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

01.04.201701.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Art: Santiago el Mayor

Oil on Canvas

97 x 77 cm

1610 El Greco

Provenance: Museo del Greco

Christ on the Cross

Oil on Canvas

95.5 x 61 cm

1600 El Greco

Provenance: National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Japan

Jack in the Pulpit IV

Oil on Canvas

40 x 30 Inches

1930 Georgia O’Keeffe

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

Grey Lines with Black, Blue and Yellow

Oil on Canvas

48 x 30 Inches

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Diana’s Resolve… Extra-Human Tall Whites Arrive.

21.11.201406.01.2026 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

One of the last dreams I would have, before moving to Montréal from Vancouver, would be a most ominous dream of Diana, Princess of Wales. At the time, my life was in flux as I hurriedly packed up my art collection and made preparations to fly out of Vancouver to Montréal.

As Pandora da Braga had lived in Paris for ten years, after having worked in the Prime Minister’s Office – Prime Minister, John Turner – studying then working as a journalist in the city of lights, I would make wonderful friends of my own in Paris.

Naturally, they all implored me to move to Montréal because they could then visit me and not have to worry about not speaking English. Of course, if you can’t live in Paris, Montréal will make a damn good substitute – the locals’ hideous xenophobia notwithstanding.

To say the least, I was only too happy to take flight from Vancouver which had proven a racially suffocating hellhole once too many for my legendary impatience… to say nothing of pride and integrity. Since I am not in the world to suffer the racial predator overlong, it was time to move on when I chose to. Knowing when to take leave is key to survival in any situation.

The astral plane dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales was inordinately lucid and possessed of a clarity that spoke to its prophetic potency. Of course, on awaking from the dream, I had completely misread the message of the dynamic being played out. At the time of the dream and on awaking, I had assumed the subject of ominous prophecy to be Prince William rather than Diana, Princess of Wales herself.

The dream proved rather sobering. The evening when the news broke of Diana, Princess of Wales’s death, I stood in my Montréal living room and screamed horrified because in that moment I had finally gotten whom the subject the prophetic dream was; it was Diana, Princess of Wales.

There was the same density and foreboding in this dream as in all dreams which presage death. There was no mistaking the ambiance of the dream; death palpably hung in the air.

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1997 and whilst the Moon then transited both Taurus and my twelfth house, I did nothing more than pack and run off to Stanley Park after dark to get one more last session of hot sex in the midst of five-hundred-year-old moss-furred Sitkas.

Oh what delicious fun times! Nothing beats having sex in the middle of nature; it is so primal, so spiritual, so shamanic and elemental.

The dream was a beautiful farewell from Diana, Princess of Wales. I am sure that she would be immensely proud of how Prince William has fared since she bade him fare well in that dream.

Sweet dreams as ever.

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Pandora da Braga and I visited with Diana, Princess of Wales, at night-time, in this the first dream. I spoke to her of her great insights to world politics.

As well, I told her of how much she had learnt in this lifetime – the great insights garnered from her experiential awareness of human suffering and the human condition.

This woman was incredibly powerful in this astral plane encounter.

You had a sense of her very soul itself being present in her body. As this was an astral plane encounter, one was not experiencing Diana, Princess of Wales the glamour puss, the manipulative or, for that matter, the fucked-up basket case.

You saw the power behind the incarnate persona and understood why she was born to be Diana, Princess of Wales. All that emotional baggage ultimately was mere façade. This was a very steely tough customer.

Her eyes were always very direct and clear; they were not soft and dewy or doing the virgin bride Diana Spencer routine. She wore a powder blue suit and was in supreme control.

She then went to a near dark bedroom to check on Prince William, the future Duke of Cambridge. The heir apparent was lying in bed, foetally curled up whilst soundly asleep.

He looked so tiny and so frail and vulnerable that one had to wonder if he were an asthmatic or suffered from seizures. Even though asleep, Prince William seemed emotionally needy.

I was much reminded of Clarice Seberg-da Braga^† in this woman’s resolute steeliness. I stood a few feet away whilst Diana, Princess of Wales stood leaning over the side of the bed next to her sleeping firstborn, Prince William.

The energies here were those of a retirement home or an orphanage. The vibration here was both dense and very sad; it was a most sombre ambiance here. I even passingly wondered if Prince William were in danger of dying.

When I spoke to her, she had said nothing and seemed remote, removed and otherly focussed. However, she was undividedly listening to me. Her focus was intense, with a singleness of purpose that was so unlike her incarnate persona, it was hard to believe that she could have become so legendarily emotionally fucked-up.

For being in this woman’s presence, one realised that this individual has seen a lot. By far, much more than mere mortals see in the course of three or four lifetimes has she.

Her energies surprised me as they were massive. One had to exactly wonder who she has been in past lives. I had a sense of her that she was an early mature soul.

*This would indeed prove a rather prophetic dream. I remember been so upset at this dream that on awaking, I went and looked up Prince William, Duke of Cambridge’s astrological chart to see if there were any indicators that he could possibly die early in life or imminently.

So ravishing was Diana, Princess of Wales that it never occurred to me at the time of the dream or on awaking, to have looked at her chart to see if there were any signs of her possibly dying imminently. Of course, there in her chart was a very ominously looming Pluto square transit which went exact the day she died.

I might also add that it is an afflicted Pluto which is conjunct her natal Mars. Think what you want but there is no way that Diana, Princess of Wales was not assassinated.

She was, in the dream, clearly resigned to her fate. She was obviously aware of her role in the historical drama being played out and she, finally, fulfilled her role with great aplomb. END.

