Tag: Astral projection

A Most Noble Shaman, Sarah!

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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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Ghosts of Future-Past.

Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

I found myself hovering over Times Square.  I was intently looking at a hotel in Times Square – the one that has the large oxidised globe on it.  I thought – this may be the Drake Hotel.

The building, at its upper storeys, had aspects of a pyramid or a ziggurat to it.  This was one of those monolithic sandstone buildings that were built in the 1930s – a decade when there was a real architectural renaissance in Manhattan.

It had a very large base that culminated in a stepped formation near the top.  The building sat on the west side of Eight Avenue, if I correctly remember.

Perhaps, it is not even a hotel – I thought, maybe, it is the headquarters for one of the city’s newspapers – with the globe at its zenith.  So, perhaps, it formerly housed or still does The New York Times.  After all, it is in Times Square – hence the name of the square.

After having hovered for awhile, I began to move very slowly; I was high up – several storeys high up.  I watched as the ubiquitous yellow vehicles of the city’s taxi fleet, way below, negotiated the congested traffic.  I was able to see beyond the usual as well.

I saw Carl Leroiderien† going to pick up tickets for a Broadway show.  He was walking past the stage door; he was going towards the front of house.

There was something about this man which I found rather sagely.  Soon, he passed out of view; he went off to see someone.  He stood out like a sore thumb.

I knew well enough not to come down.  Carl has never had any interest in me, save to be aggressive and socially hostile, so why bother?  He was off to be in his element because basking in the glow of the klieg lights was what his soul craved at the moment.

However, when Carl was leaving his Chelsea apartment, I saw him talking to Merlin.  I still hovered in the air outside a front window that faced Carl’s fire-escape.

“No, no.  I sent those manuscripts for you and you can just go over them,” he was saying to Merlin as he returned some of Merlin’s writings.

Carl, arrogant prick that he is, was insensitively dismissing Merlin’s writing by returning it.  Of course, he did so under the guise of being too occupied to read the manuscripts.

I could tell from Merlin’s tone that he was really hurt for having his creativity dismissed.  Merlin felt rejected.  Carl was a disingenuous schmuck.

Carl’s offhandedness with Merlin was obnoxious.  Clearly, he did not think that Merlin’s writing was worth his time but – platinum-tongued palaverist that he is – he also did not give an opinion of what he thought.

Carl had cleverly placed the writing into a small trunk, which had languished in the Bourbon Street basement of his tiny cottage, abandoned there for over a decade.  The manuscripts were water-damaged.

In presenting Merlin with the trunk, he would minimise the rejection by making it look like he had been intent on returning the trunk and its damaged contents.  The snub was not lost on either Merlin or me.

I was, at the time, just down the hall; it was a short distance from where Carl had been talking to Merlin.  Wounded as he was, Merlin never did come out from the apartment.

Whilst standing by two apartment doors, I kept watch.  People were coming and someone said,

“I think that there is someone by the door; I can just tell…”

Since I did not want Carl or Merlin to know that I was about, I hid in back of both doors to the landing.  In that way, I avoided being seen by Carl’s neighbours; I averted the kind of trouble that I did not need.

I then went down the hall.  The door on the right was the apartment where Merlin had been.  I went to the door and knocked.

On opening the door to answer, Merlin looked totally different.  Though the eyes were unmistakably Merlin’s, he was considerably taller.

Merlin was very light-skinned and unmistakably Black.  He had off-blond hair that was naturally curly which he wore in a loose, soft Afro hairdo.  He was casually dressed.

He pleasantly smiled, on recognising me, though he was wearing a different body.  He familiarly, warmly said,

“Come in…”

Oh to hear his voice embrace me.  Such sweet, sustained magic!

I entered.  It was obvious that he was making one of his spectacular meals.  I, almost immediately, noticed that he had bought a cake.  It was a wonderful loaf.  Obviously, from the look of things, he had spent a great deal of time working on the other dishes.

There was a baked squash dish which was flavoured with a sweet liqueur.  A veal loaf was surrounded by a sea of sliced onions.  It presently was atop the stove, though, it was supposed to be returned to the oven.

There were marvellous vegetables that were all at various stages of preparation.  He stood at a sturdy, wooden-topped, central cutting board table.  He was cutting up an assortment of the vegetables.

My mind relaxed, as the pungent aroma of all the different herbs and spices being liberally used proved satiating and filled me up.

