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

01.04.201707.12.2024 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.

21.11.201404.12.2024 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

https://www.facebook.com/pages/OJBS-Graphite-Drawings/146413642144679?fref=photo

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Sequential Dreams of Winged, Simian Mammalian Extra-Humans.

05.03.201323.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

I was in a house at night time and in a bedroom that was upstairs. It was really a lot like the house at 122 Mortimer Avenue but wasn’t that house.

It also seemed like Amie Tothmanner’s house at Farm’s Site, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. The old sprawling bungalow was elevated off the street in the front.

Isis da Braga hurriedly came to me and told me that she had seen some extra-humans outside. She was somewhat panicked but I told her not to be upset. By the news of extra-humans, I was really calmed and warmed.

I got up and was really excited but not on the verge of panic. We went back to the rear of the house and looked out. Just then, there was a beautiful rain downpour. The rain was just so heavy and so gorgeous.

I stood there drinking in the rain’s healing beauty. I loved listening to it and in time I was enraptured. It was rather grey and balmy. We waited and waited as the rains fell. It was, indeed, really nice.

She then began giving me a description of what the extra-humans looked like. They were Black she had said.

Later, after the rainfall, I went out to the street to head up towards Crab Hill and our house. It was then that I had encountered a lone extra-human in the street.

The EH was across from Amie Tothmanner’s and between Adam Procopp’s and the Sandy Point Public Market. They were of a different species from the ones that had evolved here on Earth.

Our souls had chosen to evolve here from simian mammals. However, that group of souls had chosen a totally different species into which to have incarnated and evolve.

Nonetheless, they were also simian mammalians. They had large, large, beautiful soulful eyes which bespoke the fact that they had been evolving in that race millions of years longer than we had here, on Earth, in the race of simian mammals chosen in excess of four million years ago.

They were a very ancient, very aged race. They also had mouths that were O-shaped and, when they spoke, it took a bit of getting used to the mechanics of their speech. Basically, their mouths worked vertically as opposed to our horizontally familiar arrangement – thus making them O-shaped.

The faces were extremely tiny and delicate-looking. These people were also very short – between 4.5 and 5.0 feet tall – and thus appeared very squat. Their torsos were very thick; barrel-chested, this made them appear even more so squat.

Their limbs, however, were very long and rakish. The legs were very skinny and set wide apart, at the top, in their unusually wide hips. These soulful extra-humans did not wear clothes.

The extra-human stood there perfectly naked and not the least bit self-conscious. Their skin was so very dark and rich that it did not matter that they were naked.

There were also no genitals discernible because, up past labiate folds, both men and women had their sex hidden. It was also customary, I had intuited, for both males and females to have changed their sex during the course of the life experience.

This was a process as natural as pubescence but which occurred later in the life experience for them. This sex change by the way occurred at least once.

When the males of that species became aroused then their impressive sex descended past their extensive labiate folds. I saw all this, as I had intuited, in a rapidly progressive inner vision. It was very interesting.

A great deal of space sat at the top of the legs, in both sexes, which was really unisexed when you think of it. The arms and legs were disproportionately long and sported a lot of cable-like veins.

The arms and legs were very thin and so birdlike that it actually looked like they had suffered rigor mortis and had lost all the fluids in their limbs. Very dried-up-looking, ancient and parched, they looked, as though they were a desert-dwelling people.

They looked as though no moisture had ever touched their skin. Very, very interesting arrangement their life experience was.

One other thing about these extra-human persons was the fact that they could, at will, grow these wonderful gossamer wings. Just like a spider could produce web, at will, so too could they have created a web-like wing which they could also use for transportation means.

They, too, could unfold these silken gossamer-looking wings. They unfolded from their wrists, up to their armpits then down again, all the way down to their squat-torsoed, broad hips.

Immediately on having seen the wings unfold, I realised the purpose for such squat, barrel-chested torsos. I also realised then that their thin-boned limbs were not unlike a bird’s – they simply had no feathers.

They would simply hunch their broad, bony shoulders placing the arms by their sides and begin secreting this temporary wing system. It came, on closer inner-visioned inspection, from these labiate folds.

The fold system extended the length of the inside of their arms from the wrist, to the armpits then down the torso, to just above the wide hips. I was able to get this inner vision because it was being telepathically shared with me by the very soulfully warm, male extra-human.

Using this secreted membrane, the otherworldly simian mammals were thus able to fly. Here in the dreamtime, this was a truly remarkable discovery to have made.

I instinctively knew why they were there in the dreamtime. I knew that they were not come to Earth to interfere with anybody.

“Isis, this is a dream. They are here, in the dreamtime, just like I travel to different worlds. So too can they travel, in the dreamtime, here from another world.”

Thus I was very accommodating to this extra-human. I was very friendly and nice to him by opening both my arms, lowered, in a wide-open embrace and poured a ton of love from my solar plexus and directed it right into him.

I telepathically explained to him, as he had communicated with me, that I knew that he was here because he had travelled in a dream. He understood and accepted my Love.

I told him that I too had been to other worlds myself. I assured him that he was quite welcome to be here on Earth and that I hoped he had a good time whilst here.

I was being an ambassador to him. He really did appreciate the warmth that I had extended him. I continued on and told him that he should have no trouble being here. I told him that it would be reasonable to expect some people to be afraid at the sight of him.

However, I reminded him that he was at an advantage because he could always take flight with his gossamer wings. I knew full well that, even though this was the dreamtime, most Earthlings encountered therein are so somnambulant when awake in the waking state that they then progressed into the dreamtime just as asleep.

Thus they could not have been expected to know that, whilst in the dreamtime, they too had the capacity to fly at will. He could easily escape from these people, if they were to grow fearful and were to try and upset him.

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The preceding dream occurred, on Sunday, November 25, 1990, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house. This dream is one which I refer to as a starfaring dream because it involved a dream encounter with an ensouled creature of reason, an extra-human individual, who was visiting Earth during the dreamtime.

As there are only two forces in the universe, there are therefore only one of two ways to perceive any and everything. There is also only one of two ways to respond to one’s perceptions: either from a place of love or from a place of fear.

These two forces, love and fear, are the two constants which span time and space and which resonate throughout the cosmos. Since I was fully lucid and self-aware in this dream, I fully accepted that the being encountered was ensouled and an extra-human who was visiting Earth.

Why should he not have been visiting Earth, much as I do visit other worlds, through the expediency of the dreamtime? I chose to both perceive and interact, with the extra-human visiting Earth’s astral plane, from a place of love.

Of course, for having taken the long lonely journey with Merlin, I was thereafter in a state of harmony for learning the greatest of lessons – human compassion. Had it not been for what Merlin and I had achieved together, during the long eighteen months of his end-of-life illness, I could not have responded to the extra-human in the dreamtime as I did.

I related to him exactly as I would have wanted to be, both perceived and engaged, were I an extra-human in his world’s astral plane experienced during the dreamtime’s expediency. The dreamtime has the ability to afford one a range and depth of experiences which can be had by no other means.

For having been both loving, open and accepting of the extra-human visitor in the dreamtime, as the next dream reveals, I was able to visit with this extra-human’s species on their nascent home planet. It was one of the most beautiful and lucid dream experiences ever had.

The following starfaring dream occurred in exquisite and ecstatic lucidity, on Saturday, December 29, 1990, whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house. This dream was a complement to the preceding dream and resulted after my having been open, compassionate and loving towards the visiting extra-human. It was sequential dream which was born of the dream encounter with the extra-human in the dream streets of Sandy Point, St. Kitts a month earlier.

The following dream visitation deftly illustrates that to give of self, to be open, to be accepting and acting of love is the portal to a more enriched life experience.

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I found myself very lucidly awakened in a very strange world. I was very high up on a canyon wall. On the left side of the entrance, to be exact, to the canyon was I.

There was a metropolis way down inside the abyss of the canyon. Inside, it was easily in excess of five miles deep – much deeper than anything we have here on Earth.

In the bottom of the abyss, at the centre, was a mount which itself was quite tall but from these heights seemed otherwise. What it was like, in fact, was an inverted Machu Pichu because on this mount’s towering peak was a wonderful old metropolis.