**Of course, at the time when living in Vancouver, where the dream was dreamt, I had attended a dinner party at friends’ Sentinel Hill bungalow where a gay South African of British aristocratic heritage spoke at length about Charles and Diana and their ‘child’. Said he, Harry was not the child born out of wedlock – the second born was a real Windsor prince. The real bastard had been her firstborn which meant a lot, especially since the Bourbon father was Catholic – little else was then divulged. This was in late 1995 – with Nelson Mandela coming to power, he like many whites fled South Africa with a sizeable colony settling in the lower mainland – when Charles and Diana clearly were headed for divorce. That dinner party was the second time that I had heard this rumour about Diana’s sons.

A couple of years earlier, after I broke off relations with Manhattan cabaret singer Frans Bloem as a dinner guest of his proved a vile racist Jew, who vehemently denied that Blacks had any connection, let alone claim, to Jazz. I promptly decamped for the rest of my vacation from Frans’ West Village apartment to Chelsea with an old dancer friend, whose lover had died of AIDS and left him fabulously well-off. One evening, we went to a dinner party on the Upper West Side where the view across Central Park was to the condo where Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis would die short months later. Present at the lovely dinner of a wealthy Mexican, whose home was truly grand, was a Spanish aristocrat; he spoke at great length of Diana and Charles – it was the time of their recent separation. The minor Bourbon royal was keen to let it be known that Juan Carlos, the King, was William’s father and not Charles. This he said with great pride and who knows, added he, maybe one day the Church of Rome would reclaim Westminster Abbey and Britain become annexed to Spain. END.

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Then, in this the second dream, I entered a film which advanced back in time. I was taken back to the beginning of my reincarnational cycle here on Earth. That is to say that for my soul’s experience here on Earth, it was the beginning of time.

There were lots of heavy-looking satellites here. As a result, the celestial lights are strange as compared to contemporary times. There was a sense of purple intensely coming through from the light spectrum.

Too, blue came through strongly here rather than the intense ‘white’ with which we are so accustomed. A very interesting phenomenon this was.

This was a very rocky terrain as I stood looking down to a spectacular vista below. Next, there was a mass influx of people who came from another planet.

There had been a mass exodus to Earth. The arrivée extra-human’s spaceships were not all that sophisticated comparable to today’s space shuttles. When they disembarked, they were an unusually tall race of Whites.

They averaged over seven feet each, on the short side, pushing nine feet; even the women were in excess of seven feet tall. They were a shabbily dressed group. Too, they looked truly shell-shocked; it was as though they had had to take flight in a hurry.

Seemingly, there had been a massive apocalyptic crisis which had precipitated their sudden departure. As a result, they had ventured here to take up residence on Earth. They seemed as if refugees from a war zone.

They were, the whole group of them, quite a mess. Immediately, they set about on a campaign to subjugate the planet and make it theirs. Theirs was a focus that was driven of their having been from elsewhere.

This was hostile territory that had to be tamed and made to order; the new planet, Earth, had to support their agenda and nothing more. This was the beginning of a reign of terror which clearly endures to this age.

They had a series of rulers, who came with the mass exodus, all of whom were male. They were a militaristic culture. They were the quintessential warrior warlords; brutish and sadistic to the core were they. They had no qualms about killing.

They couldn’t have cared less, after all, about the people whom they were killing; after all, they were all merely humans and not of their extra-human race.

They were brutish specimens, the hunter-warrior extra-humans, with thick full beards. These were a people who had known nothing but a long history of warfare. They were bred to be killers. Truth be told, they were deadly and at war with life itself.

Alas, it was a sad but true fact and one that was rather insightful as to the real deal behind history of this planet. As life on Earth ultimately proved a non-viable long range proposition, they elected to adapt to Earth by breeding with select humans.

The group which proved, in the long term to be most viable for their genetic stock to endure and prosper would become today’s Caucasians. As a result, the hybridised Earthly humans became as if at war with themselves. Incidentally, all the racial groups were hybridised; however, what would become Caucasians were deemed most desirable.

I have always thought it very interesting that the all-dominant White tribe is home to Europe, the only continent on the planet where the inhabitants never constructed pyramids. They, pyramids, are in Africa, the Americas and Asia but not to be found in Europe.

These people were truly Hitlerian in their savagery. I could see how easy it was for the true Earthlings to have been subjected by these people.

The locals were a peaceful people who lived close to and in accord with nature – that included the pre-hybridised Caucasians. Then along came this exodus of Tall White extra-humans who proceeded to subject both them and nature.

This seemed to have, perhaps, been in New Zealand but it was obvious from what I learnt here that the invading Whites had touched down in several locales on the planet.

Theirs was an agendum whose task demanded timely action over a given breath of time. They were intent on suppressing the Earthlings, all over the planet. When their extra-human stock began dying out, they then elected to hybridise the native humans of Earth.

Obviously, at the end of this campaign, they would then choose to settle in Europe. What was really telling in all of this was the fact that all of life in the Universe is cyclical.

To that end, we see history being repeated in modern times with the campaign begun by Christopher Columbus. There is nothing ennobling or uplifting about this European exodus which, as per the panorama I witnessed, mirrored the campaign of the Tall White extra-humans on their arrival to Earth. Though less savage, the strong Tall White extra-human genetic markers in Caucasians has affected their outlook on being focussed here on Earth.

As a result, the hybridised Caucasians humans’ raison d’être has been about warfare, rape and separatism. Notice, too, that until the rise of Judaism, there were no patriarchal religions on this planet. Religions weren’t of any use, prior to the arrival of the Tall White extra-humans, as all the people of Earth were living in accord with nature.

Too, the rise of Judaism marked the ascent of the notion of a single god and, most of all, one which was vengeful, warring and decidedly patriarchal. Like the orthodoxy of Judaism, it was anathema to the arriving extra-human Tall Whites to mix or cohabit with the true Earthlings – at least until their long term survival proved impossible.

