-coloured with lots of beautiful floral designs in it. Beneath the beautiful robe, he wore a pair of pyjamas. Whilst I was there in the room, looking about, he affected a disoriented awakening.

All that I could think of was that on awakening, like most men, he would probably be aroused. Indeed, he was aroused and seemed not very well-hung. Nonetheless, I thought that it would be interesting to get it on with a millennia-old individual.

He went off to go pee but when he got from the bed and began walking he resuscitated and started getting younger and younger with each deep laborious breath. It was, as a matter of fact, quite yogic.

In time, the millennia-old metamorphosed man proved to be the actor Kyng Soale. Noticing me, he smiled a genuinely friendly, ruggedly handsome closed-lipped smile. It was a warm greeting.

Instantaneously, the dream became very awakened.

He took a few steps then looked after himself at me and smiled again. This time his teeth did validate that it was, indeed, the actor Kyng Soale. He was possessed of the most striking eyes – very magnetic.

This dream experience was very real – an astral plane experience, it definitely was. I was amazed that he proved to be such an old soul. Off he went, through the space, to take a pee. He went through these drapes that were very Oriental in style.

There was lots of gold threading and deep crimson reds. It seemed to be either in Indonesia, Bali more specifically, or elsewhere. Very lush and tropical a place this proved.

On the outside chance, it might well have been set on a private island in the Philippines. Definitely, it did not feel as if set in Tahiti, Fiji or Réunion.

As he went off to pee, I got up from the comfortable, cushioned, dark rattan armchair into which I had earlier slumped. I had sat there to look at him sleep. It was a raised house, on stone stilts, much as in the Caribbean. In addition, it did have a veranda.

On closer inspection, the architectural style was unmistakably Balinese. The windows here, all wooden, opened out from the bottom. This was a very richly detail-specific dream.

*On awakening, I am inclined to think that perhaps Kyng Soale is presently vacationing on some secluded Balinese estate recharging his batteries. END.

This was, I must convey, a very intense dream experience. There were aspects of his energetics that rather reminded me of Carl Leroiderien’s who, of course, is a mature king soul.

That ruggedness that transcends their handsomeness which reflects aspects of the true mettle of their soul type – that of being a king soul. This was also a very definite and real experience. There was astral projection involved in us having encountered each other.

As he entered the room, to go pee in the lavatory, I began walking very slowly and felinely towards him. We never did utter a single word towards each other.

I walked up on him and inspected him as he peed. He held his erection upwards, in the air, after he had finished peeing. He was foreskinned and it was not especially thick a cock but it did have a handsomely large, though not excessively so, head.

I came around to him and held his hand. At that I turned him around. We looked into each other’s eyes very soulfully, long and hard. This was the greatest intimacy imaginable. We slowly danced soul-to-soul, at which point, he smiled and was clearly pleasured.

I then opened the robe, drawing open the string of his pyjamas letting them drop a bit. Holding his cock in my hand, I slowly stooped whilst throughout maintaining seductive eye contact.

Looking at it, his cock was now very red. At that I drew back the foreskin, after he had surrendered it to my hands, and began very slowly to go down on him returning my fixed gaze into his soulful eyes.

Now his cock had looked very different to when I had seen it, from afar, initially. At the feel of my warm mouth pleasurably caressing him, he let out a long satiated groan. The taste of him was very real.

I could taste the precum, mixed with the last drops of his loud-smelling pee, in my ravenously hungry mouth. He encouragingly began grinding his hips letting me pleasure him. His lids closed shut on losing himself to my sensual touch.

When staying himself, he then began running his fingers through my hair which was out and not gathered in a bun as per usual. Slowly, very intensely, his strong warrior-like hands began massaging my scalp. It proved to be the most energising experience.

It was as though he were realigning my chakras’ vibrations. Indeed, it was very occult – magus – what he was doing whilst I serviced him.