This beautiful complex metropolis was still very much so alive. Down to the left, down in the far section, was a beautiful, long landing strip. This entrance to the canyonned metropolis, way at the top, was not very wide.

At least from afar, it looked that way. The scale here was so much more massive than anything comparable on Earth that it did take awhile to figure it all out.

There were planes which did come into the canyonned metropolis. They were not like planes as we know them here on Earth. There was one that was approaching to land. It was silver and more than a block long – rather impressive.

It had a wingspan that was not unlike a Concorde’s but it was much more extensive and began further to the rear of the craft. Making it seem sentient in that sense, this jetliner was going very, very slowly.

Rather than air, it appeared to be moving through a densely aqueous medium. It seemed like a whale that was just leisurely cruising. It was very, very majestic.

However, one did get the sense that this craft had the capacity to do faster-than-light speeds. More than that, the craft very well could possibly travel intergalactically or interdimensionally.

There were, as well, other kinds of planes. As though made of cellophane, they had wings that were seemingly transparent. Some were like a dragonfly’s wings, they were also double-winged, not unlike some of the earlier aeroplanes that did combat duty during World Wars I and II.

These wings were whirring, actually creature-like, flapping so rapidly that they almost seemed not to have been moving. This was how these planes propelled themselves rather than by using propeller systems.

What was interesting about this was that there was some sort of wind disturbance in the canyon. This was what presently prevented the planes from properly approaching to land.

Even though it was very large because it was still a confined space – canyonned – the canyon was closed off at the other end. Thus the wind currents that came in, deep down inside, made it possible for the planes to move quite slowly and as if at will gently riding the air currents circling all the way down to safely land.

As that location of the near-sealed canyon best facilitated liftoffs and landings, the landing strips were off in that corner. Deep inside the canyon, the trapped winds always circulated in a set pattern and rotated always in the same direction.

However, here in this dream, it was dark and moist. The sky, which was very distantly removed, was overcast. The entrance was wide but from the distance, as I had made my approach in flight, did not at all seem that way.

My approach was in a small, glass-fronted space shuttle that could easily have been an interstellar craft. It was not unlike the space shuttle I took with Pandora da Braga in that interstellar flight, on September 9, 1989.

On arriving, the entrance was actually quite wide. It was colossal, in fact, and could easily have accommodated the Concorde-like craft that I had seen way down below. The entrance was a few blocks wide but from afar it did not seem so at all.

This very impressive entrance, to the canyon, was in excess of twenty storeys probably closer to fifty. To get to this entrance, I had been travelling in a little gorge which seemed very deep.

There it was very lush, wet and a riotous tropical forest. Lots of impressively massive arboreal species were present there. Very intensely alive and richly hued, of various tonalities, were the arboreal gems.

However, that was not even the half of it. As soon as one cleared the seemingly narrow entrance to the canyon, one was posited into this beautifully breathtaking panorama of the canyonned Metropolis.

It was a drop that was miles and miles down to the seemingly tiny, little mount, with the Machu Pichu-like metropolis, which was very much so alive and occupied.

Here the race of sentient beings was dark-skinned and long-haired. They were jet-black-haired like the Amerindians of Machu Pichu. These, however, were a very, very black-skinned and tiny people in stature.

This was very much so a living civilisation. As we had approached, I noticed that on either side of the colossal entrance to the canyon was a boulevard of stately landscaped trees.

The canyon’s rock face was quite carved out with a lot of architectural leitmotifs. There were hieroglyphs as in Egypt but in an altogether different sensibility.

The sweep of the architecture was very organic. As if massively pressurised and moved during glacial activity, it was essentially the multi-millennial motion of stone.

It was the capture of the perpetual, timeless slow movement of stone which, somehow, this august civilisation had managed to have captured and quite ingeniously so. For looking at this architecture, one had a sense of movement.

All in one inspiring movement, it was very magnetic, gravitationally-oppressive and groundingly uplifting. In fact, this movement was still discernible in the lines of the architecture.

One had the sense of this architecturally being more so along the lines of Antoni Gaudí† in a Gaian reference.

Next I was outside of the craft, on the left bank or chasm of the canyon. It proved, in fact, to have been the left wall of the canyon. I had looked to my left where the stone was grey but, somehow, it seemed to have been that colour because it was reflecting the clouds in the sky.

Here it was very windy, wet and very turbulent. This was why, in fact, I had gotten out of the craft that I was in. The craft had circled a couple of times but we weren’t able to land.

There were some other travellers, aboard the shuttle craft with me, none of whom I knew or recognised. Thus we had been dropped off, up near the entrance, to wait out the turbulent windstorm which was definitely not a rainstorm.

I had managed my way onto this little ledge and noticed, more closely, that the rock was inordinately sculpted. There were lots of intricate architectural designs, even here at this nondescript-seeming ledge, which was a mere outcropping in the canyon wall.

At this intimate proximity to the architecture, there was a greater sense of the sweeping motion of this rock. It was not just intricate curved architectural shapes that were simply vertical or arrested as in classical Greek or Roman architecture.

This was, in fact, even beyond the aliveness of Gothic architecture in its superior spirituality. It was truly living art. It was Gaudí-like but more than Antoni Gaudí’s style.

It would seem that Antoni Gaudí was, in the dreamtime or at a deeper level of the soul from past reincarnational cycles, impressed by this living architectural style.

Antoni Gaudí was impressed by this style but what he was able to have realised, in this dimension’s waking state, was a feeble emulation of this style’s superior refinement and movement.

Nonetheless, at least Antoni Gaudí was able to have developed or bring forth these ideas and moved them along parallel to similar lines here on Earth.

This was clearly in a different dimension so that it was more alive than Antoni Gaudí’s creative genius has realised. It was simply living architecture.

On having precariously found myself out on a limb, as it were, I began growing fearful. I had noticed that the reason why we couldn’t have landed was because of the very turbulent storm, which churned at breakneck violent speeds, dizzying miles way below at the mount’s peak and even further below that.

It turned out that because there was nothing but wind currents in this canyon, the civilisation was subjected – from time to time – to these incredible windstorms. During these times of great turbulence, it was impossible to have gotten out.

Luckily a man came along and came to my rescue. He had been part of the travelling party with which I had arrived. Although I can’t now recall his race whether human or not, however, if he had been then I am certain that he was White.

He was ridiculously tall and Nordic and decidedly hyper-hirsute, on the arms, which I had noticed as he had reached out to me. Not unlike the claims of the Nordics, extra-humans who currently frequent Earth, was he.

There were some persons aboard this craft who did not fit either the human or this civilisation’s notion of the familiar native beau idéal. In other words, this was a very cosmopolitan, interstellar travelling party.

He was an older man who was tall, lean, rakish and very noble of spirit. When extending his hand to me, he had sought to draw me away from making a mess of things. For having noticed the violent storm way below, I had become focussed on my fears.

He was concerned about me for having been seated alone out on the tiny ledge of outcropping rock. Even at this level, so high up, it was already getting increasingly windy.

There were constant gusts of wind, out of the cavernous canyon, making their way up. These winds only kept on getting more and more powerful.

It was actually possible to see the currents’ advancing ascent because of the way that they barrelled over all the signs of life in their path.

Though this was a barren-walled canyon, on which the civilisation was principally centred, the mount was covered with lush vegetation. There, it was very terraced and beautifully landscaped.

All around the mount, which was sunken in an inner gorge, were mountains with lush vegetation and they towered even higher than the central Machu Pichu-like peak.

It was this encircling mountain range that concavely sloped up about the central peak, to eventually meet the sheer rock face of the canyon, which had served as the agricultural belt of the civilisation.

It was a totally self-perpetuating biospheric system. The plant life, on the encircling mountain range, was a very lush rainforest that was always mist-shrouded which teamed with dense, self-perpetuating life.

In essence, it was the lungs of the civilisation. The mountain plants provided all the fresh oxygen that the entrapped metropolis, buried way below in the belly of the canyon, so desperately needed. This organic encircling mountain range was what kept the air, in the canyon, from becoming dead and stale.