That aside, the extra-human Tall Whites went about suppressing the planet. They did so in a reign of terror that was truly horrific. They murdered and savaged the Earthlings with ferocity that one would a species which was not one’s own.

The Earthlings were being killed as though they were an infestation of vermin who had to be culled and controlled. This they did in their campaign to make the planet viable for their extra-human Tall White stock.

So very telling as this is precisely the repeated/mirrored history which we are living today. A history, indeed, in which the White Tribe has spread over the planet in the last half millennium, displacing the local Earthlings in their path. Sadly, so dominant is the Tall White extra-human genetic makeup in hybridised Caucasians, it has been as though their fellow humans were not also human.

This has being most actively pursued in Africa at present which thanks to racism makes it permissible. Truly horrific a spectacle this proved. Devastating were the campaign’s results, to say the least, on the locals then as now.

*I must note here, though, that the original Tall Whites were little related to today’s Whites. Not only were they close to nine feet tall, if not more, they were pasty to grey-white in colour.

In the true sense of the word, they were Tall Whites rather than Caucasians. END.

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When planning to go to a movie, in this the third dream, I had asked Ian Banks Jr. if he would accompany me. Flatly, he replied no.

The look on his face was truly hostile as if to ask if I were out of my mind to have asked him. I was very stunned, in fact, by his reaction.

In any event, I readily recovered and went off looking for a seat in the theatre. I ended up close to a White couple with three small kids.

The children were talkative but there was nothing objectionable in their behaviour. I actually quite liked being near them with their refreshing playfulness and spontaneity.

As the house lights went down and everyone grew quietly anticipatory, I seamlessly refocussed from the dreamtime to the waking state.

*On awaking, I felt exhausted from the travel involved in moving back in time to seeing and experiencing the arrival of the Tall White extra-humans. I took the time to remain in the pyramid, after having recorded the dreams, to meditate with crystals and thereby restore my energies. END.

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Photo/Art: HRH Diana, Princess of Wales

Oil on Canvas

64 x 40 Inches

Provenance: Collection of Charles, Ninth Earl of Spencer.

http://www.spencerofalthorp.com/

http://www.nelsonshanks.com/

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A Most Noble Shaman, Sarah!

04.09.201312.11.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

These next dreams are a wonderful journey into the rarefied world of Black musical genius. The dreams were had on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, also a time, when America was about to unleash its warring might on Iraq – a campaign which would span some two-plus decades.

The dreams were some of the most lucidly awakened. Most of all, the dream with Sarah Vaughan was one of the most glorious dream experiences imaginable.

A bit of leap off here but after all these dreams shared herein, it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve not done something as natural as having shared the Michael Overleaves of persons herein. Merlin and I were/are Task Companions and that was his sixth life at 7^th level mature, artisan-cast Scholar in acceptance (yeah!) I am, of course, also 7^th level mature, bluntly combative sceptic third life thereat in 6^th position (hello the dreams!) of third cadence of third greater cadence, growth and passion.

I became a Michael Student, on discovering the Quinn-Yabro Michael books, when Merlin was sick with full-blown AIDS in summer 1988 and it was the most arrestingly humbling experience to have met original group member SC 9 years later, herein referred to as Mathilde Duchenne – the pseudonym is a nod to a life in Barbados wherein she was a madam and I was her most prized worker – statuesque, stunning and entertained the seafarers, one of whom was a reincarnated king soul – who in an earlier famous incarnation was then sixth young, passion, dominance, idealism – Saladin, at whose court I danced with a cadence mate in fifth position (known in this life) and our respective Essence Twins whilst my then soldier TC (Merlin) whilst part of Richard Coeur de Lion’s crusading troops saw me dance and was blown away.

This most recent get-together with my TC, then Merlin, was our 43^rd and seven glorious years they were which continued long after both, of course, indulging in moments of sublime essence contact and energy transference as betrayed in the very lucid astral plane dreams herein… For me, having been brought up by a musically gifted mother – whose love was sadly not readily forthcoming, she was though innately stylish and possessed of inordinate intellect. She was also for long decades the only West Indian to have had her hymns published in the hymnal of the American Wesleyan church’s West Indian branch the Pilgrim Church – all that young-souled religiosity did wonders to hone my scepticism. Harella was fourth mature Scholar… I’ve an obvious soft spot for scholars and 33 years after her passing my opinions and love for her have matured favourably rather than not.

In any event, Harella was always singing and I have always loved Sarah Vaughan because something about her always reminds me of Harella, the complexion, the look, the round shoulders, the almost non-extant neck but the voice: warm, nurturing, maternal and stellar. Though I’ve always been fanatical about Betty Carter – weeee! – I grew to love Sarah Vaughan when Merlin and his mentor, John Hirsch, grew even closer for both being full-blown with AIDS and we having spent so much time together; just the four of us, Merlin and me, and John – fifth mature warrior and his artisan task companion, Montréalais artist, Bryan Trottier, who proved a vile piece of work on Merlin’s passing which was months after John’s…

Bryan was repression mode, cynic, moving part of emotional centre, rejection goal and slid tremendously into acceptance and the negative pole thereof thus making him rather ingratiating and proving himself one phuch-all lugubrious sycophant with secondary CF of self-destruction, hence the bottle as pacifier in later life. Bryan was then in the thrall of über-shit disturber, cum lost village idiot clown – with no discernible talent save being able to scheme and con her way from one nanosecond to the next, Elektra Skanczchowicz – fifth young slave in power mode with penchant for leather and for interfering in others’ lives and wanting to phuch with someone… anyone… I am so glad to be rid of that ludicrous no-talent clown! What is it about slaves and me in this lifetime? If it is not an old slave, I am loathe to have to interact with such fragments overlong – they really do present my impatience with a thorough challenge what with being 6/3/3 on a third life – vituperatively and with the greatest panache, ‘Go take your $hit elsewhere!’