*Of course, this is such a dead giveaway of what this man and I were doing. It was not about sex anymore than it was about energy transference. He was a king soul and part of the function, of his role in essence, is to heal and fortify the spirit of other and all souls.

He knew innately that I was attuned and aware of his role in essence. I was not some stalking fan who was homoerotically obsessed with him. Truth be told, I have never before been auto-erotically focussed on this man in the waking state.

What we were doing was spiritual work – sex was merely a way of best facilitating that work. For both of us being in the roles to each other, he was fulfilled and so was I.

There was nothing homoeroticised about the encounter. It was tantric sex which is all about being spiritually focussed and engaging in energy transference. END.

“Oh god, yes man…” the actor groaned from time to time.

I, on the other hand, was deliberately soulful about what I was doing for him. It was not mere cocksucking that I engaged in.

It was as though I used his phallus, to give his entire body and energetics a cleansing massage, much the way that one can affect the same thing in reflexology by way of the feet.

Soon, I had to get up or at least chose to do so because there was a darker-complected-than-not Oriental woman about the house. She had been approaching us.

Kyng Soale said softly in the most soulfully sonorous voice,

“Come on, let’s go inside.”

Returning indoors from the back veranda, which was canopied and private, we took to the bed where earlier he had been lying. The bed was close to the window which is how I had initially seen his face, when it was in its natural soul state, which reincarnationally reflected his maturation.

Casually, he dropped all his clothing on the floor and got into bed on his back. When he settled into the comfortable bed, he drew his legs up giving me a good look at his exposed arse and anus.

The skin around the anus was very plush, swollen and relaxed, suggesting that he loved being anally serviced. In fact, he laid there in a very passive pose with his face the most relaxed one can imagine of anyone whilst making love.

He had reddish pubic hair. On raising the brows and smiling at me, he extended his hard-bodied hand to me. It was more a command than invitation.

I climbed into bed and immediately, on lying in amongst his open arms, it was like when being intimately entangled with Olaf Nordstrom. This man similarly proved to be possessed of the most exquisitely pronounced feminine principle. Very sublime, slow and soulful was his vibration.

Whilst looking intently into each other’s eyes, we began kneadingly rubbing our achingly hard cocks slowly against each other’s when frottaging. This was the first time that I had really been so close to his eyes and they were the most intensely blue with a submerged veneer of greens.

Quite magnetic eyes, too, they were.

Immediately, I thought to myself that he was a king soul. Very incredibly intense was the fusion between us. Even if I wanted to, there was no way that I could awaken from this dream. He vibrationally held me in his presence.

This was not the usual dream experience wherein for getting too physicalised one prematurely awakened. He had command of the situation and I was his and for as long as he desired.

As it progressed, the whole experience was navigated by his formidable will. We began smiling at each other. He then drew my head down and began fucking my mouth with his rough, intensely masculine tongue.

Again, those hands began giving me that deep scalp massage that was, more than not, all about energy work. This was very much so alive and awakened.

*Interestingly, I have never paid this actor’s looks or career a passing curiosity. As a matter of fact, the only time that I have seen his work is when Merlin and I went off to see an actress that he liked who appeared in film with him. At the time, in the first place, it is something that Merlin wanted to do.

Here in the dream, when he had transformed to being youthful, he was a man in his mid-forties which he is not – I don’t think, in the waking state. I think this is suggesting that he may, in fact, be a king soul and one who is mid to late mature-souled.

Very intense and forceful yet passive, when needed, was he. He was also on the verge of being silver-haired.

Whilst he peed I had been hypnotised by the sound of his piss hitting the hardened earth, outside the veranda’s window, through which he had been peeing. END.

As we were writhing and I had penetrated him, there was a noticeable barometric shift whilst I hammered away at him. As though one were in the midst of monsoon season just after a massive deluge, there was now a heavy humidity in the air.

Whilst we were carnally lost in each other, the Oriental woman had also returned to the house. She had been calling and looking for him. In one forceful move he got to his feet taking me with him.

