Tag: Astral projection

A Most Noble Shaman, Sarah!

Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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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 7th level mature, artisan-cast Scholar in acceptance (yeah!)  I am, of course, also 7th level mature, bluntly combative sceptic third life thereat in 6th 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 43rd 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.

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hrithik_roshan

That aside, here then I share a glimpse into the future with a vision of a lifetime up ahead.  It was a visionary dream and I found myself the trusted confidant and lover of a most beautiful public figure.

The dream in question occurred during the second or B sleep cycle that day.  It proved the third dream that dream quest, however, in the prior sleep cycle that day there were some ten dreams.

At the time, Sunday, October 4, 1992, the Moon was in Capricorn transiting my eighth house.  Therein is posited my natal retrograde Saturn.

Of course, this is a house innately ruled by Pluto whose powers afford one the ability to plummet the depths of the soul’s wealth of experiences across time.

In this case, the time in question proved to be into the future.  

_____________________________________

This was a most incredible experience.  I still have no idea in what time it took place.  However, a great religious event was taking place.

One of those massive cultural events that would transcend history this proved, rippling through time, enshrined in religious iconography.  This was set either in the very distant past of this planet’s history or, perhaps, somewhere distantly in the future.

This was a rite that was clearly Hindu in nascence.  Basically, they were performing human sacrifice.  It was most graphic and intense.

There was a great cenotaph made of natural white stone.  This was clearly a memorial to Mahatma Gandhi thereby making it a future time-framed dream.

For the human sacrifice, persons would be placed on a bier.  This was simply one of three ways that an adherent, of this future manifestation of the Hindu religion, was put to death if they were deemed to have sinned.

They could be stoned to death by the wronged community.  Secondly, they could simply be executed by firing squad – clearly this was sometime in the future.  Thirdly, before the community by burning alive – immolation, they would publicly perform ritual suicide.

This – the latter – was just such an occurrence.  I was right there, up front, witnessing one of these public ritual suicides.  This was basically a way for the priesthood to indulge in human sacrifice.

For having been falsely accused for having created karma, in some way or other, it was thus all too easy to have someone put to death.  This process of being tried and found guilty was, of course, totally arbitrary.  Inevitably mob rule, as influenced by the priesthood, had the ultimate power.

Myself, I was quite appalled to have witnessed such barbaric acts of communal sadism.  I was basically seeing what culturally had been done to Mahatma Gandhi – how he had been iconised – because he was most definitely sacrificed.

He was sacrificed, he was made a martyr when assassinated to serve the needs of the priesthood – politicians – who could not suffer the threat that he represented.

*This was a very upsetting and vivid experience and, like most such karmically resonant touchstones, there was no way to get out of it.  Basically, one was being shown how this whole thing had evolved.  END.

Mahatma Gandhi was now being held as the penultimate icon of this future sect of the Hindu faith.  For adherents to violently die was an honour and a coveted way to die.

Since Gandhi had been assassinated, in this future manifestation of Hinduism which seemed also to have been infused with radical, Islamic elements, a violent death by way of suicide was de rigueur.

You could die by way of being sacrificed but, like Mahatma Gandhi, you would be shot.  You would be shot, of course, by initiates of the priesthood which was considered quite the honour.  It was, as a matter of fact, all terribly gruesome.

In this new religious rite, there was a whole progression to being sacrificed.  After one had been executed, by the initiates, one’s violently killed body was then placed on the memorial altar to Mahatma Gandhi.

On the cenotaph, the great martyr’s name was inscribed in large, golden letters.  This then was clearly some 200-plus years after the death of Mahatma Gandhi.

An age, indeed, in which a nationalistic Hindu fervour would sweep through India leaving in its wake a new society.  It would be a religious culture in which there would be semblances to Adolf Hitler’s 1930s Germany in an India easily ten generations into the future.

This seemed very fanatical a place.  There was also much need to keep India thoroughly pure.  Moreover, India was become a Hindu state with no tolerance for either Islam or even Sikhism.

What struck me as peculiar, about it all, was the fact that it was definitely Hindu in essence.  I would, though, have much sooner associated this degree of zealotry coming from the early dawn of the warrior-spirited Sikh community.

However, there was no mistaking that this was definitely a Hindu cultural experience.  Definitely, it was set in India and one which captured the very soul of the community – the present time of 200 years hence.

*Perhaps it all means that I will reincarnate into India, an East Indian, in a future lifetime.  Naturally, I have had several past lives in India to date.

As an older soul, I would gladly welcome yet another life in India knowing full well that like all older souls, I would have positively no use, patience or tolerance for religiosity of any kind.

I think that this militant sect of the noble Hindu faith had arisen because with massive population explosion and an increase of Islamic terror within India, there was inevitable pushback which led to this politicised sect of Hinduism.  The result would be an India that would be kept a purely Hindu state with, perhaps, Sikhism still present but definitely not Islam within its borders.  END.

After the body had been riddled with bullets, they then began pulling it down.  The site was up on a plateau where it was presently dark out.  This was in a mountainous area and it was cool out.

As it was fast-approaching dawn, it was seen as the auspicious time for the ritual to have taken place.  Since the priesthood’s fixation with human sacrifice had grown, on the order of the Spanish Inquisition, the rite in progress was often practiced.