It recycled the air at those depths and kept the civilisation and its extra-humans alive. It was a warm, moist, very humid rainforest. This was a very healthy, densely oxygenated, clean civilisation. Very organic and in tune with nature was this place.

It was a temperate humidity with a fine spray of mist that was humid and as cool as, I suspect from what I have heard, Hong Kong is in its cooler months.

All the way along, above the vegetation line where the encircling mountains sloped outward to join the rock face, I noticed a series of wonderful portals that seemed haphazardly placed.

They were these O-shaped openings which led inside to the living quarters of this civilisation’s citizens. Just before crawling into one and to safety with the extra-tall, White extra-human male’s kindly help, I had noticed this.

They were a different species altogether. These portals were quite unique in design. They had the same swirling sense of motion to them as the rock face and architecture. They were opal-shaped with some larger than others.

These were incredibly beautiful yet simple abodes. They were as if an air bubble that had been halved, when someone had archeologically sliced through the rock, creating the canyonned wall.

Thus the portals had created the effect of air bubbles, in motion, in any direction that the rock’s pressurised motion had taken them. There was a lot of bas relief around the portals to the abodes’ entrances.

The face of the canyon was brown-to-grey-coloured and very much so totally, architecturally designed. What was very interesting here was that, when the man who had come and given me a hand as I had been clinging on terror-struck onto the large sculptural stone pillar, those pillars were much like those oversized pillars in the film Legend, starring, Tom Cruise.

He had guided me around two pillars that were similar to those in the aforementioned film. As I had been quite close to falling and perishing, cause for concern was understandable.

At the time I had thought,

‘My god, what if I fall? I am not like the citizens here in this civilisation of their dimension.’

This, I thought, even though lucidly aware that I was dreaming and therefore imbued with the ability to fly in the dreamtime. The fact is that these citizens, though simian-stocked like we humans are, were shorter extra-humans.

It was the same extra-humans race, one of whom I encountered in the streets of Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts, in the interspecies, starfaring dream encounter on November 25, 1990, which inhabited this far-off civilisation to which I have starfared.

As a result, here was I paying a visit to the home world from which that dreaming, spacefaring extra-human had originated. It was as though, for having been accepting of this interdimensional, ensouled dream traveller, I was then welcome and open to have made the transit to his dimension and reciprocally experience his world.

Indeed, the simple eloquence of causality validated here. For having lovingly accepted this visitor’s soul quality, I would have the universe repay me with a voyage to his home world’s richness of spirit. This world seemed to be situated in another dimension.

Perhaps, it may even have been here on this particular planet in another time. Perhaps, this extra-human civilisation predated us – here on Earth – by some three million years or one and one half million years ago.

It was, however, an evolutionary path along which humanity branched off or one in which humanity exists pursuing a probable reality – one wherein we have the capacity of flight. Here was I enjoying a visitation dream to this wonderful lush, lush world of theirs.

Merely all that the people had to do, who lived in these portalled abodes in the canyon wall, was leap from the portal entrance of their caved dwellings to take flight. As a result of the constant wind currents, inside the partially sealed canyon, they were able to ride the circulating wind currents down to the rest of the canyon-city below.

For that matter, they could just as easily ride these wind currents, back up to their dwellings in the canyon wall. It would not have been difficult for them to have ascended from the metropolis mount way down in the canyon.

They simply glided when in flight, for the most part, since the winds here were so heavy and controlled. When they wanted to ride a particular wind current, however, they would have to energetically flap their wings to get into the groove of the particular current.

There was a great sense of beauty to these creatures as they were constantly gliding when in flight. Wherever you looked, there were extra-human persons effortlessly gliding through the air in winged flight.

The air currents that circled on the periphery of the canyon were the cooler currents. Those air currents were exclusively used when descending from the dwelling portals down to the mount, the valley and agricultural encircling mountains below.

Near the centre, above the agrimountains and the central Machu Pichu-like mount, the heats generated enabled the winged simians to ascend and circle upwards – like soulful eagles coasting upwards in circling flight – en route back to their portalled canyon dwellings.

They were simply majestic, when in flight, like a race of ensouled cranes. Each much resembled an eagle, with its wings spread, slowly soaring through the air.

There was such beauty to their movement for it was so slow, timeless and graceful. You could keenly sense them navigating their way through the crosscurrents and constantly measuring the wind currents.

Going up was simply beautiful because all they would have to do was arch their backs. With wings not fully extended, pulled forward towards and ahead of them, they would ride one of the warm air currents. They would be arched up and back. It was simply incredible to have witnessed this.

There was such utter beauty to their graceful lives. I was simply inspired and moved beyond belief.

At the entrance to the canyon, there was always a fierce, cool wind current that came in off the lush, canopied rainforest. It then spilled into the canyon and fell, immediately circling the periphery of the near-circular canyon on its way to the bottom.

It was interesting to fathom how these wind currents were used. If one wanted to get to the very built-up metropolis, at the peak of the Machu Pichu-like mount, one had to ride the winds down further than the top of the peak.

One then moved away from the periphery of the canyon, which at that level was the sloped up encircling mountain range, thereby entering the warm updraughts. Thus one was then able to soar one’s way back up towards the central mount’s peak or anywhere on its incline to the top.

Conversely, when returning from the peak way below to one’s portalled dwelling in the rock face, one rode the warm currents for considerably higher than the level of the portal to the desired dwelling. Then, as below, the shift was made circling outwards to catch the downward circulation of cooler winds.

Thus one got down to the desired portal on the periphery of the counterbalanced wind currents. This was a truly marvellous and orderly mode of travelling. Everywhere that one looked, there were innumerable winged extra-humans gracefully circling. They were either going upwards or flying downwards.

Looking down to the canyon floor below, I could see the effects of the turbulent storms from the way trees on the central mount and mountains were being swayed and effortlessly snapped. This awareness arrived at after having noticed that, all of a sudden, there were not as many of the winged simians flying through the air.

It was a really violent storm that heavily imprinted on the lush rainforest way below. At one point, looking down, I got the thrill of my life on seeing this particular giant mango tree.

I was immediately energised by it. It so reminded me of the mango tree that I had planted. It made me wonder if, in fact, this experience was not inspired by that wonderful act of selfless sharing that had moved me to have planted that mango seed from Nevis which resulted in the mango tree.

It was quite beautiful to have seen and it proved rather calming in the process. These extra-human little men kept their long black hair tied back in ponytails – both males and females actually.

The women carried their young on their backs during flight. It would seem, from the commonality, that they bore twins each pregnancy. There was a lot of screaming and screeching – their screeching, interestingly, sounded like that of birds of prey rather than a humanoid register.

Rather high-pitched were their cries. This was the case for both sexes. The screams occurred when, sometimes down close to the canyon’s bottom, they would be caught in a violent gust and sent crashing through the air. The winds, during this storm, were very, very turbulent.

They never did crash to the ground but the initial displacement elicited the piercing screams. They would then quickly recover after a sudden drop of a few hundred feet. Then again, this could very well have been a form of sport to ride the stormy winds – akin to surfing the waves during a hurricane.

This was the initial reason why I had become terrified because, on having witnessed this, I had suddenly become aware of my own vulnerability. Although I knew that it was a dream and I therefore could fly, I was still afraid to have possibly found myself caught in one of those violent gusts that slapped one into an air pocket.

I had freaked out when thinking that it was soon enough going to happen, up here at these heights, yet here was I without wings. If I were to have attempted to fly, this undoubtedly meant that I would crash to the ground.

It was at that point that, as my fears were unwittingly telepathically projected, the unusually tall, White extra-human male had come and lovingly extended me his hand.

The height of this man suggested that, although he looked human-enough, he just may have been like all others aboard the arriving shuttle not human but an extra-human.

He had courageously taken me by the hand, around the corner of the massive stone pillars, to the safety of one of the many portalled abodes’ interior.

On entering, it was as though you were inside a building. The cave immediately sloped down with the cool stone wall concavely carved out to the floor that was some feet below. There was a gangplank walkway, directly from the perpetually open portal, to the main floor sunken a bit lower than the entrance.

This feature was so that when the perpetually cool winds entered the portal they would then, following the line of the sloping interior, fall into this deep trough that encircled the entire parametres of the dwelling.