These are things that are good to know. I think one validates being a serious Michael Student as when in that dream recently shared of the female First Nation’s artist’s daughter that I speculated to self that she was likely in dominance – A couple of exquisite, old-souled gems. For me, this is good work because it is so good to transcend the obvious pitfalls of waking state Maya. Trust you me, most people in the waking state simply project their labels automatically. It is no end of tedium to have some somnambulant lost soul start aggressively projecting onto you their embarrassingly myopic views when encountering me for seeing someone Black and god forbid male. Don’t you realise that I am you in a past and future life, get over your tunnelled little perspective?

Obviously, names were changed but I would be damned if I was not going to have some delicious fun assigning appropriate pseudonyms in the process – this incidentally was something at which Merlin excelled… Although, since I have a fondness for Dravidian names, there are times when such names are used rather than cutting pseudonyms like Elektra’s, for example Mathilde Duchenne’s adept, V, is known where herein encountered as, Kritika Bhatt.

To date, I’ve charted some 200 plus Michael Overleaves and it would well have been more, were it not for my protracted slow dance with starving artistdom.

Whilst the Moon transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house, on Wednesday, August 1, 1990, I would awaken into these most luscious of dreams.

<O>

Very intense and very involved these dreams and again there was a great deal of travel here. I was in a city which was very moisture-heavy.

It was dark out; it seemed as though the light, though at daytime, was blocked out because there was a mist or there were a lot of moisture-heavy clouds which left the place really grey out.

It was a very ancient city and very much so like London, England. In parts, it also seemed like Paris. However, it was a mélange of London, England and, too, Bangkok.

It was at night-time and I was in a place where I saw the river. This river was very much like the River Thames.

It was just as wide as the River Thames is and the river was very black and swollen. It was fast-flowing and very ripe with a great sense of moisture.

As I was standing in this area, it was like standing in a circus. It was a place much like Trafalgar Square. This place, however, was not as large. There was a central monument that had steps going up to it.

I was on the steps and looking off over the embankment. The predominant stone of the architecture here was the same tone of limestone as was used in the Pont Neuf, as well as many buildings in Paris and in certain parts of London, England.

I was trying to look over the embankment because Arne Naess, who is Diana Ross’s husband, was talking. I could see him and he had his back turned to me.

He was giving a tour and talking about how much he really does like his two sons and how happy he is to be a father again.

The first son, he said, was like Michael and I suppose that he meant like Michael Jackson. Perhaps, he does have another son named Michael. If not it would, I suppose, mean that Ross was quite a performer.

“Ross is very much so like his mother…” he was saying, “…and very much so a night creature.”

“An exhibitionist, there is no way that he’s not going to be a performer,” Arne was saying with resignation.

“Then Evan Ross” (Naess) he said, laughing at the mention of his last son’s name, “Evan is so much like me.

“If I turn in at eight o’clock or ten o’clock, whenever I turn in, Evan does too. We’re very close and he always sleeps right through.

“He’s not a problem; a very silent and very, very contented child. Not a problem at all. I’m very, very pleased that I’m close with him.”

He then pointed out the bridge which had a terrace, like the terrace Tuileries along the banks of the Rive Seine, where you could walk by the water’s edge. He said that he had bought this bridge for Diana Ross, as a result, it was now private property.

It was part of his vast real estate holdings in London, England. It was, he shared, a present for Diana Ross. As he said that, I then saw Diana Ross walking – her left profile and back visible from my vantage point.

She wore a London Fog or Burberry coat that went down to just below her knees with her bare legs visible. It was beige, creamish-coloured as were the matching high heels that she wore.

Her hair was pulled back off her face and gathered in a loose curly puff in the back. It was shoulder length hair. I noticed as she walked that the belt around her waist was tied very tightly.

As if to protect herself from the chill of the dank air, Ms. Ross had her arms wrapped around her waist. She was walking along the bridge alone and there was no traffic at all on this now private bridge.

He had said that he had bought it because,

“She has always loved walking on this bridge. It means a lot to her and where she’d always go to when she returned to London… to think and meditate.

“It was one of the few places where she could really escape, not just in London but the world.”

Apparently, when he bought it for her, she was in Paris and called to let her know.

“She immediately got on her plane, dropping all her engagements, and flew here. She was so ecstatic, screaming with delight.

“She was genuinely happy,” he said.

“It’s her own little retreat and she can walk on it whenever she desires,” he said.

It was very nice to watch her walk whilst totally self-absorbed.

I was trying to think of which bridge it was because it very much so reminded me of the Pont Neuf. However, I know that it wasn’t that bridge because I got a strong sense that it was in London and not Paris.

It was on the St. James Park side of the Mall and going towards the Admiralty Arch. On your left, you were actually able to see Admiralty Arch.

It was very, very black with age but also because of the ton of moisture-soaked moss. It was covered here with a ton of ivy.

This was interesting because when I had dreamt of Francesca, for the first time, there was a great deal of the same large-leafed ivy on the building. It was a very small circus – pedestrian and not for traffic.

I thought that it felt a great deal like London so decided to take a little walk and went up to cross the mall and go up towards Admiralty Arch.

I wanted to go in that direction, to check to see if I would happen on Trafalgar Square, thereby validating that it was London.

I headed off and soon noticed that there were many people in the city and a bustling city it was too. Everybody was very quietly introspective.

Not too much noise and confusion or clutter. I was zinging with energy for being in this very august city walking very rapidly.

As I was going, I saw a very modern complex. It sat way across, like on the distant side of Trafalgar Square, to the north.