The body was then taken down and cremated.  During the cremation process, devotees were encouraged to go up and pull off pieces of the body.  They would then prostrate themselves making penance to the god Mahatma – Mahatma Gandhi – to seek his mercy and beneficence.

Before the still glowing remains of the cremating body, they would focus whilst praying to Deva Mahatma.  It was also considered more potent, if one showed true devotion, by taking some of the hot coals and energetically rubbing them in the palms.

It was seen as identifying with the ecstatic pain that the Mahatma had endured during his assassination.  I think it will be very interesting to see if, in the future, some sect of Hinduism will be this zealous and hold Mahatma Gandhi as its martyred figurehead.

I, for one, think that this would be so many steps backwards.  Do we really need to see humanity descending into this sort of nihilistic, diversionary, perpetuation of human suffering?

This group Neptunian – escapist – endeavour disguised as something as noble and high an ideal as spirituality, is not though spirituality.  As ever, all things religious are political entities.

There was this one guy there who was supposed to have been, somehow, the reincarnation of Mahatma Gandhi.  Or perhaps, he had been chosen as the astrological heir of the great evolved energies which were Mahatma Gandhi’s.

I was, somehow for being there, expected to go and make love with the chosen one – the heir to Mahatma Gandhi’s birthright.  So, off I went to fulfill my role.

*Alas, yet again, I serve as lover, confidant, companion, advisor and healer of the spirit.  END.

I knew, of course, that this could not have been Merlin in a future lifetime.  Since Merlin was alive during Mahatma Gandhi’s life, there is no way that this supposed reincarnated soul of Gandhi’s could have been Merlin.

Nor for that matter, evolved though he was, would I be so preposterous as to suggest that Merlin was Mahatma Gandhi reincarnated.  Even if Merlin were born after Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination, which he was not, I still would not ever make such an assumption.

This man was very dark-skinned and young.  He turned out to be the most beautiful man imaginable.  His were the most wonderful, large eyes imaginable.  He definitely had a Pisces rising.

Lying on top of him, we were kissing and making love.  We spent a great deal of time in conversation.  He was debating whether or not he felt that he could go on.  Basically, he was not prepared to willingly accept his chosen position in the sect’s iconography.

He said that he felt quite uncomfortable about it all.  I agreed with him and pointed out that it was obviously his karma.  Furthermore, there was no way that he could get out of his duty.

We agreed that there did not seem any way for him to escape this fate of his.  We had at least been humorous about it all.

Somehow though, in the larger context of things, it seemed likely that he would impact history on the order of Christ.  He did feel quite locked into this life.  In that sense, he was rather resigned to it – playing his role.

This man’s eyes were the most old-souled portals imaginable.  The one feature that he did have was that his eyes actually had light emanating from behind them.

Not only did his eyes have this unusual capacity but, next to his richly-melanined, brownish-black skin, they actually were purple.

They were even more so violet-coloured than Elizabeth Taylor’s.  Though hers may be violet, his were a deep royal purple.  Well!  These were unusually large eyes, too, the whites of which were spectacularly white.

These purple eyes seemed to be glowing from within.  To look into those eyes was, quite simply, a cosmic experience of the highest order.  Quite simply his eyes were bewitching.

Additionally, all he ever did was look right into you.  The eyes were the most important of the sensory organs.  For that reason, he did nothing except directly, unflinchingly, gently look into one’s eyes.

This was not like when speaking to a Westerner who looks everywhere but into your eyes.  Such persons look at you and direct their transparently bigoted perceptions one’s way.

This man cared nothing about lookism.  There was absolutely no Maya to him.  He simply represented centredness of being.  He was quite simply a soul in residence and nothing else.

There was no personality, no bullshit and, definitely, no ego.  He was a mind-altering experience onto himself.  Truly a force of the Cosmos was he.

*That was the beauty of this man, unlike the countless gurus of India, he was not a personality.  They are all spiritual celebrities.

They are, for the vast majority though not all, nothing more than charlatans rather adept at deception and masquerading as older souls.  Of course, these charlatans are keen to take advantage of the Western world’s need to romanticise India.  END.

Whilst we spoke, I kept on kissing his mouth, as we made love.  Though he was a robust wiry man, he was immensely passive and all-accepting.

I had a soul, I was a soul incarnate, and this was his reason for making love with me.  He was dancing with my soul.

This was a most intense and vivid experience.  This was simply Zen.

Obviously, I have taken the liberty of using the photo of an historical royal to betray the exquisite beauty of the avatar encountered in this dream.  Perhaps, it was merely about astral projecting into a probable future – one in which the effects of population explosion and sectarian tensions would manifest in a militant sects arising.  Either way, it was trip and a half being in commune with the purple-eyed one.

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Photo: Bollywood actor, Hrithit Roshan.

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Anointed By the Exalted Mentor, Merlin!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sat up calling her name,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My darling, kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had been moved anew by Merlin’s magic.

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

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

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

Sweet dreams you, I love you more!  END.

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

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Tantric Transference With Famous Actor (*Adult Content).

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Image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instantaneously, the dream became very awakened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyng Soale said softly in the most soulfully sonorous voice,

“Come on, let’s go inside.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quite magnetic eyes, too, they were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Photo: Kimono.

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Merlin Shapeshifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What are you doing here?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was completely flabbergasted.

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

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Photo: Chinese model in A-line dress.

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

You Cheeky Little Imp!