It was wonderful to again be in Merlin’s presence.  I had the impression that he was Straight or, perhaps, Bisexual.

At the entrance of the apartment, on the left, there was a little alcove.  The kitchen began there but it also opened up into a larger room.  This actually was part of the living room; it was L-shaped and hugged the kitchen area.

There, in the apartment, was a young woman with Merlin.  There was also a woman who seemed infirmed; she was lying on a cot.  She was close to the kitchen area where Merlin was.  They kept each other company whilst Merlin chopped up the vegetables.

Merlin and I were affectionate but there wasn’t any physicality to it.  We did not hug each other when the door opened even though we recognised the revealing, shockingly displacing sight of each other.

Merlin had immediately recognised my eyes, on opening the door, just as I had his.  However, there was now a dimensional void between us.  Merlin was a ghost from the future for me whilst I was a, vaguely familiar, ghost from the past for him.  He was warm towards me.

Merlin was a very decent human being, I must say.

He was, now, easily 6 feet 3 inches tall.  Though not mesomorphic, he was also not the classic ectomorph that he had been in his immediate past life.

He was angular but not in the same way as I remembered him.  Merlin here did not wear glasses.  His eyes were large and even more soulful than they had been in his last incarnation.

It was so beautiful to see him.

The seasoning was so… spot-on.  It actually made my mouth water.

The woman then asked him, from the cot where she reclined, if he had put onions with the veal loaf.  When he said that he had, she told him that this was not right.

“Let me show you how to do the onion rings,” she called to him in a familiar, intimate tone.

Merlin then asked me to give him a hand and help him carry the things to her, just inside the larger room, on the cot.  I helped him get the veal loaf onto a large tray with some other things.  For whatever reason, at the last minute, I got some bananas and also put them on the tray.

We then came out, into the other room, where the younger woman was.  She seemed like a nurse or a caretaker for the older woman.  She was sitting there very silently observing us.

The older infirmed woman was very detailed with her directions for the preparation of the dishes and the garnishes.  Some party umbrella garnishes, which are often used to decorate foods and cocktails, were also on the tray with the food.

Merlin had sliced the bananas – actually, they were plantains.  The older woman had her arms clasped at her chest like an Egyptian mummy’s.  Merlin then bound her body with blue-striped gauze.  The blue stripes were like those of the Israeli flag.

She laid there immobile with her head raised on a cushion which had been strategically placed beneath the cot’s mattress.  She looked at Merlin and wearily said,

“Please, will you give me my last rites?  I want to hear you say that prayer.”

At that, Merlin began saying the Lord’s Prayer except that it was not at all the traditional Christian prayer of Christ.  Instead, this prayer seemed to hearken back to Egyptian times.  When he was finished the prayer, she uttered a soulful breath; it was the equivalent of Amen.

“Avuum…”

It is simply impossible to convey the sound she made.  It sounded like a three-syllable word.  Quite simply, the breath went out of her when she intoned the arcane breath.  Perhaps, at the end of each lifetime, this was the call the soul made when exiting the body.

Together, Merlin and I had said the word with her but not as she had soulfully done.  It was the chant of the dying which only a departing soul, accepting of the inevitable, could properly invoke.

When Merlin and I said it, in my mind’s eye, I instantaneously saw the word written out in bold letters of blue light.

Merlin got up and slowly, silently, walked away.  I got up after him and thought about the potency of the word.  I looked into Merlin’s face and saw that he was no longer the youthful man who had greeted me at the door.

Instead, he truly looked drained as though he had been channelling for too many hours.  He was truly exhausted for having performed the rite on her.

Merlin returned to the kitchen area.  I followed after him.  I began eyeing the cake thinking that it would make a nice snack.

‘Hmmm, doesn’t that look nice,’ I thought, although, it needed to be warmed up.

It was a wonderful, fat lumpy cake with sweets in it – rather pleasing to look at.

“My, my, won’t I be glad to get some of this come dessert time.” I said in a quiet whisper. 

On Tuesday, March 24, 1992 as the Moon transited Sagittarius and my seventh house, whilst in dream flight, I projected myself into the future.

Whilst there, I dreamt the preceding dreams which proved the most sublime encounter with Merlin.  It was not just a glimpse into the future but proved to be illuminating, inspiring even.