Somehow, the wind would then be used here, to create circulation and was recycled inside the dwelling. All throughout, the walls of the dwelling as well as down in the trough, there were tiny swirling-looking portals in the rock which allowed for the winds to be released.

Excess cool winds from unusually strong winds entering, like at present during one of the canyonned metropolis’s fierce storms, were readily dispersed through the tiny swirling-looking rock portals. In this way, you would never have the dwelling inundated by gale force gusts.

This was a very, very intelligently evolved civilisation whose dwellings were very intelligently, functionally designed. It made such perfect sense, on entering, to have seen the trough system.

This was again repeated, at the centre of the circular dwelling, such that you had the creation of counter circulating wind currents indoors as outside in the canyonned civilisation. This was so revolutionary – practicality and functionality perfectly harmonised.

There was a central column on the inside of the dwelling thus making it tepee-like or tent-like, if you like, though it was a pure rock interior. In this particular dwelling whoever the host family was I did not see.

The extra-human man, who had extended his arm to me, was very much wrinkled and very, very skeletal. He was much like that race of people was. I knew it was the same extra-human race as I had encountered, a month earlier, in the dream streets of Sandy Point, St. Kitts.

However, I never did have a face-to-face encounter in this dream as in the first encounter weeks earlier. Nonetheless, I was able to recognise this EH species from the earlier dream.

During the dream, I had total refamiliarisation with the dream – on November 25, 1990 – a month earlier. I was warmed by the remembrance of the lone extra-human’s soulful warm eyes of a month earlier.

Though this was not the case during the course of the dream, I had the sense that from time to time – either seasonally or at controlled times – a mighty river was allowed to enter the canyon by way of the entrance that I had used when in the shuttle craft.

The waterfall would be quite massive and would fall the five-if-not-more miles to the slopes below that formed the civilisation’s agricultural belt. I can’t imagine how beautifully thunderous the sounds of such a towering waterfall would be. This was a truly magical world.

The waterfall would provide added moisture and a fresh clean source of water for the entire canyonned civilisation. I would imagine that during the waterfall the mist it created also would generate temporary cloud systems within the canyon.

This was a most beautiful civilisation.

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Photo: Machu Pichu, Peru.

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Here’s A Gift for You, My Darling.

25.02.201311.10.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

This dream took place, on Wednesday, December 1, 1993, as the Moon transited Cancer and my second house. It was the fourth dream that day.

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Whilst I was in a restaurant eating, next door and upstairs, a very noisy aerobics class was underway. Merlin and I were together seated, alone at a deuce, by the café’s large storefront windows.

To protest all the noise that was coming from the class upstairs, he got up and went next-door. I had been with Merlin, admiringly looking on, as he tucked into his food.

Whilst it struck my right, the light flooding in through the window struck his left profile. He had also been admiringly looking at me as we both ate.

It was so warm between us. Very lucidly, I could see his left eye being wonderfully illumined by the intense sunlight.

Immediately outside the door to the café, where we sat at a deuce, was a large awning such that the light striking our faces was being reflected up off the street. The light was so gloriously soft and soul-caressing that it made Merlin look as if ethereal.

I suppose it is an apt descriptive of where he is in his discarnate, between-lives state as an astral plane habitué. He was not wearing a hat.

Merlin was beautifully coiffed with a handsome healthy moustache and a full beard. His hair was so clean. The lighting left him looking as if porcelain-skinned.

Goodness, this was such a clean and wholesome image of Merlin. What was really coming through, however, was the purity of his soul itself.

When he returned, he had a book with him as well as the Sunday New York Times. Before coming back, as he passed outside before the window, he warmly smiled in at me.

Then Merlin did the most magical of things… he extended me the paper. Whereas I thought that he was simply showing me that he had gotten the newspaper, a copy of the coveted Sunday New York Times, he simply pushed the paper through the thick pane of glass.

Until then, the pane of glass was a very real and solid barrier to the outside. Whilst moving through the seemingly immalleable medium, it slowly did so as if in slow-motion through a stilled, aquatic medium.

*Merlin, the shaman, was weaving his magic yet again. This was such a sublime moment. Here, he was exerting that formidable will of his and impressing me with his magic.

How could I not have fallen in love… all over again? I sat there being totally blown away. I knew too that Merlin’s reason for doing this was how very much he simply loved being with me.

As we had been sitting there together, he had warmed me throughout with the same familiar quiet glow that he exhibited each time – in the waking state – that we had taken a meal together. Now here was he repaying me with this gentle loving caress.

I immediately realised that he had used the excuse of going to complain about the noise, from the aerobics class upstairs and next door, to weave his magic. He had stopped off to get himself a book but also to present me with the one gift that I loved having, on Sundays, when we lived together.

To really impress how much he truly valued our love, Merlin weaved his magic by shoving the paper through the fabric of space – matter, dimensions. It was much like that sword which made its way through into my solar plexus in the dreams, of Sunday, September 4, 1988^VIII.

This is how Merlin chose to impress on my memory, how very real and very important, his being there with me was. Merlin loved me and from time to time, just as he had promised prior to passing, he chose to send me some soul-warming postcards from the voyage up ahead on which he had set out before me.

Merlin was intent on getting through to me and how handsomely he succeeded in doing so. How utterly sublime this moment was.

It was such a wickedly clever and sly bit of magic. All that I could do was dissolve in soulful laughter, accepting and solidifying my love for him, whilst gladly taking the paper from him – gladly accepting the gift of his love for me.

Of course, Merlin knew that I would not be taken aback by his shoving the Sunday New York Times through the thick pane of glass. After all, many were the dreams that I had shared with him when incarnate of myself effortlessly moving through walls, panes of glass et al.

Naturally, this ability of mine is readily validated in the dreams of both Thursday, September 12, 1996⁽²⁹⁾ and Saturday, August 10, 1991⁽²³⁾. In said dreams, I was able to effortlessly move through walls and panes of glass thereby betraying my own magus abilities.

He was one magus betraying his confidence and knowledge of my own magus nature. It was a most beautiful way of validating our being kindred spirits. END.

I sat there eating, becoming more lucidly awakened, realising the impactfulness of what Merlin had just done. Seated there, alone, I waited for him to come back through the doors and join me.

By now I had stopped eating, whilst presently he returned and sat down slyly glancing across at me. Merlin wore that same self-deprecating, though precocious, grin that had won us all over his lifelong in the waking state.

Joining me anew, he directly looked into me, he did nothing but smile. It was the most serene smile. It was the conspiratorial smile of the magus, the transcended… Merlin.

Merlin and I share a connection that is born at the level of soul. This much is true, we know each other. He looked at me, as if to say,

“I really know who you are, kiddo….”

Alas, that truly was a very warming, beautiful and marvellous thing. He was contented because whatever he has since learnt, for being in the discarnate state that he is in, has validated what he has always privately declared that he has suspected about me.

It was a great intimacy that we shared.

We sat there making love and dancing soul-to-soul. Merlin and I knew that no time and no one could eclipse a love so real. Ours was love born of the soul and the love of two trusty, companionable old friends.

*Strangely enough, with the passing of this dream, I did not awaken as is customary.¹²⁰

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Photo: The New York Times.

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Now That’s A Hollywood Wife!

23.02.201311.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

These rather lucidly awakened dreams were experienced with an intense sense of wonder and joy, on Monday, July 2, 1990. At the time, the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.

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This first dream found me in a very busy place. When going south towards the Danforth, it was not unlike being on Broadview Ave. It was at night time. I came there and found that there were tons and tons of Black people.

Even so, it seemed like Toronto and at Broadview Subway station because there are all these streetcars there. One of the streetcars was improperly parked, as a result, it was going to go and turn around.

Waiting for it to do what it had to do, there was another streetcar out in the street. It was really more like a red-rocket streetcar. It was not like one of the newer ones.

Everyone here was Black. There were no Whites or other non-Blacks that I saw. Everybody was in the street which was very jam-packed. They were getting ready to cross, after the streetcar had passed, to go in.

There was now a system, where you paid your fare aboard the streetcar, so that you did not have to enter the front doors of the station on Broadview.