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This dream occurred, on Friday, May 1, 1998, whilst I then lived in Montréal.  The Moon was in Cancer thereby transiting my second house.  It was sheer joy to have encountered Merlin’s playful spirit which was fully engaged as the trickster – the exalted dream shaman.

Once inside the house, I laid low for awhile and then got up to explore.  I do know that Pandora da Braga was on an upper level of the dwelling.

A little boy was outside in a stroller.  Above all else, there was no way of getting around one fact… this was a supremely intelligent child.  White, his hair was sandy-blond.

Naturally, he was regimented into a blue jumpsuit denoting his sex.  His legs were fat and there was, of course, the bulkiness of his being diapered.

The back of this boy’s knees were dimpled, fat and very cherubic a body was his.  His stroller sat on a paved walkway.

Two or three steps from the house’s landing led to the yard.  His back was turned to the yard’s six-foot-high, wooden fence of pale wood that was treated to be weather resistant.

As it had some traces of cyanide in it, the wood had an off-green hue to it.  Seated there, his left profile was closer to the house as I looked outside at him.

Whilst I absently worked at something, he inquisitively looked in at me.  I held up the bottled water that I had been drinking, extending it out the window, as if to offer him a drink.

He was keenly adept at the art of telepathy but feigned ignorance – as well he ought to have, as someone might have had him dismissed for mad.  Goodness knows, it would only take one superstitious adult to then have this young child declared demon-possessed because of his gifts.

Whoever he is, it was quite good to have connected with this august-souled young man.  Cocking me a look, he sized me up letting me know that he knew that I was playing games with him that he was not ignorant of.

I was floored by his candour.  He was a real cheeky devil who soon managed his way out of his stroller’s harness.  Since he was much too young to be walking, knowing that this was the dreamtime, he did the logical thing.

He shapeshifted and suddenly became a cat.  Thus, he magically acquired the stealth and agility which his paucity of human age and physical growth denied him.  I was blown away for not even I would have thought of such a magus move.

Once transformed, he became a large white cat which came up and quietly snuck into the house.  This was the sort of move that could readily have tricked and unhinged a lesser mortal, in this situation, but I was aware that it was him all along.

Turning around, only briefly, I had lost sight of him but caught his drifting tail as he sneaked around a corner.  I was not, indeed, going to be hoodwinked.

Roaring aloud, thrilled by the child’s brilliant display of both wit and magus energy, I went chasing after the cat.  Like the child that it represented, the cat bolted rushing through the house by going downstairs.

Eventually, it settled on a pile of crates.  The crates were off in a far, darkened corner of the basement.  Though a large, multiple-roomed house, the basement was not partitioned.  It was simply a large open space.

In the form of the water heater, heat and air conditioning systems, the usual signs of normalcy were present.  Nothing here could have proven a fire hazard.

Through which the cat could come and go as he pleased, the crates comfortably sat just beneath a tiny basement window.  The window proved, in fact, an air duct which was shared with another of the house’s many rooms.

Clever though he was, I was not fooled by his cheeky little act.  A large white tom, it had a fat rump on it.  A pure snow-white cat it was.  Addressing it as the precocious boy that I knew it to be, I called out to the tom.

I told him to be careful, being so high up on those crates, to not hurt himself.  To my surprise, he cockily shot back, sounding every bit like Merlin when speaking in his duxypuss voice,

“Oh come on, I’m a puss!”

I roared, blown away by the playfulness.  In one sure leap, it leapt through the opening and headed upstairs.  Just like that, he was out of sight.  He had flashed the tail at me just before taking flight.

I was stunned by his wicked playfulness.  This kid had me dismissed as a real pushover.  Not missing a beat, I went running upstairs calling out to Pandora as I did.

I told Pandora to keep her eye on that cat – I did not want it to get away.  When I came up, Pandora asked what cat I was talking about.  There was no cat in the house, she was confident, nor was there one normally.

To my surprise, the little devil had shapeshifted again and returned to his original state by becoming a rather precocious human child.  There he was holding the same bottled water that I had previously offered him.

He sat there, hungrily gulping down the water, all the while looking at me as though he had never laid eyes on me before.  Indeed, quite the cheeky little imp.  The sight of him only made me roar even more.

I couldn’t believe his brilliance.  It was such refreshing magic.

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Photo: White domestic short-haired cat & Buster sporting Lion cut.

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

The Dreamer Awakens.

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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 1978I, 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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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Dropping In On An Old Favourite of Many Lives Ago.

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Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, during the fourth and fifth dreams, I would experience the most rhapsodic sojourns to a past life.  It was lucidly experienced, on Sunday, April 25, 1993.  Rather than a past life of Merlin’s, it was a past life of mine.

It should be noted that these dreams occurred in the ‘A’ or first sleep cycle that day.  There obviously was a ‘B’ or second sleep cycle of dreams that day and they are subsequently shared herein.  

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On my arrival to this strange locale, the fourth dream was begun.  I intuitively knew that this was the scene of a past life experience.  Initially, I thought that I was in Sandy Point, St. Kitts as I had assumed that I was up at Brimstone Hill Fort.

It proved not to be.  I experienced it as it was way back when.  This structure had lots of canons and guns set up.  The artillery was, of course, fully functional.

The place was very sloped; it seemed to have definitely been on an island and preferably in the Caribbean.  The hill was very steep leaving part of the fort steeply graded.