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Ran into an old dancer friend from eons past…  we sat about chewing the fat – and god was there much to chew at…  I riotously laughed out loud when he said, “My god who knew you had this rich inner life going down back when I knew you… you just seemed so removed, remote even, from it all…”  Indeed, sometimes it seems – at least back then – it is best to just keep quiet and not engage in the Maya.  As there are never lies in dreams, it seemed an utter waste of time to bother engaging far too many persons met along the way back there. It was a surprise to me in late teens when I discovered that not everyone dreamt with the same élan as do I.  Then again, who wants to be burnt at the stake – at least socially.  Too, persons can be so terribly insensitive and quick to judge…  Either way, it was good to hang out and meet up with an old friend.  Funny though how things turned out for many, ultimately it proved no surprise.  Then again who gives a rat’s arse and as Sweet Brown so succinctly stated, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”

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Photo: Merlin in Montréal opening night play he directed at Centaur Theatre, late 1970s.  

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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Summer Solstice Vision Quest.

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06-2-stan-bevan-b

This most magical of dreams fittingly occurred, on June 21, 1994, the summer solstice, whilst the Moon transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house wherein resides my natal Moon.  Too, the dream occurred during the second or B cycle of dream-besotted sleep that day.

It was truly a potent dream and marked my connection to the very soul of the West Coast.  Too, it was about communing with the very soul of the proud First Nations civilisations which for millennia have thoroughly ensouled this truly magical place.  

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There were two large, Amerindian totemic masks which were each three storeys tall.  They were, however, paintings – oil on canvas.  There were seven different tones of maroon and red being used in the depictions.

All were very alive – vibrant colours, even from high up in the air.  On arriving into this most lucid flying dream, I hovered high up in the air above the site.  The light was at an indeterminate time of day.

It seemed high in the north of Canada such that there was briefly no sunlight, for about an hour, before the Sun would rise again.  It was not cold out.  As I flew, I looked from left to right whilst flying over an old growth of ancient majestic cedars.

I flew here as though I were an eagle, searching from left to right, probing the territory.  I was definitely in search of something of great importance.  In that sense, I was restless until being able to finally discover this elusive treasure.

Eventually, I happened on a large clearing in the middle of which were two large canvases.  Between the canvases the earth was plain; it was not covered in any grasses.

The canvases were some forty feet wide and a good fifty feet apart.  They depicted groupings of Amerindian persons engaged in a sacred ritual.

Whilst in flight, slowly looking on at this way below, I was told by my spirit guides that this was the story of the Esquimalt Amerindians.  With that, both canvases immediately came to life.

I was then hovering in the air but within the fabric of both merged canvases. They depicted the same experience which had been halved.

I suppose that the symbolism of this schism would be the result of the rape that these proud people would suffer at the hands of murderous Europe on the rampage.

With the animation of the canvases, there had been a strong breeze that caused them to come together.  Thus the experience was made no longer halved but whole.  This occurred in the midst of the clearing.

An older Amerindian man immediately caught my attention.  He was quite dark-skinned but it was hard to tell whether he was, in fact, male or female.

Long-haired, he had a strong, proud face with a prominent fierce-looking nose.  The kind of face, his was, that I have always found so drop-dead sexy.  It was a face that was not unlike proud Lakota Sioux, Sitting Bull’s.

The ritual involved the same man being initiated in some way.  To the point of the connection being visceral, I really connected with this man.

I initially saw him from above, from the rear, but then I made it to the front of him where I got a good look at his face.  There were elders present who were more elevated than he was.

From my perspective, I had thought that he had been kneeling.  However, it turned out that they were on a raised platform.

I was now directly hovering overhead of the elders and I saw exactly what they were seeing, in his face, whilst he faced them.  There was no way to get around the fact that this man was in a trance.

This was a terribly intense experience.  Including the drummers who played the most hypnotic of rhythms, there were several others about.

A chorus of women sang, all of which was hypnotic, buoying up the initiate’s spirits whilst he was deep in trance.  The old noble being was questing.

*This dream was so intense that I chose not to go into work.  I simply did not want to be around bigoted jerks.

I took to meditating in the pyramid and really opening up to experiencing this place’s true culture and not the upstart, transplanted European culture.

That very day, I went off roaming, feeling the tug of spirit as inspired by that dream.  I would eventually meet Frederick Hinneault, a Cree Amerindian.