When you got aboard the streetcar, it was mandatory that you pay a fare. So it did not matter whether you paid a fare at the proper entrance or not. There were many people queuing up to get aboard a streetcar.

Passing these people who were seated there, I went through the proper entrance. One of them seemed like Gabriella Vartan^† and they were talking about me.

I came around and began going down the steps, into the nether regions, en route to the trains. There was this little old lady who was taking her time, holding up things, so I pushed her to my right.

I made my way down then had to go around taking another flight of stairs; I then kept on going. There were a whole lot of levels to this subway system.

When I got down, there was this little cul-de-sac where there were these Black guys – homeboys – hanging out. However, they were not Black American.

I found one of them very attractive and smiled at him. He, however, was very homophobic. He went running upstairs to go call the police on me.

The train then came into the subway and it was a very, very large train. It towered very high to the ceiling. It was like an Amtrak train which seemed like a double Decker train. It was mostly silver, however, it turned out not to have been double Decker.

When it stopped, I began running full speed because I did not want the guy to come back and board the same car as me. I ran to the front of the train only to find that one couldn’t board there. Instead, one could only enter this train where the cars joined each other.

You could enter the front or backdoors of each car but not the front ones of the first car. It was very sleek, round and Deco like a train from the 1930s.

The whole place did have a feel of the ‘30s to it. It was very neo-Gothic like the Chrysler or McGraw-Hill buildings in New York City, or for that matter, even the Empire State Building.

It was reminiscent of very early in the twentieth century which was all about great architecture – of things being large, mammoth and spiralling upwards, too, things getting faster and faster.

That sense of adventure about the wonderful world of commerce that one had created. It was that time when people had not yet begun to see, as we now know, the consequences of things being bigger and better and faster and all the effects on nature.

I got onto the train heading, again, towards the front. Somehow, I felt relieved because I had lost the guy. I was there and noticed a stout man who was either High-Yellow or, perhaps, even White.

The people here were very strange because they were just rather unusual. Even though they looked White, they seemed more bronzish, actual bronze, than the pinkish tonality of the waking state.

This was not a place that I knew. It was very otherworldly here, I soon realised. I did not get a seat and as I stood there I then noticed a woman. She was standing at the very front of the train.

The train progressed with unusual speeds, I immediately noticed. When the train had shaken, the stout man had tried to brace himself by putting out his foot that was already out in the aisle.

In the process, he had stomped me and I had had to pull my foot out from under his and pushed his away. He wore business attire, a suit and tie, as though en route to an office job.

The woman who was standing up was playing on a wooden flute-like instrument that was less than a foot long. However, the thing about all this was that she had unusually short arms.

They were fully functional hands with tiny little fingers that nimbly danced over the valves of the wooden, wind instrument. Her arms were like a Thalidomide-damaged child’s.

Then I noticed too that there were other people on the train, about three or four musicians, practicing as well. I soon realised that everyone on board had some sort of physical deformity.

They were just ill-proportioned people with torsos that were too long or arms that were too short. Arms too long or what have you, moreover, this also applied to the legs.

The most pronounced cases were always the musicians like the female flautist – two or three of the other musicians were male.

Someone else who was on the train began laughing and, out of nervousness, I joined in. The person was laughing at the woman. She, however, hadn’t paid them any mind.

Nobody else was paying people, who were laughing, any mind. They did not see anything wrong with the people who were being laughed at.

I then got off the train and was out in this concourse area, where the trains arrived, before I went upstairs. Before I would go upstairs I saw this child seated in the middle of this white blanket that seemed more like diaper material than flannel.

The child wore a salmon-coloured merino. He had little, white, cloth diapers on. The infant had, again, very unusually, unusually short, short legs that made it look almost like a child because it was seated upright on its bottom.

However, it had a very big torso – matured, such that the child seemed like a very big, big child for its age. Its head was very large with a very developed large and soulful-looking face.

At the time it made me thing of Jake Hudson. Jake does have a very large head and face. I was trying to connect with him. He reached out his short little arms, crying out and said,

“Dad, I want to go.”

There was this youngish man, who was blond like the child, and he seemed not unlike the guy Olaf Knight. He picked up his son and used the blanket, on which the child sat, that had these straps and put him around his shoulder.

Like an African mother would, carry her child when in the fields, thus he was carried on his father’s back. He walked off with the child, who was holding on to him, except that the child was really an adult male.

It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.

I ended up coming upstairs and going out in the outdoors. There were people here – again, mostly Black people. I was talking to them when I heard the strains of Richard Strauss‘s Four Last Songs beginning.

I beamed and excused myself from the people, with whom I was interacting, and went running off up this plaza. It was a clay-tiled plaza and when I got there, I saw the symphony.

I went and sat in lotus position and sat very close to the front. There was a gathering of persons in a semicircle and I was, as a matter of fact, the closest to the stage.

The stage was above on a dais and it was edged by old gold juniper. The juniper was really, really nice and quite fragrant, refreshingly so, to the smell.

Along came, from around a corner walking, Jessye Norman – the high priestess herself. She had been preceded by her divine voice’s magic. She was, of course, singing Four Last Songs.

She wore a beautiful, beautiful, glistening black dress that seemed almost organic with a life of its own. It was twinkling on and off but the lights were lifelike like fireflies.

They were sequins but they seemed, somehow, to be organic. It had hues of gold, silver, bronze, and dark green hues like pine and blue hues like lapis lazuli. It was very, very intensely rich a fabric.

She started singing the first song, Frühling, and it was very hauntingly beautiful. She saw me and beamed down at me. It was so connected between us. I was so enthralled and overpowered; I was quite smitten by her.

I thought very rapturously awakened,

‘Yes! I’m having a dream of Jessye Norman. So very good to see her again, my god here she is and performing Four Last Songs.’

She then came almost to the lip of the stage and stopped as though about to sneeze. Then she held her breath and started laughing because it was so hysterical.

The look on my face was one of being truly horrified for her. This had actually caused her to crack up. Then she began singing again and began making gestures for me to move or be removed.

I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.

‘Why is she snubbing me like this?’ I wondered.

Then these two huge, burly guys came to eject me out of the area. As I was leaving, I could hear her starting to sing again. I was very, very upset.

I was, in the second dream, in this large house that was a very many-storeyed place. It had many apartments. I came out and it had a very slanted roof that one could go out onto. This roof was, however, very dangerously precipitous.

I was looking about and thinking of Carl Leroiderien because, somehow, someone was talking about him. This White man was talking to me and telling me that Carl had been enquiring after me.

He then went on to ask me if I smoked dope which I denied. I can’t think of it doing anything for me except, perhaps, to make me sneeze at the most. Sometimes if mixed with hashish, I then got a massive headache.

“It doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t really like it. I don’t see the point to it and I don’t smoke it.”

At the time that he was saying this, we were climbing some very, very steep stairs. Then at that point, after she had given her performance, I encountered Jessye Norman again. She was seated on a bench and called me over.

She said hello very warmly and apologised saying,

“I hope you weren’t upset. You realise that it was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t laughing at you; it’s just that you don’t seem to realise where you were.

“You were, well there are certain degrees of protocol and you were ahead of the dignitaries.

“And you shouldn’t have been so close to the stage because one of the reasons why your nose started bleeding was, in this dimension, if you’re this close to the stage… when I’m singing, when I hit certain notes it can shatter your eardrums but also shatter your mind.

“So you see it was very crucial that I get you out of there. Also, I was having a very bad allergic reaction to the plants at the edge of the dais. They made me want to sneeze. It wasn’t at all you or exclusively you.”

In having embraced me thus, she was being most healing. I did, in fact, have quite the nosebleed. As I was being hustled out of the place, by the burly guards, it was then that I realised that my nose was bleeding.

At the time, I had thought it strange. As this dream progressed very lucidly and linearly, there was no point at which either burly guard had so much as touched me.

I was so upset. It was so very good, after the fact, to have had her explain as she did.

*This dream really does validate the notion that all persons encountered in the dreamtime, without exceptions, are separate entities and not figments of one’s imagination. END.

When I was being bounced by her, I was so stunned, upset and humiliated. Had she not explained as she had just done, I would have awakened from this dream with a totally different perception of events.