It was intensely sunny out.  On looking down at the landscape below, I realised that this was not Sandy Point, St. Kitts at any time in history.  One section of the complex was a burial field for soldiers who had died during combat at the fort.

A large rose tree and some other trees had, over time, grown tall.  One tree presently was in bloom with a large red flower.  Its beauty was captivating.  Subsequently, this tree grabbed my attention for a long while.

Whilst looking down at the splendour of the grounds, I thought that there was nothing in the world that I would rather do than to work the grounds of a cemetery like this.

For one, it was an historical site worthy of much care.  In addition, it was very ancient – almost old-souled in nature.

‘There could be no job more rewarding and uplifting than this,’ I thought at the time.

Whilst on the grounds of the cemetery, I looked up to a higher level of the fort complex.  Beyond it was the most spectacular vista imaginable; it was a mighty, lush, forested peak.

The fort was definitely itself on a hill.  However, the fort was not situated on a mountainous area.  In that sense, it was much like Brimstone Hill Fort which does sit on a peak.  Just as the arrangement with Brimstone Hill Fort, this peak was to the east.

As a matter of fact, this was quite the imposing peak.  Every available square inch of it sported the most densely planted, lush tropical trees.  These arboreal giants imposingly towered into the tropical sky.

From where I stood, a long procession of brown legal-sized envelopes littered the ground.  They proceeded high up into the slope.  With me at the time was Milton Bloomfield except that he did not seem his usual self.

Though he looked as he presently does, I had the sense that there was an amalgam of him and a former aspect of self as he looked in a past life.  Perhaps, the resonances to a former life that bled through reflected a time in the past when we knew each other.

No doubt that would have been a past life which directly related to the one that I was presently revisiting.  I suggested that we go for a hike as I know that he likes outdoor activities and events.

We could get some backpacks and head out on a trek and go all the way to the top.  I pointed out to him, where there was much activity, a region to the right on the peak.

I suggested that we go there because it would be nice to go and study the colony of wild monkeys at play there.  He said that he could get into it.  He then joked, with a screwed up look on his face, just as long as I had no ulterior motives.

He snickered and I returned a deadpan blank expression to his denial.  There was no need for him to think like that.  I wanted to be with him – his spirit.  He was great company to be around… nothing more.

Whilst he went off, to possibly get ready for the trek or take off altogether, I began looking down into the town below.  In a sense, I suppose that Sandy Point could have looked this way back in the seventeenth through eighteenth centuries.

For the most part, the buildings were no more than two storeys; just as in Old Sandy Point, many of them were chimneyed.  This, however, distinctively was a Caribbean place if not in St. Kitts.

It could not have been Brimstone Hill Fort, however, as it was a very long sprawling fort.  Much of the fort here was built on the side of a steeply graded slope.

To the west was the sea; nonetheless, I never did look out to sea.  Strangely enough, from these altitudes, it was fairly cool out.  For the life of me, I could not quite figure out what churches these were.

They were off to the south and away from what would have been Sandy Point – if these were, in fact, the structures of Brimstone Hill Fort.  Certainly, in the case of the latter, there were no established sixteenth and seventeenth century stone dwellings to the immediate south of Brimstone Hill.

There was a round château-like structure which was being built way down the slope.  Here, there were several Blacks working on the construction site.  The whitewashed walls were exceptionally thick as one would expect to find in a European palace.

Rather than where I was, this was being built as part of the fort but close to the base of the slope.  The architecture was distinctly French and the roof was a steeple-like affair.

The round lines were reminiscent of Château de Chenonceau.  The roof was partially constructed and was black in colour.  There were easily, in excess of, seven hundred persons labouring away at the construction site.

A very driven group of workers they were.  The design of this structure was familiar to me.  An intensely close-cropped town, it was down at the base of the fort.

From the distinctive look of the architecture, I decided that this was probably on one of the French islands here in the Caribbean.  The mountainous terrain had me wondering if this were not, in fact, Haïti rather than Guadeloupe or Martinique.

Finally, I decided that I couldn’t resist the attraction so headed down to explore the town.  Moving down the slope, I came to a clearing.  There I discovered that, within the walls of the fort itself, there were a great many structures.

Apart from the town below, it was a complex administrative entity onto itself.  Everywhere, the fort was constructed using massive black stone.  The walls of the fort, as well as the many buildings on its grounds, were all made of the same stone.

This complex was quite well-fortified plus, on the grounds of which, they grew every possible foodstuff that they needed.  There were orchards.  Also, there were areas where livestock were reared on the grounds.  This was in addition to the vast holdings beyond the walls and on the outskirts of the town.

The streets, inside and outside the fort, were narrow cobblestone affairs in that decidedly European fashion.  When I got to the clearing, I happened on these two people who were aides to a very ancient man.

He wore a suit.  This man was clearly a shaman and of Amerindian descent rather than African.  Instantaneously, I identified with him and recognised that he was me.  This was a past life of mine that I had returned to visit.

Not only was he long-lived but he was deeply occult.  He was an accomplished master.  His task involved laying his hands on the injured soldiers.

Even though these people were there to overrun his civilisation, he chose to ignore the politics of the situation.  Since his people were already overtaken, he chose to go into service of the Europeans.

It was not so much that he had sold out.  However, he had to fulfill himself with regards to the community at large.  Stranger still, was the fact that he was being allowed to practice his shamanism.