We met at the Club Vancouver bathhouse on West Pender Street.  The connection between us, intimately, was simply out-of-body.

Like the old Amerindian, Frederick Hinneault is a grass dancer.  Frederick Hinneault who was so potent and who would stop me cold in my tracks asking me,

“Are you aware that you use sex spiritually?  I don’t know if it’s something that you simply do without being aware of what you’re doing.  Or you were doing it deliberately because you were with me and you could sense that I would understand.

“But it’s very potent and real.  I will say that it was so surprising to get that experience.  It was quite real… you are a shaman.”

I was quite blown away by the compliment but it really was true too.  END.

There in the semicircle was a feather dancer, in full regalia, he was being initiated.  I was greatly moved by this experience.  The women’s singing was tantamount to the function of the griots, doing their thing, in West Africa.

This was a most potent and shamanic of dreams.  This was more than simply being great music, it was great spirituality; it was a great grounded connectedness both with spirit and with nature.

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Photo: Honouring Our Ancestors

Totem poles at Cathedral Grove, Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

© 2008 Stan Bevan.

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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Into the Blue.

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Image

There are dreams that transcend the merely mundane and, as such, they properly throw into perspective what is and what is not important.  In the long run, this dream makes all the Maya in the waking state but a silly distraction.

In the larger scheme of things, all the things that we become focussed on overlong are truly irrelevant.  What we don’t see and what is not readily discernible are infinitely more important than not.

This dream of intense astral plane focus occurred on Saturday, August 10, 1991.  At the time of the dream, which was the third and final one that day, the Moon transited both Leo and my third house.

Dreams such as this one definitely are a departure from the norm.  They do betray the very real fact that there is more beyond the veil than we are prepared to acknowledge.  

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I was, in this the third and final dream, in the lobby of a wonderful modern skyscraper.  It was not especially large a skyscraper.  In fact, it reminded me a great deal of that skyscraper at the south-eastern corner of Queen and Yonge Streets.

The copper-toned, glass tower that’s thirty storeys, if that much, is the one in question.  I was in the lobby waiting for the elevator.  Some persons had gotten onto the elevator but I was still waiting.

There was then some sort of an emergency and the police showed up, as did the Fire department and the Ambulance service.  Whilst these professionals tried to figure out where the problem was, this then meant that we had to be waiting around.

Somewhere in the building, there was something untoward going down.  We, the innocent bystanders, were briefed and told that we couldn’t leave the building.  There were lots of people gathering outside.

Assuming that it was just a regular fire alarm, set off as a prank, we also saw no reason to go out of the building.  However, I then realised that the fire alarm system was not going off.

It was quite interesting because people began running.  There was something wrong, so I assumed that there was someone on a rampage with a gun in the building.

Immediately, getting my wits about me, I decided that I had to take care of myself.  Whilst investigating, I began moving around the place.  Too, I noticed that people were being zapped, it was most bizarre.  I witnessed two or three people who for no particular reason were just zapped.

Basically, there would be a flash of blue light from an elevator.  The elevator door would open, filled with a bright light, whilst from the lighted elevator the blue light would shoot out.  It was laser-like and readily zapped persons in the vicinity.

Immediately, people grew fearful on seeing this.  Right away, there was pandemonium in the place.  I was with the crowd of people and knew that it was not wise to follow the herd.  With that, I went around the central column that housed the skyscraper’s elevator shafts.

In this way, I fled seeking to protect myself.  I had noticed that the people were being zapped by way of the security system.  The oscillating, silver security cameras, which were up in the corners of the building, had a wide firing range as they turned.

In fact, it was not a blue light that was flashing; instead, it was done by microwave.  So you couldn’t see this.  Nonetheless, I was told this by James Tramble’s trusty voice.

It was, just then, pointing down at the ground in my direction.  I decided that I knew what I had to do.  At that, I levitated and went up to the ceiling of the lobby.

Knowing that the cameras did not tilt upwards, they would therefore not be able to direct their deadly microwave beams at me.  However, someone came around the way.

He was part of the whole operation of indiscriminately killing innocent human beings.  I did not even need James’s guidance here; you just knew that he wasn’t human – he was extra-human.

He wore a red shirt.  The man just looked like an automaton.  There was something about him that was not with-it.  He may even have been White, however, their humanity was all disguise.