It was very large, very modern and of a very unusual design. A lot of glass, steel and green chrome and very polished brass and not gold.

*Incidentally, in time, London, England would know just such a building. It is the egg-shaped London City Hall. However, here in the dream as it laid incubating in the architect’s creative imagination, it was lots of dark, soulful, green chrome and brass. The latter is, however, not part of the actualised schema. END.

**The building is actually the Swiss Re or Gherkin Tower not the London City Hall. END.

When I was leaving the pedestrian place, I had turned around and looked in the direction of Buckingham Palace. There, I saw a perfect, perfect, tiny chapel like Sainte Chapelle in Paris. However, this one was even smaller.

As was like Sainte Chapelle, it was as if for the exclusive use of royalty. It was in the Gothic style and with a very tall spire. It was so squat to the ground that it almost seemed like it was a hut more than a cathedral. Nonetheless, it was very Gothic.

In fact, it more so resembled those gold-spired Buddhist temples in Bangkok that are very dome-shaped with very, very tall spires. This chapel’s spire was way taller than the chapel was. This chapel was also white limestone – more appropriately, it was white marble.

I was going along the street and looking up at the buildings to try and make them out as I went. Sometimes I would even have to step off the curb, briefly going into the street, to get a good look at the buildings.

It was so cluttered here that it reminded me of the crowdedness of the environs of the Hippodrome. As I was going along, I noticed up ahead a tall, modern building that was blue.

It was as tall as the post office tower in London but bluer, even skinnier and easily taller. Behind that in the distance, in all that fog, I could then make out what seemed the CN tower.

I thought then and there,

‘What city is this anyway, London? Bangkok? Toronto? After all Toronto can’t be that close to London.’

I knew that it clearly couldn’t have been London, England. It was so very modern on the other side of the road and looked very North American.

As I had earlier, I then looked off to the left. This time I was way on the other side of the Mall, well beyond heading into Soho and past Trafalgar Square, heading as if up towards Piccadilly Circus.

There, I saw a very interesting sight. What I now saw was a duplicate cathedral of the Gothic spired shrine that lorded where Buckingham Palace ought to have been. This one was made of white gold and was glimmering in the light even though it was foggy.

It was therefore not a blinding reflection of the Sun. It was zinging with a life all its own. It was absolutely magnetic. I thought,

‘Well, darlings, you’re definitely not in Kansas.’

I then decided that I would go off. I really wanted to go explore the other side of the river. I wanted to be able to see Diana Ross. If not, I thought that I could go into the mall close by to try and find out what city this was.

I just wanted to explore the place. Even more, what place was this where the predominant signature here architecturally was deco? However, all was very modern with very deco lines to everything.

I went off and when I went into the mall, there was a restaurant that I went into. It was green on the inside with depictions of plants everywhere and a lot of white. There were as well waiters in green and white uniforms.

It was like a fast-food joint. I recalled this man saying that he was a vegetarian and he wanted to know if they did not have anything that he could have. He was stout and White.

There were these doors that led out into a beautiful, little, enclosed garden which was too Zen for words. I decided to go out to drink up its beauty.

I also wanted to know if I couldn’t use it as a shortcut to wherever the bridge was. I wanted to get to Diana Ross’s private bridge. Finally, it was all that I wanted to see. I was, however, having problems getting the door to open.

Finally, when someone was coming in, I went out the door. I had not made an effort to buy anything. It was a burger joint and a very posh upscale one at that.

When you left the eatery, by going through the back, it was in a park that was off from the street. It was very, very beautiful here. I wandered my way through it enjoying its large sycamores and other trees.

There were lots of heavy, old-wooded trees. It was very expansive and healthy here. I went around and came upon this very huge building. It was a very, very exclusive and expensive hotel.

There was another tiny, little private street. It was one which celebrities used to access the hotel when staying there. The entrance was for celebrities and, of course, royalty.

This was so that they could not be bothered out front, on the busy thoroughfare, and have to deal with the nuisance of the paparazzi.

It was a white hotel of the same stone and looked as the buildings in Whitehall, London. A very, very big and colossal building it was.

I went around and all you saw were well-healed people coming and going from the hotel. They were all Black and very, very wealthy.

They looked very much so like Black Americans rather than Black Africans or Black Europeans or West Indians. They were also in the entertainment business. They were very much so musicians in the Jazz genre.

There was a very tall, High-Yellow woman. She looked a lot like Stephanie Dabney – former prima ballerina with the Dance Theatre of Harlem. She was older and had an entourage with her.

She had a whole load of suitcases and equipment as she awaited her ride. There was a beautiful, black, convertible Porsche that was seated there.

Diana Ross’s son was in a yellow shirt and shorts. The shirt was very bright yellow with a little floral design on it. He was standing there looking much older than he is in real life.

He was looking at the car admiringly smiling at it and you knew that he wanted one. You could tell that he just wanted to get into it and drive it. It was Ross and you could see the definite resemblance to both her and him – his parents – in his face.

There were tons of security people as well as porters in navy-blue uniforms. The porters’ was almost like a cadet’s uniform with gold stripes around the sleeves and gold buttons. They wore hats; it was all very soigné and posh.

The musicians were very soulful, well-travelled, Black American, Jazz musicians. They were very tall with distinctive features. Theirs were faces that looked more iconically like African masks than anything else.

I then got going along not wanting to be seen gawking at anyone. That was when I noticed another woman who turned out, in fact, to have been a much younger version of Betty Carter.

It was her and she also had an entourage of her own though one not as big as the other woman’s. I saw her with a man. Studying her right profile as she was talking, I intently looked at her.

However, I declined going over and interacting with her. She was very well-fortified spiritually and did not want to be a celebrity. She wanted to be left alone. That much was obvious.