Obviously, this was a very unconventional approach to healing/medicine.  It was remarkable that within a European Catholic institution he was welcome into their midst.

This man really couldn’t have cared less that his own traditions had been annihilated by this foreign culture.  They were human, as was he, and were in need.

Gladly, he used his powers to serve humanity in this capacity.  He was a man with a strong warrior-like face that was generously flared-nostriled.  Much as Pablo Picasso’s was, his was an intensely martial-energied face.

He was strong, warrior-energied and intensely, sexually magnetic.  The shaman wore a bodysuit that was made of thick fabric.  It was to protect him from being stung by insects and hurt by dangerous plants, when beyond the walls of the fort, moving through the wooded areas.

I think that part of his life he spent as a bit of a reclusive ‘wild man’, up in the mountains, beyond the heights of the fort.  At this age, he walked with a long staff.  He was a wrinkled, dear old soul.

When he got up to leave, I stood there being blown away by the sight of him.  In any event, in that lifetime, I was a much-revered elder in the community.

This man held a position in the community which was totally unique and unrivalled.  This past life of mine was one in which I was a spiritual leader within the community.

A short, hobbit of a man, he was incredibly dark-skinned.  Though not a tall man, he was robust.  There was nothing frail about him.  He had a great constitution in that lifetime.

In his youth, it was plain to see that this man had wandered far and wide.  He had worn his years well on that body of his.  As he got up and walked away, I was so blown away to have seen what I looked like in this particular past life, I sat down and started laughing for joy.

To say the least, the great pride that I felt in self was uplifting.

The canons all had balls piled up in pyramid formations besides them.  Everything was very current and clearly in use.

Some of the canons were rather tiny and had to be placed on stands to best reach up to their perches.  One of them was green as though made of long-ago oxidised copper.  There was clearly no war at the time.

Throughout this entire experience, I was always removed from everyone and generally hovering in the air.  Clearly, I had astral-projected to this place.  The only person who could have seen me was Milton Bloomfield.

I did though have the distinct impression that the old man had asked to get going because he had sensed me.  I think that he thought that my presence meant his imminent passing which was obviously not the case.

Also, there were very few persons here at the time and the ones whom I did see were not the least bit familiar to me.  Perhaps, in a former life, I was buried at that cemetery because it certainly was a place of great solace whilst I visited it.

It felt like a coming home of sorts.

There were no upright markers for the gravesites.  Instead, there were long slabs that outlined each burial plot.  It was a very Catholic-looking affair with most of the graves long-ago sealed.

Next, this being the fifth dream, I was in a house and thought about the mindset of the Europeans whom I encountered.  They were discussing the fact that their children kept domesticated monkeys from the mountains as children of their own.

Their attitude towards these animals was not only proprietary but there was an element of racism involved, too.  They saw the domesticated monkeys as their own special breed of ‘Negroes’ that were not wild and potentially dangerous.

*How utterly evolved!  END.

They had gotten attached to the animals because the old Amerindian shaman also cared for animals.  Part of his reason for going off into the mountains was so that he could care for the animals.  He took it upon himself to heal and nurse back to health, any unhealthy infant monkeys from the colony that had been abandoned to die by their mothers.

He had a deep loving rapport with these animals which the transplanted Europeans admired.  Naturally, their children desired having some of the cared for animals for themselves as pets.  Since he couldn’t exactly deny them the request either, he gladly indulged them.

For one, it was his nature to be caring and of service to all life.  For another, he was in no position to deny the demands of persons who ultimately did not see him as an equal.

Two of the monkeys, which he had nurtured back to health, were now the favourite playthings of this particular family’s children.  What struck me about these two creatures was the fact that they looked more like two-toed sloths rather than monkeys.

These creatures were so old-souled-looking with their slow-moving demeanour.  Their black-within-black soulful eyes were placed low on their sloped foreheads.

Interestingly, I was concerned at how small their heads were.  To me it suggested that their brains were too small, without the requisite capabilities, for ensoulment to have occurred.  Even in comparison to the rest of their bodies, their heads were exceptionally small.

Their arms, on the other hand, were entirely another matter.  Ridiculously long, they were also phenomenally strong.  Clearly, this was somewhere in Central to South America as the sloths are native to that part of the world.

*I would rather not corrupt the experience by attempting to describe the details of the encounter.  Since it is not good work to fabricate, especially with regards to the dream material, I would like to leave it at that.

I would also like to add here that a most magnetic electrical storm greatly inspired me before going to sleep.  I had gathered a couple of blankets and gone onto the balcony, 16 storeys up, facing due west.

There I looked at a gathering storm system.  With crystals in hand, I began taking long even breaths when the lightning show started.  It was so intense.  There was a microburst and Whoopi leapt onto my lap, high as a kite, looking at the storm transfixed.

I had never felt so connected with nature in long ages.  Directly pointing the crystals into the aperture of the break in the clouds, I took seven long, deep breaths whilst chanting ‘Om’.  At the end of the sixth breath, the skies broke open and the most powerful downpour started.

This was such a moving experience that, with Whoopi trembling and purring away next to me on the chair – she had leapt from my lap during one of the thunder claps but returned on my invitation – I began uncontrollably weeping.  It was so immensely beautiful.

So I thought then about my life and what a greatly enriching experience it has been.  Thought, too, of how marvellous it has been to have met and known Merlin and everyone else along the way who has added so much learning to my journey.