Regardless the race, he was not one of us.  In spite of human racialism, in a jam like this, we were all frigging one – human.  This droid clearly was not, human, one of us.

His task was to capture persons who could possibly get away, that is, from the reach of the microwave emitters.  He was to facilitate the success of the whole operation.

I levitated above him but he saw me.  He stood there for a moment, as if doing some serious computations, after which he made a gesture.  He was alone but I soon realised that these people had the capacity to hypnotise their subjects by looking at them.

I thought then that I was not going to be captured or annihilated by these people one bit.  At that, on effortlessly going up through the ceiling, I began to flee from the scene by further levitating.

Sure enough, without incident, I was able to penetrate the ceiling.  Next, the building’s hidden infrastructure of pipes, beams and cabling, dropped by as I cleared the floor en route to the next storeys.

Without incident, I rose upwards clearing the floor.  On looking down at my feet, I continued levitating until my feet were fully free of the stone floor.

I was now on a narrow stairwell.  As the building craned upwards, it was a staircase that had a single banister that kept going around and around.

There were little landings, all the way up, as you circled upwards with three landings between each floor.  It was quite beautiful, in fact.  I was frantically running up and saw that he was coming after me.

On seeing him enter the stairwell, I was certain that he was following me.  In my bid to outdistance him, I was about four storeys ahead of him.

I thought that no matter what, I had to get to the top of this building.  Luckily, it was not 60 to 80 storeys tall.  Somehow, I would just have to escape.

Yet every time I would go around a corner, I had stopped on realising that it was more than likely a form of entrapment.  It was fairly obvious that the security system was headquartered at the top of the building.

Thus it made little sense to be rushing up there.  Something was definitely off about his approach.  I soon realised that you couldn’t really see him running around the stairwell.

He was always in the same spot on the landing.  As I ran around like some mad hamster on a treadmill, he was now one floor below me.

It was then that I realised that just as I had earlier come through the ceiling from the lobby, to the next storey above, so too was the automaton levitating and penetrating the structure of the stairwell.

He was confident in his hunt to capture me.  Clearly, I was not getting anywhere with this approach.  Victory was clearly his.  As I had, the lobby and second storey, he was smartly moving between the landings.

Instead, he levitated upstairs by passing through the concrete of the stairwell.  Had he levitated in the open well of the stairwell, I would have seen him and caught on to what he was up to.

No heap of metal him.  I thought,

‘Enough of this fear-based irrational behaviour, I am simply going to leap out a window and make this a flying dream.’

This seemed like a sure way of ridding myself of this nuisance.  I got to the window and, when looking out, I was surprised at how high up I actually was.

You could see a body of water which was unusually blue.  As though a dense fog that strangely hung very low to the ground, there was a great deal of cloud cover.

I was certainly high up enough to be above much of this cloud cover.  However, when I went to leap out the window, he went out the window wearing his red top.

Such that he was looking directly up at me, he was on his back and floated out the window.  I thought,

‘Well good for you, now you’ve gone and levitated.’

This was clearly a trap, as well, because I ran up one floor and as I did went south.  I was running to another window to get away from him.

I knew that if I were to have leapt from the window before, he would have been there to either zap me or catch my fall.  I had planned to simply jump directly down to the ground.

Since it was a dream and I knew that I was dreaming, I would simply have broken my fall at will when a couple of storeys off the ground.  At that point, I could then turn it into a flying dream.

However, now the automaton dork made me have to abandon that little plan of escape.  So then I thought of what I would do, I would simply go through the window anyway.  Then it dawned on me,

‘What if he is simply one of an army of these automatons who look alike?  My god he could be everywhere.’

Rushing up to the next floor, as I looked out the window, I saw that he had floated up at will to the floor that I had just left.  I knew then, without a doubt, that it was a damn trap.

I was becoming more than a little bit pissed off.  I had no intentions of being entrapped or captured.  My resolve was steely, I would not be captured.  Period!

Since the other one had gone out the window and I hadn’t seen where he had gone, I thought that I just had to take my chances.  At that, I pushed off and went flying through the window.

I instantaneously began having the most wonderful flying dream.  It was so bright out that it seemed like the sunlight was streaked with platinum.

I was progressing towards the body of water as I flew, as if on my stomach, travelling headfirst.  I could see that there was an unusual cloud formation covering the water.