I went along and you could hear the river which was off to the right and the hotel was on the left of the tiny, little, private road. To the right were all these heavy, big trees on this private road.

It basically was on the embankment of the river where there was a terrace with steps that led down to the River Thames with these huge, colossal trees that lined the top of the cliff.

You had to meander down the old, stone staircase which was, of course, dank and mossy. There were different, little landings on the way down to the dark, fast-flowing and swollen river far below.

The further down you went, the greater the vista as more of the overhanging trees were out of distracting view and gave a better view of the very, very wide and commanding river. It was noisy but very soothingly so.

When I got down to the first landing who should I see, off to the left in a corner, but Tina Turner. She wore high heels, a skirt and a suit.

It was supposedly an Azzadine Alaïa. It was a powder-grey, pinstriped suit and so powder-grey, in fact, that it was almost silver. She was, indeed, looking fine.

It matched the exact colour of her hair which here was grey. She had it pulled back off her face and wore a blue band from ear-to-ear that kept her mane back in place.

It was a beautiful, soothing, blue colour with tons of jewels throughout it. It was not a mandarin collar. Rather, it was a small-lapelled suit which was buttoned high up almost to the neck.

She was searching through her bag and was with a couple of men. These men were a part of her entourage.

She was standing there having just left the hotel where she had been received, along with the other luminaries, by Diana Ross who was holding court.

This beautiful place was where Diana Ross was staying now. She had had Tina Turner and the others by for tea – very formal. Tina Turner had come out to wait for her ride but had slipped down onto the landing on the terrace to talk with these men.

When I saw her my spirits soared and I graciously said,

“Hello Tina…”

I clasped my hands in the Buddhist prayer manner and added,

“…How are you? Kuon Ganjo…” at that I bowed to her as I walked by.

She was on my left and I did not want to stop and interrupt her. By not stopping, I wanted her to be at ease and not feel her space being invaded by a proprietary fan.

She was in conversation, however, warmly smiled at me being very polite and appreciative. I was pleased that here was another celebrity and she was not being rude.

She was being reverential in return and appreciative by way of the reference that I made to our both being Buddhists. She smiled acknowledging me, to which I awkwardly added, as I was so stunned that she would acknowledge me let alone be so warm,

“And god bless…”

She thanked me.

I then went and looked over the edge. The view from the terrace was so breathtakingly gorgeous.

Listening to the music of the ripened river was like the same resonant rapture I experienced when, on the embankment in London, England, I saw the River Thames for the first time in this life. It was quite incredible.

I decided to proceed down and came down to another landing. There were two of the musicians who are presently in Betty Carter’s band – the piano player and the bassist. They were alone together.

I suppose that the man, to whom Betty Carter was talking upstairs on the private road, was the drummer. I thought that it made perfect sense because here were the other two members of the quartet.

They were talking of Tina Turner saying,

“And did you notice that her blouse is a definite Ruth or Louise Browne of Los Angeles.”

This was obviously a very au courrant, very expensive designer. They were very impressed with it. I thought it funny because here were these wonderful, elevated musicians yet they were quite impressed by celebrities.

Then again, they were very young and were just starting out in their very august careers in the business. So, of course, it made a great deal of sense that they should be star-struck.

I admiringly stood there and shyly said hello to them. They warmly, gentlemanly responded.

I then moved off and went to stand facing the mighty river. I was being made high, by all this beauty, having seen all these stellar musicians – these icons of Black culture.

Diana Ross. I saw Betty Carter in this dream. I saw Tina Turner in this dream. These are three very elevated, Jazz singers in their own spheres with all these Jazz musicians.

It was quite a dream indeed and very, very, soulful. It was very definitely on the astral plane because of the feel of it and the nature of it.

The intensity of the dream and the way in which I was so at peace with both nature and persons encountered, for being in this high-astral plane place which was possessed of such harmony, spoke to this being a dream of high moment for me.

When I stood there on the terrace, drinking in the thunderous roar and the healingly soothing, symphony of the River Thames rushing by below, I felt that sense of home and oneness.

It proved to be the end of that particular and very, very intense, involved and most multilayered of dreams.

<O>

It was night time, in the second dream this day. I was in the streets of a place which I did not recognise. There was a woman who was trying to park a very light blue, beautiful, beautiful car. It was more like a station wagon in design.

It turned out to have been Sarah Vaughan – driving the station wagon – who, of course, is now passed on.

It was in a locale that I did not quite recognise at all. Again, the feel here was of being still on the astral plane – not surprising, considering that Sarah Vaughan is now an astral plane habituée.

There were some other cars parked, as well, along that side of the street. It was a very fine car, very heavy-looking. It was almost like a Sherman tank and not a flimsy, little, computer-turned out car. A very sturdy automobile it was.

She was quite meticulously trying to parallel-park the car. She was quite obviously not accustomed to driving herself nor, for that matter, was she particularly comfortable driving.

However, all this was secondary to what was going on because she was singing. She was warming up and by doing so, what she was doing, was singing an aria.

She was singing a male – tenor’s aria from an opera. She was singing away. She had such an incredible voice. Ms. Vaughan’s voice proved a superbly stellar instrument.

I was astounded because here I was standing off to the side watching her try to park the car. I was intently looking at her left profile studying her face, her round shoulders and almost nonexistent neck.

In that sense, she was so much like Harella.

She would sing very heavy-sounding bass and sounded just like a man. Then she would do her vocalesing and slip into a very high-pitched and very complex dimension.

She was hitting high Cs that were just the warm up for where she would take you. I really was transported by her singing. It would be just this wonderful, wonderful vista onto which she would soar taking me along.

Such beautiful, beautiful feats musically that you can’t possibly share here in the waking state – it could only be experienced or articulated in the dreamtime’s pandimensionality. It simply made me soar within. It was quite incredible.