Naturally, I thought a great deal of Gustavo Vadim and me.  At the end of it all, I felt truly weary and looked forward to nothing more glorious than slipping into the dreamtime.

These dream experiences were inspired by the expansiveness of spirit that I experienced during the storm.  For having blissed out, on the energies of that incredible electrical storm, I was able to move into the lusciousness of the greenhouse and connect with the magus within.

For feeling oneness with nature, during the electrical storm, it affected resonance to the deeply spiritual life of the Amerindian shaman.  For being inspired during the storm, I readily astral-projected on slipping into sleep.

Like an eagle, I spanned spiral arms of time and was able to drink of the noble spirit of self in a former life.  The gift for having taken the time to commune with nature, during the storm, had me travel across time.  There I would just as marvellously bliss out when re-experiencing aspects of that past life as an Amerindian shaman.

However, I found it really strange to have encountered this distinctively French architecture.  I am convinced that the life was lived in what was clearly not the Caribbean but Central or South America which was only ever Spanish.

After all, there were never sloths in the Caribbean.  For that matter, was that particular Amerindian look ever native to the Caribs or Arawaks.  Perhaps, there was some person who favoured the French school of architecture and had his or her designs executed.

Certainly, there could be signs of French architecture in several of the Caribbean islands but hardly in the Americas – Central and South.

However, all of this leaves one to assume that perhaps it was in French Guyana.  Exceptionally, it is the only French-speaking country with French architectural influences in either Central or South America where sloths are exclusively to be found.  END.

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Photo: Big Head

c. 1905 Edward S. Curtis

Provenance: Library of Congress. U. S. A.

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Past-Life Dream Set In Intrigue-Filled Dynastic Egypt.

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This dream, set in dynastic Egypt, deftly betrays what a powerfully focussed and strong woman Harella was.  The dream was first that day.  

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I was seated on a wonderful divan in a beautifully opulent place.  Instinctively, I knew that this was in Egypt.  It was during the height of pharaonic Egypt.

There were two stout women here with me who were light-skinned.  Hard to tell whether they were Mitanni or light-skinned Blacks.  They were cooks and were fussing over me asking me to eat up.

I ate from a plate which had these different shoots on it.  One of them was papyrus shoots, some bamboo shoots and a wild Nile delta mushroom.  It was strictly vegetarian fare.

As well, there was a purplish tuber like baby eggplants.  I ate with a fork which was very heavy-looking.  Clearly, I did possess some rank at birth.  I would point out the items I wanted to eat next and would then have it fed to me by either woman.

At one point, I was told by one of the women,

“Yes, you even remember what your favourites were last time.”

At this point, into the room walked a tall Black woman of Ethiopian features and complexion but who was not too dark.  Definitely, she was from the Upper Nile region.

I can’t quite do justice here as to how supremely regal this woman was.  She was quite simply the most regal and powerful creature imaginable.

The two eyes that this woman wore were large, brown and soulful.  You felt her soul itself looking out and into you.

I did not think of her as having been Merlin in a past life.  However, it is quite possible that this woman’s soul I knew quite recently as Merlin during its last incarnation.

When she entered the room, the women looked at each other and one of them said in a sotto voce,

“Ah yes, she’s brought him with her.”

There was a Black man, who was a little darker-complected, there with her.  Seemingly a relation or priest, perhaps, he might even have been a eunuch.

He remained in an outer room.  She was quite simply the Queen, the Pharaoh’s wife.

On entering, she began walking around us and speaking.  She was very stylised in her movements.  She wore a tunic of gold thread and strips of gold filigree.

In places, her dress looked metallic.  In its sparse, linear, understated opulence, it seemed not unlike something that Cynthia McFadden would design.

The dress throughout was festooned with the designs, all in gold, of open papyrus leaves.  They were very tiny and sat inside of little squares.

In one square there would be a papyrus applied, such that it would be very iridescent, whilst on the next square it was very dull with a matte finish look to it.  The resulting effect was one of row after row, square after square, of papyruses.

Each square was exactly half an inch square.  The detail on this dress was absolutely golden.  It was supported by half-inch-wide straps which, of course, had the same square papyrus design.

Next to her flawless complexion, she was simply statuesque.  Her neck was easily six to ten inches longer than the infamously long neck of Ann Cokossi, Princess of Togo – the regal lady’s neck was longer than Iman’s.  Iman was clearly descended from the same stock.

It was not Iman.  She did have long hair that was finely braided in the fashion of a Maasai male’s.  The hair was swept up off her face and into a very intricate arrangement.

There were several beads throughout her stylised hair and some of them were cowrie beads.  There were other shells and some precious stones as well.

Her makeup was exquisitely applied and clearly was a several-hour affair.  The eyes, of course, were the most detailed.

I really did not get a sense of it being the famous Nefertiti Akhenaten.  However, the man that she was with was undesirable and totally untrustworthy.

I got the sense that it was someone related to me, as in myself, in a past life.  He never did enter the room.

Whilst speaking with the woman who sat there on the chair feeding me, the queen kept on slowly gliding about the room.  This woman was like the Queen Mother or, perhaps, the dowager.

Whilst she spoke, I was beginning to become refamiliarised with the palace intrigue.

Throughout the salon, where we sat, there were a whole series of spies.  Soon enough, I could discern the holes throughout the walls so that the spies could get a good command of what was going down.