Here too, he was considerably taller than in the waking state he appears to be. Very martial-bodied, Wotanesque almost was he. It was as though this mesomorphic, astrally projected body of his was born to wear metallic armour and do battle.

A fierce protector, rather than conqueror, he was. As I had prematurely slipped from his exquisitely plush anus, there was a sudden energetic surge.

He had pronounced sensory capabilities in the every nerve of his anus. It would seem that it was so plush because part of the energetic work that he did was all about playing cosmic mother/nurturer/healer, by way of his anus, to transmute the energies of multitudes.

This is why he seemed so much a king soul. It was as though myself, and countless others, astral-projected to have an audience with him in which he did serious energy work. Very shamanic indeed was this man and this encounter.

Taking me by the hand, he rushed in through the large compound by another exit into a pavilion. Here he now wore this incredibly wonderful, elaborate, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful ceremonial robe.

It was very much so in the Oriental style and it looked millennia old. The robe that he wore was worked with lots of gold threading. Greens and yellows – very bright and uplifting colours covered the fabric.

Here he was walking in this very large, exposed-beamed wooden hall which was a couple of storeys high to the ceiling. He was quite simply regal in the true sense of the word because this was only something that one could experience from the level of soul itself. It could never be affected.

I, for one, was very upset. Not at the interruption of our lovemaking, rather, the woman was truly livid with us. She was as if some dragon lady who was truly out to consume us with her fiery fury.

She had shot an arrow from a gold-leafed bow which was held horizontally and shot as if a handgun. When she shot at us, he affected this stature that instantaneously had him become puffed up into true archetypal warrior stature.

It was nicely affected by the robe’s draping but it was clearly animated by more than the mere fabric. The robe began to billow now with his, yet again, transformed stature.

He had also grown taller and was now close to just less than seven feet tall. The arrow became stuck in the robe but it was clear that he had never once been injured by it.

After that, we took flight from the hall. Hurriedly, we parted with me saying a grateful goodbye.

We paused to knowingly look at each other with eyes directly focussed on each other’s soul. We warmly smiled. A very intense and vivid experience this proved.

I knew that he knew that upon awakening, in that look, I would remember the dream experience which was no mere dream. At that, I took my leave of him by going through a door to my rear.

*I awoke from this and immediately went into the pyramid, where I recorded the dreams on audio-cassette, whilst allowing my energetics to become fully harmonised for having just had the astral plane encounter with Kyng Soale.

This man is clearly a king soul; I would be very surprised if he were not. Furthermore, as I regard sex as the height of human spirituality, dream sex is always about energy work and high shamanism.

This was not exactly some random stomp through a bathhouse on the astral plane which, of course, can be terribly intense and engrossing. This is because most such persons encountered during such astral plane sexual rendez-vous tend to be persons who had recently passed of AIDS.

It has been my experience that such persons are just hell-bent on getting some action. After having been caught wasting away for long months of AIDS, this tends to be the case.

After having recorded the dreams, I grabbed my crystals. Rather than lube up and indulge in auto-eroticism, I then laid back and meditated for about an hour with beeswax candle and incense going.

Thankfully, the phone was turned off. Who needs people and their waking state solipsism after such phenomenal astral plane sojourns? END.

**For obvious reasons, the actor’s name was changed to protect his identity. I do not know this actor. Furthermore, I have no idea whether this individual, beyond their public persona, has a same-sexed focus to their physical relations; therefore, it is best to protect that individual’s identity by simply changing his name to that of ‘Kyng Soale’ – this is clearly a way of referring to him as being a King Soul vis-à-vis the Michael Teachings as he definitely was experienced in this dream. Too, the dream occurred on the summer solstice and it is not the first time that I have encountered a king soul on the astral plane on the summer solstice. END.

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Photo: Kimono.

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Merlin Shapeshifts.

22.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

So here then a most jarring dream had, on Thursday, January 11, 1990. This truly disturbing dream occurred whilst the Moon transited both my second house and Cancer. Of the ones lived that day, it was the fourth dream recalled.