I had also no way of knowing that she was having an allergic reaction to the juniper which, at the time, I found so wonderfully soothing. What’s more, I hadn’t a clue that I had thrown the Chi of the place by having disrespected protocol.

I would never have thought that my nosebleed was due to her singing. In fact, it is possible that I could have awakened and not recalled that, indeed, I had had a nosebleed which I had totally forgotten until she had mentioned it.

Jessye Norman has indeed straddled, with great élan and diplomacy, many a dimension with great frequency and fluency.

I then began holding her hand and told her that there were times that I had dreams of her, in which there were sometimes cetacean-looking creatures that came and did formations around her as she sang hyper-dimensionally.

She was just enthralled and pleased. She squeezed my hands and laughed a healthy, really wonderful laugh. She was quite smitten by me and encouraged me to write it all down.

Her eyes here were so very large, soulfully dark and focussed right into me. It gave me a high just to have experienced them.

I was wearing, when close to the stage, a satin merino-like shirt. So at the time of being bounced out, I had passingly thought that I had been dressed too scantily for her liking.

In any event, it was quite interesting.

This third dream was truly hysterical. It seemed like on Eglinton Avenue East, between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Road. It was at nighttime. There was a lot of goings on.

Shirley MacLaine was there, Warren Beatty and Madonna Ciccone, as well. Warren Beatty was the man of the hour and the centre of everybody’s attention.

He had a great deal of sexual energy and magnetism. He had been performing for the camera and for everybody around. It felt very staid to me though.

One very interesting thing that happened was that he had been heavily drinking and, whilst laughing, had bent forward. He then began uncontrollably coughing and was holding his chest and faking a massive heart attack.

Next thing you knew, we were in a very crowded area and it turned out that he had not been faking the heart attack. He had a very, massive, massive heart attack.

He was dead just like that. He was gone within moments. It was just incredible. Shirley MacLaine became utterly hysterical. Her bawling was like from some Greek tragedy.

She went into a trance-like frenzied state and began calling on astral guides and her Pleiadean guides. Pulling out a very impressive clutch of crystals, she threw herself onto him and tried healing him of death.

She was placing them all over his body – at the chakras and elsewhere. It was too humourous for words.

Meanwhile, as Warren Beatty died, Madonna came rushing up to the scene. It had all been too late and they couldn’t rush him to a hospital. There was no way that he could have been revived.

They had been out in some desert area having a big party; there were no doctors around. There was nothing that they could do; he couldn’t be saved. He was dead… he was gone.

Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying,

“This is so unfair.

“He hasn’t even been able to make the sequel to Dick Tracy. And right when he’s at the top of his career this is happening?”

“Well you know this will really immortalise him now. Definitely, this is great publicity, right at this point in his career.” someone had dryly said who was not attached to his whole entourage.

I had heard this but Shirley MacLaine hadn’t heard it. Madonna came and whatever she thought about I could telepathically hear it. Her immediate response was,

‘Oh shit! This is just going to fuck up my goddamn career.

‘If only I’d gotten a child by him. Shit why did I have to have that abortion of his child. Shit!’

She was thinking fast. She was someone who knew how to manipulate the media. She was really pissed off because it would have meant immediate Hollywood sainthood for her, were she to go on and have Warren Beatty’s only child, after he had tragically died.

She was really pissed off because this was media manipulation beyond her wildest schemes,

‘I’ve got to get him out of here. I’ve got to have the best genetic engineers flown in immediately…’

I was stunned when I read her thoughts because, of course, she intended to harvest his seed and impregnate herself and then have a premature love child of Warren Beatty’s.

I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania.

‘During the autopsy, I’ll have his sperm taken out and I’ll have it copyrighted. It’ll be my possession. I’ll have it engineered so that I’ll have a child… a son. God we can even have twins…’

She, all the while, was cowering over his face… kissing him and doing the wailing widow number,

‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’

She privately squealed to herself – unaware, of course, that she was broadcasting to someone like me. She was so triumphant at having had that idea because all she knew was that people who so loved Warren Beatty would take to her now.

She was insecure as to whether or not she would endure through time. However, with this, she knew that she would automatically become iconic. She would become truly the virgin mother!

She would be actually giving birth to some dead man’s child – he of course being, Warren Beatty. It was destiny. After all, she was ‘the’ Madonna.

She had this flash that this was why she had always been so drawn to crucifixes. She was going to capitalise on the whole drama by making sure that it would be a son.

Of course, not to be outdone by that old, other Holy Mother with the virgin birth, she would eclipse that Madonna by having twin sons. Again, La Stupenda squealed with delight to herself.

I passingly wondered if I were the only one to be privy to her thoughts. Then I realised that from my detachment, as everyone bawled and was truly horrified as though these were Olympians and not mere mortals, that I was the only one.

‘What could be better than having two Warren Beatty lookalikes crawling around the planet and who were his twins? And his only heirs! With today’s genetic engineering it will be a great coup.

‘Think of the press! I’ll be guaranteed perpetual immortality. I’ll be iconised for all history…’

I thought then and there,

‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’

In any event, the funeral was upon us and by some strange quirk of the dreamtime, I was very much so a part of the funeral. I was as though a fly on the wall, as it were, and aren’t you lucky?

Why, was I participating? I do not know?

In any event, I was dressed to the nines. I had on a wonderful, lace outfit with a mantilla with my veil covering my face. I was part, somehow, of the funeral party.

It turned out that Warren Beatty had had five wives and, at the point at which he died, his fifth wife was a High-Yellow woman. She was part Black, part White, partly Latina.

He had had all these wives. They had always been paid and kept to remain silent. They were never brought out in the public or media. It was one of Hollywood’s biggest secrets.

People, obviously, never knew about it. It had never once been spoken about. There was an interesting turn to all of this… I had been going along Eglinton East on the south side. It was as though I was going towards Yonge Street; however, it was not Eglinton Avenue East.

Madonna was going to be late because, luckily, it was that time of the month for her. She was off having herself impregnated, by way of a turkey baster, with Warren Beatty’s frozen sperm – the planet’s most expensively rare caviar fertiliser of sorts.

I was attending the funeral with a short woman who was the fifth wife’s mother. She seemed a lot like Sybil Ben-Daniel and wore a brown coat over her dress. I walked with my right arm embracing her as she was on my right.

I had burly bodyguards all about me, before, beside and behind me. They were real Mossad-goon-cum-Wrestlemania types. My pants were those flare-legged Giorgio Armanis that allowed me to stride throwing my legs.

There was a lot of train to them and I had such utter style. I had enormous energies about me and great flare. My eyes were bedazzling even though mantilla-veiled.

They were what were, of course, fuelling my high spirits. The onlookers were lapping up my entrance; I felt wonderful.

We then went into the church and the mother was talking about,

“We want the money to go to the Church because the Church is really the staple of society and civilisation. The Church does so much good.”

I just decided to let her babble on and kept my tongue in check. However, I cussed her under my breath saying,

“You demented old fool. What Church are you talking about?”

The church had a metallic-silver front and it looked not unlike York Cinemas on Eglinton Avenue East. It was not a very big church on the inside. As we got inside, I turned around and hissed at one of the bodyguards because he had earlier stepped on my train.

Of course, we were surrounded then by the paparazzi and the little people. His Bigfoot’s footprint was there on the pant’s train. I reached back and slapped his face real hard calling him a fucking asshole.

Of course, I knew that it was safe to do it here because everyone here knew, only too well, that side of me. However, I couldn’t wreck my public image doing so outside.

As we got closer to the church, I began striding firmer with each step in anticipation of getting his oafish arse. I was really careful not to show that side of me when in public.

I started going down the aisle and there at the end was Warren Beatty’s corpse in the open casket. It was a pure black casket that glistened. It was a dark black wood and a really gorgeous casket.

Escorting the mother-in-law, I came all the way down the aisle. I decided that I would go into the first pew on the right. The first pew on the left actually went further down the aisle and did go past the casket.

It held men in white flowing robes; they were priest of whatever denomination this was – very cream, ivory-coloured and obviously very Catholic.