There was a great deal of subterfuge here.  There was a whole caste of spies.  There were spies who were in the service of the priesthood.  Spies of the Queen’s and still there were spies of the Pharaoh’s.

Still there were spies of the harem among which were a subclass and more powerful caste of spies for the eunuchs.  In addition, all the different levels of the royals had their own battery of spies.

All about the room, every one of those holes had a designated spy who reported back to his dynastic figurehead in the hierarchy.

This was a very brief dream, I must add here.  However, it was very lucid, real and totally lived-in a dream.

I had a sense of being there in time.  It was not just an observer dream.  I was really in the body of that royal child who could have been no more than six years old.

This occurred at nighttime and it was somewhat damp in the room though simultaneously briny from the arid desert air.  The whole language was about intonation and innuendo.

As a matter of fact, the whole language was so ritualised and stylised that it was more slow and subtle than is movement in the Noh theatre of Japan.  This was all about gestures and the myriad gestures that could be implied from the relations of one gesture juxtapose to another.

It took me awhile to get the knack of it.  However, I became totally lucid as to what was going down.

It all came back to me.  Indeed, even at the age of six, I was already quite proficient in the nuances of this very complex court language.

As she spoke, the Queen’s arms and other parts of her body would be perpetually in motion.  It was danced – this language.  The whole language was codified and layered beyond anything wildly imaginable in this day and age of superficiality.

This was deception on the order of high art.  What was spoken was mere camouflage.  The spoken word was not even an nth of the layered language.

Along with it, what her body was doing and the subtlety of movements indicated what was really implied by what was said.  More to the point, it was what was not implied by what was not said.

By comparison, the most sophisticated Parisienne would be considered a primitive communicator.

This was all very complex court politics, indeed.  Then, at one point, the Queen went and stood thereby freezing her movement and this is what one had to try and discern.

This was because the every placement of every limb and muscle, on her body, carried great impact by way of what was being communicated.  This was very much so an African tongue being spoken here.

At times, it was slow whilst at other times dizzyingly sped up and rapid fire.

*It seemed more closely to resemble Jazz vocalesing à la Betty Carter sophistication though, truth be told, even Betty Carter’s skills were primitive by comparison.  I can’t impress enough how truly complex was this language and mode of communicating.  END.

Yet I got the complete picture of what she was communicating.  The Queen was speaking of the child – my six-year-old former self.  I feigned ignorance at the time though it was obvious that I was the subject of discussion.

This had to do with the care of the child.

“How was the child coming along?” she had inquired.

I could very well have been her child.  It was obviously the custom for royal children to be separated, from their mothers at birth, the higher placed they were at birth.

I was here in this dream, of a past life experience, in the care of two women who were as if wet-nurses/governesses to me.

At another point, the Queen had produced this papyrus fan from beneath the delicate folds of the heavy-looking dress.

It was a plain fan made of papyrus.  However, it was covered in hieroglyphs.  This was also a very ancient fan which she had inherited.

The fan was being strategically used, as part of the deceptive code, to foil the spies all about the room.  When coming closer to us, the Queen had smiled a very bland smile in my direction.

This was, of course, so that nothing whatsoever could be read into it by any of the spying factions.  The Queen slowly leaned in to look at the food that I ate.

Inspecting it, she offered the gesture of showing her trust in the cooks by taking a piece of shoot from the plate to eat.

This was all theatre for as she had slipped the food to her mouth she waved the fan over her mouth whilst saying, in rapid-fire sotto voce, a couple of very strategic sentences.  It was absolutely sublime.

It was directed at the dowager Queen Mother who, for being more practised in the art, feigned utter ignorance of anything so paranoid as subterfuge.  It was priceless!

This was clearly the height of late young soul to early mature soul intrigue.  Though she could never have been overheard in saying what she had, the fan was placed to prevent the visiting Queen being lip-read.

These spies, after all, were very expert.  I do recall one man having been seated across from me earlier.  He was a spy and basically he was visiting to learn the every minutia of my mouth mechanics during speech.

It was all very subtle, though very archly shrewd and deadly, the way in which he came to do his job and record my mouth’s every idiosyncrasy during speech.

The queen had performed, in that one gesture, such a winning sleight of hand.  She was letting the Queen Mother know that she trusted her by actually tasting the food that she was feeding the child – me, in that past life.

It seemed, after all, to be an impromptu visit which means that the food could well have been laced with poison for unsuspecting me.  I suppose that if it were necessary, I could have been eliminated by the dowager Queen Mother or the Queen herself.

When she had directly stood in the centre of the room, earlier, the Queen had picked up her right foot off the floor.  She had very subtly managed not to have shifted her weight or allowed for any movement whatsoever in her upper body.

The Queen then began doing what seemed a predecessor of the frappé and began horizontally waving her foot from the ankle.  The movement betrayed a gesture akin to ‘no’.  This, of course, did not in the least betray everything that was going on elsewhere in her body.

As there were so many items of furniture about the room, it was obvious that from where the holes were placed in the walls that one could not make out the codified foot movements.

This was so mind-bogglingly delicious.  The foot being incorporated, in the language, was a most clever invention.

The moment at which she picked up her foot, it was as though I had sat up awake in bed.  It was that vividly recalled from past life experience.

‘Yes!’ I thought to myself and laughed a small breath which the dowager Queen Mother, to my side, immediately stifled with a sharp intake of breath.