This dream was had less than two months after Merlin’s passing of AIDS and to have found him in a dream, rather unexpectedly, the revivification of life, health and boisterousness was stunningly jarring an experience. Certainly, when last I had seen him he was within either side of 70lbs.

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I would then be moving on as if going along the main road of The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. There were some persons who were coming out of a large house that was much like Lara Wellesley’s. However, it was white… it was an off-white, whitewashed, large stone house.

Everyone coming out of there was talking and laughing. They were getting ready to go to a church somewhere. They were piling into a minivan that was also white.

I had gone past them. When coming back from Mount Idle, on the east side of the road by the old bank of the ground floor of Eustace Milne’s childhood home, from behind the minivan coming around between it and the bank building was Merlin.

He was wearing his light blue bandana – bought for him by Noëll, when he was in the hospital towards the end of his life. He wore very ordinary clothing like he always did. It was Merlin and he was very healthy.

He saw me at the same time that I saw him.

I was stunned. I stood there catatonic. I did not know what to do, and I thought,

‘What are you doing here?’

I was so happy to see him. I hadn’t dreamt of him in so long. I simply froze in my tracks. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk… I just did not know what to say.

I wanted to scream my way out of being paralysed. There was Merlin the embodiment of renewed vitality, I just couldn’t get over the fact.

He saw me and was momentarily surprised but instinctively he neurotically went into action. Merlin simply began energetically walking and went up these stairs.

I bolted after him after getting over the added shock of his response. I was surprised to see him in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was so surprised to see him up and about.

I got up onto this landing after having lost sight of him. When I got there, on my immediate left was a Chinese woman. She was just on the cusp of her twenties.

She was wearing what Merlin had been wearing except that she had no pants on. It was now a dress and the colour of the bandana… she no longer wore the bandana.

I felt so betrayed by this development. Merlin had camouflaged himself, by shapeshifting, to become a woman. He had shapeshifted becoming another race and another sex.

Merlin knew that I wouldn’t be able to relate to him thus. Transformed, he wasn’t the Merlin with whom I was excited to interact.

Thus he became female, a counterpart of his totality, to create the distance between him and the Arvin that he had known. I did not even look at her/him overlong.

The woman who was in charge of everything, organising the church outing, was not unlike Pannonica Kertész. I said to her, “I came to get Merlin… to get his things, his bandana…”

“Well you can’t. You can’t see him. You have to make a deposit and then you wouldn’t be able to see him until giving the ring deposit back.” or something to that effect.

She had replied very matter-of-factly. It was as though there had been a pact and somebody had reneged or something to that effect. I found it most upsetting.

I was completely flabbergasted.

*Of course, Merlin chose to shapeshift in this dream because he wanted to have some distance between the raw emotionalism of the attachments associated with his just completed life. I thought it interesting that though he had never travelled to the Caribbean of my upbringing, one of the earliest dreams of him on becoming an astral planet habitué found him there and of all places in Sandy Point, St. Kitts – a place he much wanted to visit. END.

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Photo: Chinese model in A-line dress.

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Older Souls Commune.

20.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha3 Comments

So, on Friday, November 3, 1995, as the gibbous Moon waxed in Pisces – measurably drifting across my tenth house – I would dream this dream which concerned the dynamic between both Merlin and Oleg.

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A house that much reminded me of the one in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts proved the setting for this most potent dream. There were five of us here; although, one person’s identity now eludes me.

There in the living room, seated on the blue sofa of our Crab Hill home, was Merlin with his back to the north. Directly behind him was the five-foot oblong mirror; it was hung against the living room’s wall. On the other side of that wall, in the waking sate, was Harella’s bedroom.

Here in the dreamtime, which was definitely astral plane in focus, the living room was elongated; it was more oblong-shaped, along a north-south axis. Merlin’s right side was closer to the veranda and the main road with the McHughs across the road.