I went and sat down and immediately behind me was the fifth wife’s family. They were very Hispanic-looking more so than Black. They were very handsome in that family.

I turned around and smiled at one of the men and the energies coming from them weren’t as I had expected – I had thought that they would hate me.

I knew Madonna; I was apparently part of her hangers on. Somehow, I had known her through dance. I thought that, for that association, they would hate me. However, they displayed no such hostilities towards me.

Finally, the fifth wife came and was walking very slowly, regally. She carried a globular bouquet consisting of tiny, little white roses that were sprinkled in amongst some baby’s breath. There were one or two little red roses as well.

She wore a white, lace outfit. Deliberately dressed as though attending her wedding, she was not though veiled. She came down to the casket and knelt before it, like Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis at the rotunda, staking her claim on history by her performance.

She sobbed in a controlled breath and then got up and walked around to the right end of the casket. Facing the church, she was now behind it and up on the altar. She was before the pews on the left side of the aisle.

She knelt down again and this time began wailing and ululating. She was doing ritual port de bras with her torso and head as well. She kept on holding on to the bouquet.

It was a very Latin; a very emotional display; definitely, not Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. It was very soulful and moving. One really felt for her.

Finally, Madonna made her entrance and began slowly progressing down the aisle. There was utter silence in the place because everybody was thinking,

‘Oh dear, poor Madonna was slutting with Warren Beatty at the point of his death. Here is the fifth wife and is she going to create a scene or not?’

Well, of course, she is. The fifth wife is Latin so, of course, there will be theatre.

When the fifth wife had been crossing the casket, I took in her body which was very wide-beamed. I knew then, in a flash, that she was pregnant with Warren Beatty’s child and four months pregnant.

It was clearly no Immaculate Conception as per Madonna’s little trick. She was a very big-boned woman. She got up when Madonna entered the church and stopped crying.

Madonna saw her and avoided her glance as I turned and watched this fascinating bit of theatre unfold. Everyone was really excited at the potential fireworks about to go off.

She started coming down to confront Madonna. I immediately and intuitively knew that there was a gun inside the bouquet that the fifth wife so firmly clutched.

Positioning the gun, the fifth wife began holding the bouquet to her stomach. Madonna, staying her ground, kept on proudly walking down the aisle.

She wore black; it was an outfit that was not dissimilar to mine. She wore a short veil and not a mantilla like I did.

She came walking down towards the casket staying closer to the left pews. The fifth wife came around the right side of the casket and was walking down the right side of the aisle looking at Madonna.

She had a very, very vexed and determined – an almost trance-like, expression of self-absorption on her face. All the energy in her body was directed at Madonna.

When she was about five feet away from Madonna, she held up the bouquet and callously said,

“I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!”

It was filled with so much venom that it reverberated throughout the very high-ceilinged-though-tiny church. It was also very Gothic an interior.

Madonna stopped truly catatonically horrified. You could see it beyond the veil. She had no entourage or bodyguards. She showed up alone, so confident was she of the coup that she had just scored at the geneticist’s.

She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back,

“I dare you…”

She was very nervous and said very quickly with a weak, little laugh. She was also vamping à la Breathless Mahoney – the character she played in Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy film.

She was, however, visibly ashen. Madonna was visibly shaken with fear.

Those persons in the left pews automatically screamed out and crouched down for cover because the fifth wife had held up the bouquet in both her outstretched arms like the gun that it so obviously hid.

“Come on. You wouldn’t want to do that. That’s just stupid…” Madonna bravely said.

“…You can’t do that. Besides Warren’s already dead. What are you trying to prove? You can’t do this to me! Don’t be stupid.”

The woman, however, started slowly walking towards her not buying her bullshit. At that, Madonna turned around and started to bolt and she fell down over her long-trained dress.

She had already made it to the back of the pews on the left. She was much too vain, to run outside and possibly be murdered in front of the little people. So she got up and began running around the far side of the pews.

Of course, as she ran away, the fifth wife could easily have shot her in the back. Then Madonna got really pissed off, stopped against the far left wall of the church, holding out her palm at her attacker saying,

“Stop it! You don’t want to do this. This is stupid. You can’t kill me. I’m Madonna!”

She was just winded; the expression on her face was unbridled rage, fear, terror, chutzpah, all in one. Then the fifth wife pulled the trigger, which was the only sound in the place, releasing the magazine.

Madonna cried out and began pleading with her. It was truly a spectacle. It was really pathetic. The fifth wife then pulled on the trigger and there was a loud plopping sound.

Everybody just screamed and the place became flooded with blinding blue light. It turned out to have been an older-model camera and the flashbulb from the camera as it went off.

At that, the fifth wife laughed this loud, truly callous, heavy-from-the-womb, ripe, wicked, vindictive, victorious-all-in-one laugh. It echoed throughout the church.

When her echo collapsed, as Madonna stood there truly disempowered, the fifth wife uttered in a weary breath,

“I always said to Warren that you’re an ugly slut. This picture will prove it.”

At that the fifth wife turned and came and sat down on the pew next to me. Her Latina family members were just going wild clapping and hysterically shrieking.

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

Poor Madonna was still standing there involuntarily shaking. She was holding her chest and gasping for air like an asthmatic. Her left hand placed on her chest, with her right hand holding on to the pew, thus she stayed her ground.

Although her hand was on her chest, she was being most clever. However I knew that really where it should have been was at her pussy because what the fifth wife instinctively knew, as did I, was that she had just miscarried. Madonna was profusely bleeding.

Poor Madonna was so humiliated. The look on her face was truly sad; she was sweaty and runny-nosed. She soon collapsed and had to be taken away. Of course, she would be beaten out of having Warren Beatty’s heir by the fifth wife.

The whole thing was so funny and hysterical. I was so stunned that the fifth wife was going to pull this stunt. I really thought that it was a gun; I had, at least, gotten this flash that it was a gun.

The idea to have a bolt release, affecting a gun, was truly ingenious. The picture turned out to be truly horrific. It was all a joke being played on Madonna by Hollywood’s film elites who could not have cared less about her and her parvenu ambitions.

The whole affair was so very wickedly political. The whole thing was so hysterical. I wondered as to what next was going to happen.

Is the fifth wife going to come forward and produce the first Warren Beatty heir – the true child? A child that would look like Warren Beatty – more like a child of the future being of multiracial heritage and a bronzed version of Warren Beatty would the fifth wife bear.

What then will she do about Madonna’s copyright of Warren Beatty’s sperm? Will the fifth wife, for producing the heir, win the legal rights to them and have them destroyed if she chooses to?

Will this not, in fact, begin a Pop Religion rivalling the King, Elvis Presley’s, if Madonna had won custody of the sperm and gone on to impregnate herself and bear those miscarried twin sons because of her bonds to Warren Beatty and his two pseudo-virgin-birthed children – sons at that?

Truly, this is iconography for the new millennium, indeed.

*A very, very interesting dream. Certainly, that I would be dreaming about these people is interesting enough. I don’t pay much attention to any of them beyond the passing.

I had seen Dick Tracy three weeks ago. That the whole thing would evolve the way it did was rather insightful. I was totally surprised, as much so, as was Madonna in the church.

I really did think that she was going to be shot. I thought that it would be so messy.

You know, I just did not want having anybody’s can’t-wash-out bloodstains on my Giorgio Armani pants.

A truly, truly funny dream this was.

**What can I say, dreams are purely experiential. I dream it and awaken, immediately bringing forth the dream experiences, committing those experiences to audio-cassette tapes.

I rather enjoyed being alone and visiting with Jessye Norman in the earlier dream. Clearly, those dreams were set on a parallel Earth in another dimension and one in which the mostly Black population is differently proportioned than we humans of waking state Earth are.

On the eve of the Oscars, I thought this a fitting offering. I could never have fathomed the outcome of the fifth wife’s agendum until it unfolded. Ingenious, to say the least, was her use of the bouquet.

As ever, sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… and so what if you bump into a wall, just attempt doing so again and this time believe that you can effortless transcend the barrier. Perception is, alas, everything. END.

________________________

Photo: Madonna in costume at MTV Awards 1990.

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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.

________________________________________

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.