It wasn’t much but there was a great halo.  There was a fine light-intense mist that the cloud had been producing.  It was as if, somehow, there had been a storm that had brought the clouds sweeping down to the water.

Now, as it were, the clouds were beginning to gather.  This was definitely an astral plane dream.  Emitting a light all their own, the clouds were very thin but very, very white and seemingly iridescent.

The clouds caught the light in such a way that it caused them to glimmer tendrils of light away from the amassing clouds.  The clouds were slowly drawing together into a singular, massive formation.

They were hiding something and I couldn’t see what it was.  As I was travelling, I noticed that there were these little globes of blue light.  They were very, very intense spheres of blue light.

Around them, they had rings like Saturn does.  I thought then,

‘Obviously these are extra-humans (EHs), and this armada of little shuttle-like crafts of blue light must be how they were ferrying, the previously captured, persons back to the mothership or probe.’

At that, I decided,

‘This is too interesting a dream to be fearful any longer.  Let’s get investigative here.’

At that point, I decided to follow through and see where these little crafts were headed.  Of course, they were making for the strange, massive cloud formation.  I knew that I had to fly ahead and see what the cloud formation was hiding.

I began following one and it was definitely gravitating towards something up ahead.  On closer inspection, I realised too that they were much too small to hold any human being.

Why they wanted to be ferrying back foetuses was beyond me?  Surely, I was not carrying a foetus.  Therefore, they had to have not been ferrying back foetuses in the tiny crafts of spherical, ringed blue light.

As if the equator of the sphere was tilted on its axis at a slight angle, the wings were tilted just a little bit above the horizon.  I followed the sphere of blue light and I seemed to be caught in its drag.

I was being swept along at even greater speeds than, to that point, I had been willing myself in flight.  It was then that we cleared the land way below and began cruising, at great speeds, over the immensely blue water.

On flying above it at easily more than forty storeys, it was so thrilling to experience resonance with the body of water.  I began dropping back, not going very fast, keeping my distance behind the sphere on which I had focussed.

However, I was still being swept along in its rapid wake.  As we came closer, I realised that the cloud was so colossal that it was taller than the skyscraper that I had just been running through in terrorised flight.

As I got closer to it, I noticed that it was less so a cloud.  Too, I was able to discern that there was some force within the cloud that was also extremely bright and emitting light.

Getting closer still, I realised that the spheres of blue light were actually reflecting the starlight of whatever Star system I was in.  It was broad daylight but this immense cloud formation blocked it from my view.

The Sun was directly ahead, just above the horizon, and beyond the cloud mass.  The numerous spheres of reflecting blue light were moving back to this large cloud formation.

When they got close to the cloud, they began going towards it at an angle.  They then began circling, too, they began rising up in the air a bit.

So too, I began tilting my left shoulder and began going up to the right through the air.  Still, I was travelling in the wake of the one that I had psychically latched on to – earlier near the start of my flight.

Next, I got into the outer layers of the cloud formation and it was very thin and wafer-like.  This allowed me to progress unobstructed.  I got much higher still and then noticed that up higher there was a break in the clouds.

The look was reminiscent of when one got close to the eye of a hurricane that was forming.  Going up, I encountered the most mind-expansive vista imaginable.

There in the water and simultaneously hovering just above it was the most intensely bright and incredibly large, pure blue sphere.  It was perfectly shaped and it was like a globe of liquid light that was blue merging to a soft green.

It was so light-intense.  This incredible globe of light was such a powerhouse, such a life-force onto itself.  Slowly, I spilled over the edge of the protective cloud cover and began levitating downwards towards it.

Every dream of high moment that I had ever had, clearly, had prepared me for experiencing this sphere’s incredible pure love.  I progressed headfirst downwards and into the side of it.

Interestingly, the spherical balls of light were making their way into it.  I realised that it was not at all a hard shell.  It seemed expansive, liquid… inviting.

I thought that I could definitely dive into its liquid-light shell.  Goodness, it was so serenely tranquil and beautiful.  I sobered myself with the reminder that I had come too far and there was nothing but fear itself to fear.

So at that, I chose a region of the equatorial area and projected myself at will into it.  I immediately was jettisoned, at light speeds, into it.  At once, inside the thin liquid shell, there was an even greater sense here of bright blue light.

I was now posited inside this room.  Here there were several of the persons whom I had earlier seen being zapped in the lobby.