Across the room from me, with her back to the street and facing due east, was Gita Gurucharan – Oberon Samuelson’s lovely wife and mother to miracle worker extraordinaire, Vijayalakshmi Gurucharan. Oleg de Brontë was seated directly opposite Merlin.

There was a man, to my immediate left, who sat directly opposite Gita. Whilst I was closer to Merlin than anyone in the room, I was not however sharing the sofa with him.

Abruptly, Merlin got up and took his leave of us. He went into Harella’s bedroom.

The others had dropped by to visit. It was clear, early on, that Merlin simply wasn’t into it. There was strain to the social dynamic which Merlin put an end to – he rudely took his leave of us. This was so unlike his former self during his recently-concluded incarnation.

Yet, I fully understood where he was coming from. Whilst being in the soul state, he was now more so his true self. This gathering of persons represented the past to him, which at this point, clearly served no interest for him.

I then got up and stood next to Gita who was on my right. After Merlin rudely took his leave of us, we had all silently gotten up. To say the least, it was awkward. As we faced towards the dining room, our backs were now to the veranda.

Filling the void that Merlin’s departure had created, Gita and I began making conversation. To say the least, it was a strained, canned affair.

Here, I was keenly aware of how much I am dismissed as a social misfit. I was aware that these were persons who had long ago decided that I was not the swiftest of souls – I don’t indulge in clever repartee and such plastic aggressiveness when socialising.

The Black man then came over; he was tall and handsome with a gorgeously mesomorphic body. He stood to my left, directly facing Gita, and began talking. There were a lot of pauses here; they were trying to get me to shove off by firmly excluding me.

Finally, I dryly said,

“Well, I’m going to go and see how my man is doing.”

I then walked between the chairs, on which Oleg and the Black man sat, as though heading for the boys’ bedroom rather than Harella’s to which Merlin had retreated. I then, however, made an abrupt turn left going instead through the door from the living room to Harella’s bedroom.

On entering the bedroom, I saw that Merlin was lying in the girls’ bedroom next-door. Merlin seemed as though asleep. He did look as though ill with full-blown AIDS. It was not, however, distressing to have seen him thus; I was lucidly awakened here.

Initially, when out in the living room, Merlin looked robust and even leaned towards a robust, mesomorphic body type. It was clear though that having to visit with these persons, from the past, had very much so enervated his spirits.

Rather than sit there interminably, enduring what was an unpleasant situation for him, he thankfully had taken refuge when he had. On drawing closer to him, I gently caressed his face – all the while thinking of how difficult this was for him.

I wanted to share some of my energies with him; I wanted to restore his. The vibrations from the living room, however, were distracting.

After excusing myself from Merlin, I returned to the living room. Immediately, I dramatically shifted personae and became rude. I told them to sit down, at which point, we all did.

Oleg then got up after awhile; he was holding a long-necked, brown beer bottle. There were three empty identical ones on the floor and next to his chair. There was no mistaking the fact that he was drunk.

‘Who the hell gets drunk on the astral plane anyway?’

Oleg wore a woollen jacket that was dark and nondescript. Incidentally, on my return, the Black man was no longer present. In his place was a White man with the same physical description; he came over trying to save face.

The unfamiliar man charmingly suggested that it was time that they pushed off. Oleg had gotten very drunk indeed; he was not at all being belligerent.

It turned out that Oleg had gotten emotionally distraught – about Merlin’s condition; he was upset at the way that things had turned out between them. The fact that things were unresolved between them, at the end of Merlin’s last life, caused Oleg a great deal of distress.

He did not know how else to deal with it; thus, Oleg got miserably drunk. I wanted to be of solace to Oleg, however, since my energies were already committed to being with Merlin that option proved a nonstarter.

Clearly, Gita and the other man had been there to try and broker some sort of peace between Oleg and Merlin. Obviously, Merlin was not up to it.

At one point, I had actually headed to the dining room and called back to Oleg. My voice rang out as I asked Oleg if he wanted another beer.