After she had parked the car, it opened. Yvette Morehead came out and went and sat down. She went and sat on a park bench and seemed as if a bag lady or confused.

I never did see Sarah Vaughan come out of the car.

I then moved on… it was just time to move on. I don’t recall, in the least, having interacted with Yvette.

<O>

Art: Africa on her mind.

Graphite on Paper

11 x 14 Inches

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Tantric Transference With Famous Actor (*Adult Content).

23.02.201331.01.2026 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.

________________________________________

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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Slaying the Dragons.

21.02.201331.01.2026 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

The dream in question occurred, on Sunday, June 13, 1993, whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my eleventh house. The dream deals with having the courage to, ever vigilantly, slay the dragon – the racial predator.

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Whilst walking along, I happened on a short line of people waiting for something. In the very back of the line was Johnson Swift – my astrologer. Looking none-too-stylish, he was decked out in chintzy polyester clothing.

Moving up on him, whilst studying his right profile, I energetically called out his name saying hello.

“Oh hi, how are you?” he was very distancing… as well he can be.

I excitedly told him how pleased that I was to have seen him because, as a result of our rendez-vous, my trip to Washington D.C. went quite well. I told him that I was just wrapping up my trip after having dashed up to Manhattan.

I also told him that I decided not to let any of this stuff, my breakup with Gustavo Vadim, get to me.

“I did do the bigger thing by removing myself from it. Instead of staying there, I went off to New York where I ended up having a really good time.

“So anyway, now I’m about to head back to Washington D.C. to catch my flight back to Toronto.

“I’m really, really glad that I saw you. It quite helped…”

“Well, good… good. It’s quite good to hear.”

Seeing that he was intent on ignoring me, I abruptly took my leave of him. We had been outside on a narrow road that seemed set somewhere in an Old World country.

*In the waking state, I had changed my original flight itinerary from Washington D.C. to Toronto, instead to from LaGuardia to Toronto after heading for Babylon from Washington D.C. After leaving Gustavo and all that dross behind, I had no desire to return to Washington D.C. anytime soon. END.

The second dream had me arriving in an open area where I noticed lots of Black persons around. Men and women, for the most part, they did seem to be African-Americans.

They did have guns which they used in the rapid exchange of gunfire. I never did personally feel in danger since none of this violence had been directed my way.

I knew that I did, nonetheless, have to protect myself. After having decided that this was not a place where I would want to be, either in the waking state or here in the dreamtime, I desperately made my way from there.

Soon enough, these extremely large doglike creatures came on the scene. They were dark-brown-to-black in colour. Two of them, however, were red.

They were as if astral plane projections of souls who wanted to shift their appearances so as to appear noticeable yet unrecognisable. There was simply no way to get around the fact that these were intelligent creatures of reason.

One of the creatures leapt from where it was, unprovoked, and launched into a harrowing attack of a group of kids. The children had been playing by themselves nearby, however, they were not disturbing anyone either.

Infuriated, I leapt onto the creature without a moment’s hesitation and proceeded to beat and kick it. I ripped at it trying to pry it off the children in coming to their defence.

I was quite the warrior-spirited taskmaster when coming to the aid of the vulnerable children. I was not to be messed with; mine was a real maternal instinct.

My response was much as one would expect of a mother in defence of her newborn. With a longer neck than normally any dog’s neck would be, the creature seemed to be a dragon.

It was most bizarre and aggressive. A ferocious, deadly creature it was. At the time, the child being mauled was White – his race ultimately was a non sequitur. We were both human; I had been a child once and just as vulnerable.

The child – humankind – had done nothing to provoke this attack and for that I would kill this beast using sheer force of will. These beautiful children, who had been recently loved and now reincarnated to make their way in the world, needed me.

No one deserved to have their futures interfered with like this and for that I was a frightening foe. Whilst struggling with the groaning creature, I noticed another across the way. Whilst seated there, it was being very manipulative.

I intuitively knew that much of what transpired between the creature and me, with whom I struggled, was being directed by the other dragon-like creature across the piazza. Grabbing a sharpened pair of shears that were nearby, I hurled it through the air at the one engaged in mind games.

My will fiercely focussed on the pair of shears, I directed it through the air with increasing speeds. Before the red dragon-like creature could even react, the shears as intended had stabbed it in the chest which like the rest of the body was covered in an inch-long fur.

My rage still directed on the creature, I caused the shears to rip down its chest. Instantaneously, it began gushing blood everywhere. The creature acted as any stunned creature of reason would: it suddenly became terrified at the realisation that it was going to die.

Terrified, it began protesting, its waning breath struggling in the throes of death.

Some of the Black persons, who were all armed, came over at this point. Much to my surprise, they were genuinely upset. They were so enraged that they started heading for me because I had attacked the creatures with which they were clearly aligned.

Whilst still struggling with the creature beneath me, I gutturally shuddered and swept my arm at them sending them a massive wave of impenetrable energy.

The invisible wave of light energies swept over them and stunned them in their tracks. After momentary paralysis, they came to and cowered and thereafter took noisy flight from the open square.

In one last violent move, I impatiently grabbed the creature beneath me by its neck. With a vexed shudder, I sent the predator beneath my enraged body hurling through the air.

It crumpled to the ground. It was close to where the other, whose chest I had magically ripped open with the shears directed across the way, which now lay quite dead.

Looking down at the child, a dark-haired boy, I sent him a ton of energies knowing that he would be alright. He did just then, looking pretty much like a ragdoll, simply spring to life as a result of my transference to him of loving, healing, light energies.

Drained and infuriated, I turned and walked away. I simply did not want to be a part of a dream which had such dark and violent magus energies about it. I don’t like energies like these.