‘You just had to go walking into a trap!’ I wearily admonished myself.

For seeing these persons present, however, I felt no pangs of fear at the obvious ramifications.  These were mostly older people but earlier they had all been stunned in the lobby.

A handful of younger persons were also present.  They were all there looking rather disoriented, slowed down and looking like they had just been zapped by lightning.

They seemed as if the experience had sent them on a wild ride around a half dozen galaxies at faster-than-light speeds.  A truly enervating experience they seemed to have endured.

These people were, in the true sense of the word, spooked.  They were all slowed down and could hardly intelligibly speak.

The first thing that I noticed about the room was that it had grey walls and not a single door.  There was no way out of this.

There were windows, however, whose drapes were very surrealist.  They were red drapes that were like the red that the automaton wore.  Though the windows were open, they weren’t really worth the bother because there wasn’t anything for you to go look out and see.

With bars that were warped, twisted and broken, the windows were arrogantly left wide-open.  The drapes were also warped and twisted, as if frozen in mid-motion, creating a surreal effect.

There were a few cots around.  Everybody who was there was assigned to a cot.  These persons seemed impaled and as though paralysed.  There were such utterly warped expressions of frozen pain on their faces.

It was as though the moment at which they had each been zapped, the look on their faces had become frozen.  Yet their frozen expressions were simultaneously elasticised and allowed them to sleepily drool to themselves.

Naturally, they carped on about the plight that they were in.  Mostly, they were communicatively trying to get through to me because I was not warped face.

It obviously seemed to be a mothership.  Yet, it was more than a spaceship.  I thought to myself,

‘Well here I am having an astral plane experience, isn’t that wonderful.’

Hollywood be damned, I was not about to grow fearful of monster EHs wanting to abduct and torture me.  I couldn’t quite figure if I had travelled into another dimension, by way of the astral plane, or had simply encountered an EH civilisation by way of the astral plane.

Regardless, it was so very wonderful.  Here were all these people who were doubly stunned at their predicament but I kept on saying,

“Come on people.  Get up, get up, get up!”

I seemed the only person unaffected by this warping paralysis.  Since they were not going to budge, because they couldn’t, I chose to join them eventually lying down on one of the free cots.

“Let’s just relax.  After all, we just have to wait and see what happens next.  We’re not in control here.  So let’s just wait this out.”

There was an East Indian guy also present whom I wanted to seduce.  I was besottedly enjoying the drink of his Dravidian-thin body.

Suddenly, there was an oval opening that appeared in one of the walls.  When it occurred, we were all lying with our heads towards that wall.

On my left, as I lay on the cot, there was a window.  On the right, there was a large opening in the wall.  It was as though an elevator had arrived and seamlessly opened in the wall.

It had deposited more people.  Looking just as stunned as the others, they stood there frozen.

The lissome East Indian guy then stood up and decided that he was going to go and put away his clothes.  I was impatient with his denial and snapped at him,

“Stop being so finicky and fussy, come and lay down.  Don’t be ashamed of your body.”

He was wearing a towel and trying to cower and run away.

“Come back and lie down.” I added.

We waited and waited for another round of arrivals.  Little children were the next round of arrivés.  They interestingly were all fresh-faced and seemingly not as stunned, if at all, as the adults.

The people, when I had first arrived – especially the older ones, looked transient like street people.  It was not that they were street people.  Rather, they were left so drained and stunned that they seemed very downtrodden like people who live in the streets.

Concerned about her metamorphosis, this one woman who was there started becoming frantic,

“Look what’s happening to me.  There are these bands on my arms!”

Indeed, this was true.  There was just below the elbow an indentation, as though an invisible band was about her arm, like some sort of shackle.  We all, for being made aware, confirmed that it was on all our arms.

She had noticed it because it was causing her some discomfiture.  It was a burning sensation that she said was painful.  She was crying and beginning to get hysterical,

“Now, now.  Just relax, stop freaking out.”

She then got up and walked over to this one cot next to hers.  She then pounced onto the man on the cot.  He was an older man as was she.  She began talking getting her voice to sound more normal.  I immediately realised that she was channelling.

As she spoke in a really archaic fashion, her body was in this weird surreal pose like a Victor Brauner subject’s.  The use of language was very ancient.  Sounding almost manly, she spoke to the man,

“Tonight I want you to bury your seed deep into me.  And be the father that bears fruit to bring forth my child; my seed; to nurture my seed.