This was the point at which the unfamiliar White man had interrupted and declined the offer; instead, he suggested that they take their leave of Merlin and me.

Oleg, of course, was inclined to take another drink. I did not like my role here – that of keeping Oleg grounded by drink. Certainly, it did give the impression that I was trying to block any resolution or any communion between both him and Merlin.

Although, to be honest, Oleg had begun drinking after Merlin had left the room. It was quite embarrassing really. Oleg could hardly get up – let alone stand on his own.

The man had had to rush to Oleg’s aid. Like Merlin in the bedroom, Oleg was completely enervated though he had used alcohol to drown his pain.

Oleg was devastated that Merlin was not going to return. More importantly, Oleg knew that Merlin had positively no intentions of suffering him for a minute.

The man threw his arms about Oleg and braced him up. More than that, he was fortifying his very spirit.

Again, I took my leave of them in the living room and headed back for Merlin. However, I did not spend time visiting with Merlin.

On returning to the bedroom, I got a long, black, woollen evening coat. It was rather expensive and cut close to the body. Bearing the coat, I returned to the living room where I insisted that Oleg take it to stay warm.

For not realising that he had been drinking to excess, I had felt badly. He was truly distraught; nothing pained me more than seeing this truly beautiful man’s spirit in disrepair.

Whilst his White friend got him into the coat, I stood in back of a disjointed Oleg and held the evening coat open.

Interestingly enough, Oleg’s handsome, Black friend earlier was the same handsome Black man, with the striking resemblance to Maxwell Bowleson – he had appeared with him in that august-energied dream, on Friday, July 21, 1995.

Eventually, they all took their leave of the house; they were rather low-key when doing so. When I had returned to the living room, after having visited with Merlin in the girls’ bedroom, Gita had not said anything further.

No sooner than had they all left the house that Merlin came out to the living room to join me. I was surprised to see that he was again looking so healthy.

Directly opposite Merlin, I now sat alone. Merlin silently sat there. Whilst consciously sending him loving energies, I held my back erect.

Much to my surprise and amusement, Merlin carried a large, clear plastic bag with about 1.5 pounds, likely more, of marijuana. Merlin meticulously rolled a large thick joint with all the Zen focus as he had when incarnate.

I sat there being truly blown away at the sight. I had completely forgotten the sublime, almost Zen, sight of Merlin rolling a joint.

Moments like this were when Merlin really turned up the hues of his magus nature. It was a groove into which he slipped, in order to conceptualise – to non-linearly think.

These ganja joints were so thick that they looked like short white cigars; they certainly smoked profusely like a cigar does. I was mildly humoured by Merlin’s realness. It was grounding.

On looking up, Merlin paused before lighting up and turned up the sensual hues in his large brown – which they were not when incarnate – eyes.

Coolly, Merlin intoned,

“I have no intentions of seeing these people…”

He then pursed the fat joint in his rosy lips and lit up. Casually, Merlin blew on a long even breath that readily perfumed the air with its pungent aroma.

Up to that point, the room was sillaged by that most glorious of scents patchouli – it was Merlin’s favourite fragrance.

As an afterthought, Merlin added that Oleg had intended to come back tomorrow and join him for lunch. There was supposed to be some woman or other present then.

Apparently, it was not going to be either Morag O’Hoare or Gita Gurucharan. I don’t know who she was supposed to be but it was also definitely not Elektra Skanczchowicz – and definitely not Hélène Plotte-Visage.

Merlin took his time and drew on another breath. He then announced that the luncheon had been arranged by none other than Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny. Merlin, however, was not into it.

“Are you sure that you’re going to be up to it?” I asked obviously concerned.

As I looked across the room at Merlin, I spent a great deal of time being spiritually focussed and sent him energy. What was really interesting in this process was that with his long even breaths, when dragging on the ganja joint, I used his breathing rhythm to become harmonised with his vibration.