21.02.201310.10.2024 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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Magus Maharaja Holds Court.

21.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

As the stately Moon drifted on its transit through Aries and thus my eleventh house, I would – whilst I serenely slept – experience the most exquisite glimpse into Merlin’s spirit. It was one of the most lucidly engaged dreams had in long ages.

Of course, it was Monday, April 11, 1994. This was a dream encounter with Merlin not soon forgotten. It was, in fact, the second dream that day.

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Next, I was ushered inside this large beautiful hall that was columned by the princely Maharaja. Here it was a cream-coloured, slightly tan marble structure.

From outdoors, wonderful streams of dappled sunlight flooded the interior. Whilst moving through the gracious palace, I passed a dozen or more beautiful saried ladies.

All of them were tall and beautifully dark – in that gorgeous Dravidian manner. However, these were more mythic archetypes than aristocrats, courtesans.

Their saris were saffron-coloured, some with hues of peach, all of them beautifully flowing fine fabrics. In what were the finest silks imaginable, somehow, there seemed to be actual light woven into the fabrics.

There was a lot of gold jewellery here, as a matter of fact, everywhere on their person. They did, though, seem none-too-thrilled at my presence.

At a low table, which was beautifully set, we were next seated on silken cushions. Lots of fine wares: gold and brass, were among them.

The light flooding into the place caused everything to become imbued, in the true sense of the word, with a glowing hue which was ethereal. Everything here seemed to zing at a higher frequency, for being infused with this magical starlight, which merrily flooded into the palatial salon.

The Maharaja, who had been our host, was immediately familiar as well as warm and good to be around. He had the most handsome, soulful smiling eyes. He sat directly across from me and we were not seated at the heads of the long table.

To my left was a very beguiling, genuinely yellow-eyed beauty. She was nubile and immensely arousing. I wanted to fuck this woman from the moment that I laid eyes on her.

She was, in fact, the hostess who sat across the table from the Maharaja – she was clearly his Maharani. Seated on the opposite side of the table the Maharaja seemed totally transcendent.

Indeed, this man was so elevated that he needn’t have eaten of the food – so long was he removed from being in the body. His was an august, truth be told, fixed gaze that was the most hypnotic.

Sitting there, he directly looked across and into me. He paid attention to no one else. I could feel the warm caress of his mind’s touch as he became telepathically harmonised with me.

He knew exactly everything that was going on in my mind. He was a most utterly beguiling man. His were the energies of a truly evolved individual. He had a large robust, though softening, body which was rather Zen-energied.

Too, the ease with which he had slipped into my mind bespoke a great intimacy which we have shared over several lifetimes. Whilst he sat opposite me, grounding me, on his side of the table were all the other mythic-looking saried women along with some truly princely-looking gentlemen.

The one feature of all these persons was the beautifully haunting silence in which they sat here whilst we took a meal in their presence. Seeing the Maharaja reminded me of Merlin.

Observing the maharaja was akin to when looking across the magic carpet-like platforms, as we sat in lotus position in a circle, during the final dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. There was no getting around the fact that the maharaja bore a connection to Merlin.

Meanwhile, the Maharani was graciously lowering her beauteous head just-so. At the time, she was eating and had done so in order to whisper instructions to me.

She discretely shared the finer points of dining etiquette when in their rarefied milieu. This meal involved a great deal of ritualised behaviour throughout.

I was astounded by the array of gold being used here: the goblets, jugs and plates. This proved to be one of the most lavish multi-coursed meals that I had ever partaken of.

Lots of beautiful blooms dreamily floated, perfuming the air, in gold bowls of water. Some were purple, others yellow, whilst some pink blooms; they sat in bowls which were placed along the centre of the table’s considerable length.

This was terribly refined beyond the extraordinary. Naturally, there was no flatware which, had there been, would doubtless have been made of the same yellow-white gold. Whenever the Maharani had spoken to me, she had lowered her head and smiled exposing those beautiful compacted teeth.

Beguilingly, from behind her smile’s alluring façade, she had given clipped directives. She was never impatient with me, either. The food was spiced ever so delicately, seeming more so like Chinese – Szechuan or even Japanese cuisine – rather than East Indian.

Either way, this fare had a bite to it that was truly sublime. I had taken a bite of some deep-fried fish which had proven mind-expansive.

The subtlety of the seasonings, and the degree to which each spice had been cooked into the fish, was truly phenomenal. She discreetly told me not to get ahead with myself thereby, ending up eating the wrong dishes or at least, eating something before it was meant to be eaten.

There were lots of chutneys being used here. Goodness it is simply not possible to convey, in this medium, how utterly refined the seasonings and the overall ambiance of this meal was.

Rarely does one get to be in such refined company. Truly, these were highly evolved persons. Nonetheless, their wealth was not a mercantile state of affairs.

Rather they were wealthy, surrounded by all this exquisite refinement, as it accurately reflected their state of soul evolvement. Truly refined were they.

There was nothing classist or elitist about this august company in which I found myself. To avert embarrassment for me, she had reached forward for something from a dish and thereby cut me off in the process.

As she foiled my none-too-couth display, she had rapidly told me not to take another piece of the fish. It had not been meant to be eaten just then during the meal’s many courses.

What could I have cared? This was the most glorious of experiences. Indeed, this meal and refined company were truly music for the soul.

I had been so ravenous. I so wanted to have another piece of fish for so good was it. Seemingly, one was expected to take but one bite of each dish.

This was about showing control, about being able to then move on to the next dish, even though one was dying for more of the last dish. Control, discipline and grace – these were the hallmarks of this ritual dining experience.

Distantly, the strains of strings came wafting through the air and were laced with the sweet fragrance of jasmine, oleander and sandalwood incense. All along the length of the table, plumes of incense hypnotically danced into the air.

There were times, when it was hard to make out the eyes of my host which were so immediate and so familiar. His were eyes which had an uncanny resemblance to those of Merlin’s.

Flames also burnt at the centre of the table heating up and cooking some of the dishes. In one instance, a large flame suddenly rose up between the Maharaja and me.

As if I had not known or noticed the resemblance before now, for the first time, the magical flames caused a phantom of Merlin’s face to dance through the fiery veil. I was astonished yet not surprised.

All that I had been feeling was, in one flicker of the suddenly rising flame, being validated. The flame had served to sear away layers and dimensions, as if so many lifetimes were being wiped clean, to reveal the residue of the individual Merlin whom I had most intimately known.

Though revelatory, the flames also served as the barriers – dimensional barriers – which now separated us. Though Merlin, he was now more than Merlin had ever been.

Lifetimes and dimensions impassably stood between us. Nonetheless, there was a knowing and connectivity there which could never have been extinguished.

There was something primal, magical even, about the flames. The ever gracious Maharaja had not quivered one iota, though they had suddenly shot up into the air, when the rising plume of fire had roared to life between us.

There he sat radiant and more focussed and intense as though, somehow, he had magically affected the flame’s uproar. His cool betrayed that of only one other human being that I have ever known – Merlin’s.

Suddenly, he was illumined. Perhaps, there had been a light breeze wafting a silken curtain, just off the colonnade or even the movement of piece of polished gold on the table.

Whatever it was, the light struck him just-so. For the first time, without the flame’s effect, there was no mistaking the fact that here across from me sat the soul of the man who had recently been Merlin.

The shaft of light had fallen in back of him, off to the right and rear, bouncing off so many surfaces. The effect that it had, from where I sat, was that of creating what seemed like a halo, an icon, about the head of a princely maharishi.

Unmistakably, there was an aura of mysticism about him which clearly had been hinted at before. Seated there, my lips quivered, as I experienced sheer ecstasy for seeing the beauty of this being’s spirit.

There was no way of getting around it… this was an utterly beautiful dream. Whilst sitting there, I felt much as I had in that dream wherein Merlin and I flew together into the intense blue-white light, in an upright position and laughing our heads off.

Of course, that amazing flying dream between Merlin and me did occur on Friday, August 10, 1994. It was, by far, one of the most beautiful dreams.

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Photo: c. 1860 Maharaja Duleep Singh.

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The Dreamer Awakens.

16.02.201310.10.2024 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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