“And turn my soil…”

I listened and thought,

‘Indeed, she’s definitely being mind-controlled by whoever has been doing the zapping and capturing.

‘Right!  At your age and well above your childbearing years, well above your seventies, you want to be impregnated.  Indeed.’

Then strangely enough, she slipped out of character and on becoming herself would embarrassingly restrain herself profusely apologising,

“My goodness, what’s happening to me?  Please.  No, no, no.  That’s not what I meant to say.  What’s happening to me?”

She, as well as the others who were being channelled in this fashion – all of them women – realised that they were being used beyond their will.  They did not want to participate or at least have it get out of hand.

So they were trying to rein it in.  However, my reaction was that they should go with the flow… at least so that I could see where this was leading.

She was then straddling the man’s hips as he lay on his back looking truly mortified.  Grinding her hips into him, she looked truly possessed by some male-energied, satyric force.

She was very carnally focussed.  On closer inspection, I realised that she was cloven-hoofed.

‘Boy this is quite the astral plane experience… indeed.’ I thought.

Here on the astral plane, these women were so keen on having a sexual experience.  Each and every one of us, they were obviously going to end up screwing to the hounds.

As the experience progressed and was getting around to me, as they took turns with everyone, I awoke.  Sadly, the phone rang as I had forgotten to turn it off on taking to bed.

*I was, to say the least, most upset because this was such an intense and involved dream.  I spoke to the woman but I was slowly coming out of the dream.

Although, I must admit that I did not feel displaced, bloated and all the usual telltale signs that I had been astral plane-engaged.  However, I did sneeze a great deal.  This, truth be told, is customary after such dream activity.

I suspect that had I gone the whole nine yards with this dream experience, the outcome for me would have been different.  I am convinced that had I consummated with the possessed women, I would have awakened feeling immensely drained.

**Later on, during the course of the day whilst meditating, I reflected on this dream.  Suddenly, a thought of Merlin fell into my mind rather lucidly.

I thought of how he used to first read then listen to the audio-cassette later in the day and comment.  Rather intently, I heard Merlin say,

“This lamb is always getting its little magic hooves into no end of trouble!”

With that I collapsed from lotus position into the plush comfort of the pyramid’s cushioned interior laughing for joy.

***Recently, I spoke to a friend who’s been following this dream blog.  He wanted to know, with regards the dream blog – Time-Travelling Georgian/Regency Dandy, if I’ve ever given thought to what might have happened had I not chosen to awaken when I had. 

I don’t believe that I would have passed as he wondered.  However, as I stated to my friend, I believe that had I acquiesced and allowed myself to have been captured by the mind-controlling extra-human sentries that I would have awakened without the slightest recall of having had the astral plane ‘dream’ encounter. 

One only has to look at Hubble space telescope images to realise that to fall for the millennia-regurgitated fare, of our being alone in the universe, has long passed its usefulness.  Why would this ignorance be perpetuated but to keep us ever unaware of what is truly afoot – not just out there but even right here on Earth? 

I hope that you continue enjoying these dream experiences of mine.  More than that, I trust that they will inspire you to become more awakened and focussed when asleep.  For starters, it is a great way of keeping the brain healthy.  Conversely, it enhances one’s ability to see beyond the waking state’s Maya-saturated veil.  END. 

As ever, sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying! 

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Photo: Giant blue spherical glass sculpture & Neptune captured by James Webb Telescope.

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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

The Avatar Manifests.

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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.  

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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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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Here’s A Gift for You, My Darling.

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A New York Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really know who you are, kiddo….” 

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

It was a great intimacy that we shared. 

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

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

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Photo:  The New York Times.

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© 2013-2025 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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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Now That’s A Hollywood Wife!

Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

a madonna mtv 1990

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dad, I want to go.”

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

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

It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought very rapturously awakened,

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

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

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

I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She said hello very warmly and apologised saying,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In any event, it was quite interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying,

“This is so unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania.

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

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

‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought then and there,

‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’

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

Why, was I participating?  I do not know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back,

“I dare you…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A truly, truly funny dream this was.

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

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

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

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

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Photo: Madonna in costume at MTV Awards 1990.

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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Tantric Transference With Famous Actor (*Adult Content).

Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

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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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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.