The focussed process of sharing my energy with him was very potent – real. The energy flowed with great ease. For being intensely lucid, I thought of elevating my vibration’s frequency. I had hoped to thus cycle off a ton of my energy into Merlin.

I accomplished this by envisioning us both encircled by spheres of intense blue-white light. Soon, I saw my energy body cycling off a coil of white light.

This light originated both from the top and bottom of the sphere of light which completely enveloped my seated body. The light travelled the distance between us, across the room, some seven feet away at most.

It made contact with both poles of his energy body’s identical sphere’s integrity. Together, we were truly in communion soul-to-soul. The interesting thing here was that we both continued casually visiting though I knew that Merlin was keenly aware of the energy work that was being accomplished between us.

As he continued his detached Zen-like smoking, I knew that it served as a backdrop to his being receptive of the energy work that I was doing on his behalf. Our breathing was completely synchronised.

I used each inhalation to draw off the negative vibrations. It was this energy that had caused him to become completely enervated when seated opposite Oleg whom he clearly had no desire to have encountered. Merlin then chose to abruptly retire, whilst the others visited, to the girls’ bedroom to crash.

With each exhalation, I sent him intense, white-light energy that was being liquidly drunk by his energy body.

The marvellous thing about this entire experience was how utterly feminine Merlin’s modalities were. This was in marked contrast to my very masculine, martial, warrior-energied focus.

It was truly a validation of the creative principle, Merlin being yin to my yang. Together we were becoming whole. Together our energies were perfectly harmonised. As a result, Merlin’s energies were thusly realigned.

Too, for being in this very expansive state, I caught brief glimpses of the outlines of the light energies that were being manifested between us. During the moments when he would exhale potent puffs of smoke, I observed the manifested spheres of light each time.

The smells of the patchouli and ganja, combined with the ganja’s smoke, created the effect. I was so grounded for being here in this astral plane reanimation of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house. It was a truly sublime magus experience.

It was clear that Merlin had no desire to experience unpleasant aspects of the past. As he sat there, Merlin waited for the air to clear; he waited for the ganja to wane and the strobe of the light spheres to fade out before replying,

“No, no. It’s okay. I’ll be okay…”

As Merlin spoke for the first time, he looked healthier than he had looked at any point before during our astral plane dream encounter.

Earlier, he was lying on his stomach with his left cheek on the pillow; his face looked out the door that led to the room from Harella’s bedroom. There was a cool sheen of sweat then that covered his brow and body; he laid there looking truly wasted.

Even his breathing was loud then. As I patted his cool brow, I could hear the crackling in his lungs that suggested that he was again suffering from a bout of pneumocystis. On soothing his spirit, I had brushed the wet strands of his shoulder-length hair from his brow.

It was so very good to have seen Merlin. The most exquisite pleasure of being in his presence was the great sense of peace that I felt for seeing him whole again.

The simple act of his rolling a joint was, for me, on the order of bliss; he was transcendent. Of course, as was the case during our relationship in the waking state, he did not offer me a toke of the cigar-like joint.

I do know that I found the second-hand smoke pleasurable. It was sweet; it did much to relax me, along with the focussed deep breathing that I independently did – that we did in unison and which had been triggered by his breaths when smoking the joint.

Feeling the need to come down from the intense energy work that I had accomplished with Merlin, I got up and walked slowly over to Merlin. I asked him if he was going to be okay on his own.

He assured me that I had nothing to worry about; he would be fine. I knew it too. So with that, I took my leave of him. In a bid to move back into my regular-dream body, I went out to get some air on the veranda.

He assured me that I did not need to come back, later on, and join him. He would be quite okay to handle things on his own, he assured me. I believed him.

Merlin simply glowed throughout; his cheeks were flushed and fleshy even. Merlin looked centred and genuinely contented.

I then found some ice cream, beneath one of the living room chairs, which earlier I had been eating. Naturally, it was not all that great as it had melted down and lost its flavour.

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Photo: Colliding galaxies.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: AIDS

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