One clearly did not laugh in the Queen’s presence.  The subtleties of the language here, in this point in dynastic Egypt, were phenomenally stratospheric.

This was communication taken to heights unheard of since, in any court life, on this planet.

There were times as she slowly moved about the room that the Queen had ritually placed the fan to her beguiling face, to fan herself, whilst letting out little phrases for us to hear.

On one occasion, her back was to us and her arm in back made a series of quick gestures that were not unlike sign language.  Meanwhile, the fan was to her face giving us a double stream of code to simultaneously decipher.

To the point of being frightening, the Queen was very deceptive.  It was hard to ever see her eyes.  The Queen used language such that the eyes could never have been seen.

More could be read from her eyes adding to what she was saying.  For this reason, she almost exclusively kept her lids such that it kept her gaze cast out and down to the floor.

Her head, of course, was never lowered and the rapid eye movements which she employed were also very strategic.  When she spoke, one was never to make eye contact with her.

It would imply too much simply because we were being spied on.  This was indeed a very restrictive existence.

There we were, in a fish bowl of sorts, being spied on by sharks who completely surrounded us waiting their turn to hungrily make prey of us.  Since she was the Queen, one could never look at her eyes.

However, I was possessed of more than my six-year-old self making me a very probing and curious soul.  The Queen picked up on this and was acutely made uncomfortable by it.

It was as though there was now some new development in my maturation which spelt trouble.  Naturally, you just knew that there was any number of long discussions to come as to what to do with this ‘one’ meaning my poor, possessed self.

It was as though, for having stepped into my former self’s six-year-old body, I could have spelt his very untimely and not accidental death.  Regardless, this woman and I were deeply connected.

I could sense from her a real familial, maternal even, bond.  The Queen was very much so in tune with me.  There was an element of this communication which was low-level telepathic.

Indeed, there were times when she had thusly engaged me.  It was chiefly done for putting me at ease.  It was also how she had to stay bonded to me for having had me taken from her, of custom, at birth.

What was really interesting here was that the concept of reincarnation was definitely fully accepted and religiously incorporated in the schemata of dynastic life.  The dowager Queen Mother and governess, too, were both convinced that I was someone in the royal family who had reincarnated.

My choice of food favourites were validation enough for them.  I was very much so favoured by the Queen.  She was warm towards me.

However, she never physically expressed this.  There was always, however, a very strong psychic fusion between us with most of the energies coming from her to me.

She was connected to me – this much was unmistakable.  I never did see the eunuch who had accompanied her, however, he was very powerful an influence in their lives.

For this reason, more so than the placement of the spies, the Queen never once was demonstrative of her feelings towards me.  She did let up on reaching towards the plate of food.

One had the sense, of the eunuch who had accompanied her, that he was the one person who had connections to all the spying factions within the inner royal circle.  He waited outside in the antechamber and his presence was more closely being paid attention to, than even the Queen’s, at times.

There had also been musicians about the room playing music.  This was simply to drown out the conversation being heard by the battery of spies.

The musicians were placed along all four walls to really drown out the conversation.  This then precluded conversation from making it to the periphery of the room and the spies just beyond its walls.

This was a very palatial suite.  It was dimly lit and sparsely decorated yet in the finest style.  A very comfortable and socially elevated milieu it was.  A most elevated dream experience.

*As it is the forty-fifth anniversary of Merlin’s birth, I had asked prior to sleep in a lengthy meditation, to become opened up to experiencing aspects of a past life experience between Merlin and me.

I asked only that it be of a positive nature and that it be in no way an unpleasant experience.  The last thing that I wanted was to have some dream which mirrored the less pleasant aspects of Merlin’s end-of-life experience.

Voilà, there it was – a most vivid, awakened dream experience.  I have no idea which person here could have been Merlin.

I fully identified with the six-year-old and, indeed, I was experiencing the dream inside his body and, at times, from a detached perspective.  Then, too, I did identify with the much-feared eunuch outside the door.

So I don’t know if he was me or, perhaps, even Merlin.  The very loving energies of the Queen Mother could more easily have been Merlin, in a past life, than the Queen herself.

**The musicians about the room, against the far walls, were all distinctly Nubian.  They were exquisitely beautiful and the quirk that they each had was that they were, for obvious reasons, each of them both blind and deaf.

This, of course, did not detract from their stellar musicianship; at times they did sing.  However, for being both blind and deaf they could not be expected to be picking up on any of the codified language and body signals that formed this most layered of spied-on, palace intrigues in dynastic Egypt.

I should think, too, that this was at the heights of the Middle Kingdom before the advent of Akhenaten’s ascension.  This sort of intrigue, and frankly rut, is precisely what he was likely sick of and seeking to escape when initiating his monotheistic religion.

Of course, with so much centuries-old intrigue, clearly he would have been seen as the ultimate obstruction – a heretic who had to be annihilated at all costs and things righted in his demise.  This, of course, is precisely what did take place.

Again, despite the vogue since the nineteenth century to make a truly African civilisation anything but, everyone one and everything here was distinctly African: the music, the looks, the sense of fashion, styles and hair styles.

The Queen’s eyes were not only phenomenally powerful but her head had that distinctly African/Black high-foreheaded look.  The Queen’s neck was almost giraffe-like.

She made Iman look no-necked by comparison.  END.

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Photo: Supermodel Iman.

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.