This was no way to be focussing my magus energies. Resolved about my role in the matter, I kept on walking away never looking back.

*The one consolation was in knowing that the children would be protected from harm. Indeed, those who had fiercely loved them and lost them in their former lives had their prayers of their loved one’s safety in the beyond protected.

Of course, this was a future which included their current lifetimes and therefore the immediate future lifetime for their loved ones left behind END.

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Photo: Phantasm Books Phantasmbooks.wordpress.com

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The Dreamer Awakens.

16.02.201330.01.2026 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

This dream occurred, on Monday, December 7, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both my twelfth house – appropriately enough – and Taurus. Merlin my mentor had initiated in me the task of coming into my own and becoming the awakened warrior.

Here was I, dream magus, awakened warrior displaying my power – bonding with nature and bonding with the very force itself. Said dream was the first experienced in exquisite lucidity in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day.

A yard at late twilight when morning breaks, rather than the indeterminate light that pervades astral plane dreams, was the setting for this dream. It seemed pretty much like the backyard of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house.

I was in a tree that looked like a giant bugweed. I stepped out onto one of its branches. Whilst simultaneously in the body and astrally projected, somehow, I could see myself from behind and above.

This dream began as I boldly, in mid-stride, walked towards the large soulful tree. Here, I had incredibly long hair and it was totally white.

The snow-white mane went down to the small of my back. Mine – it was no absurd weave. Full and luscious, it was a massive mane that handsomely flared out.

Here, I met the dream magus within. I held a staff which was very wonderful. It was made of a tanned polished wood. As if something that Bill Reid would bring forth from the depths of his creative genius, it was a very sculptural staff.

Like a totem, the staff had lots of symbols throughout its length. In some of the grooves, there were several large crystals with some of various colours. Like Merlin did, in our first dream encounter of 1978^I, I wore a long, white flowing robe that billowed in the wind.

Whilst radiating much of my inner light, I was very regal. This was a moment of stellar beauty; too, the sight of myself empowered blew me away. It was so humbling.

I had a long beard and drooping moustache. It was also white and considerably longer than Merlin’s facial hair ever was. As a matter of fact, it was like the flowing, wispy beards of some Japanese and East Asian holy men.

On going out to the edge of the branch, I stabbed my staff into the tree and let out a war cry. Almost immediately thereafter, a fierce wind picked up. It was gale-forced.

The sky became blackened with mushrooming, heavy grey clouds. The branch, on which I stood, was no more than four feet off the ground. The winds were so fierce that it felt as though I were out to sea.

I regally stayed my ground as though the captain at the bow of a galleon – one being swept by fierce waves.

Whilst anchored on the branch, all I held on to was the staff. With my free hand, I held on to a branch on the left – of course, the branches moved with a life of their own.

The tree was partially submerged in the gut that bordered the back of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts property. Looking across the gut, I had been facing due north.

The winds were so fierce that I could never see to the other side of the gut. What’s more, it was a much wider gorge than Crab Hill’s. Besides which, I had no time to project that far.

For one thing, the winds were too fierce and for another, the task of staying atop this branch proved far too demanding. This wind was fiercer than anything I had ever experienced.

The saving grace of it all was that it was not, thankfully, a wintry wind. The funny thing about the whole experience was that I had called forth the elements to energise my being.

So in tune with nature was I, I was able to summon the gale-force winds at will. I wished to align with nature’s empowering, life-sustaining energies. I was fiercely enjoying the charge from it screaming aloud and becoming transfixed.

It truly was as if being stationary whilst flying at hyper-speeds in an upright position. Thus there was the dual sense of being not only on the high seas but also as if riding on a magic carpet.

There was one point that, as I screamed into the wind, I immediately then saw my face from above. Whilst simultaneously astral-projected, I was looking down into my face as I looked up into the billowing clouds.

Beyond those clouds, there was some spectacular planet-being; it was much like the one that I thrillingly encountered in the dream earlier this year, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992.

This was quite an exhilarating experience. I felt a massive surge of energy flowing through the staff and into me. The staff was marvellously potent.

The look of the staff was a mélange of the creative geniuses of the artists, Bill Reid, Antoni Gaudí and Erté. A very shamanic, magical totem it was.

My face was so high-foreheaded and timeworn. A face that had spanned several millennia, to date, it certainly was. More than that, there they were my familiar, papaya-seed-succulent brown eyes. Here, they were large, supra-dilated eyes.

Looking down, I noticed that the branch was no more than eight inches across. This had caused me to passingly fear having to lose my balance and falling.

Having the staff I was, however, quite anchored.

I was grounded within the eye of the storm itself. Though there was no lightning, there was a definite sense that a great deal of potent magic was exploding in back of the ominous clouds.

I had a ton of energy. I was a fierce, spiritual warrior-spirited shaman.

*Indeed, the dream magus was awakened. This was the most beautiful experience to have had – to have drunk of my very soul itself. Though an older version of myself in this lifetime, this shamanic dream magus was also a mélange of the two shamans whom I had been in previous lives.

These two shamans were encountered in the dreams of Sunday, April 25, 1993 and the other shaman in the dreams of Sunday, April 10, 1993. There was something about my face, in this dream, which was informed by the look and vibration of both the shamans encountered in these two prior dreams.

The first shaman, a past life of mine, had lived in French Guyana at the colonial fortress and cared for the community. Additionally, he tended to monkeys and sloths.

The other was a West African shaman and also a definite past life of mine. He, of course, took to this cocoon-like mould which was hung in trees when questing. I had seen both their eyes and immediately recognised them as former selves of mine in past lives.

Dreams truly are the poetry of the Soul. END.

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Photo: Angel oak tree.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: Astral plane dreams

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Tantric Transference With Famous Actor (*Adult Content).

The Dreamer Awakens.