Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

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Diana, Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  

On the eve of what would have been her 58th birthday, I share a dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales.  At the time of the dream, July, 1996, Diana was then incarnate and would be dead less than 14 months later.  The dream suggested Diana, parenting a male child of mixed race heritage.  Naturally, at the time of the dream, she was not then yet involved with Dodi Al-Fayed.  Years later, whilst living in Montréal and transcribing the 250 audiocassette recordings of my dreams which spanned a decade, I happened on the dream.  By the time of the transcription, Diana was dead and so, on poring through the dream I thought that the male child in the dream to whom Diana seemed a mother, must have been a child of hers and Dodi’s.  

Fast forward twenty-three years from the dream in question and I am beginning to think that this exceptional male royal child was actually a dream of tuning into a future in which Diana was serving as protector of her beloved son’s own baby boy, Archie Harrison.  The skull of the baby boy in the dream who seemed like a son of Diana, Princess of Wales’, is exactly shaped like that of Archie, Diana’s grandson by way of her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his black wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  

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Alas, another dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales.  This one would involve moving into a probable reality scenario which may well have eventualised had she not tragically died thirteen months after having had the dream. 

*Then again, it may well have been tuning into a future which has now come to pass wherein, the interracial Sussexes have a male firstborn.  END.  

As with the dream of July 9, 1993, in which I would have a most rapturous astral plane encounter with task companion, Merlin, here too there would be lots of train travel.  This means of transportation, I have come to realise is employed by the soul when one is questing and traversing the astral either to past, future or probable timelines. 

In this case, I had clearly dreamquested to a probable and non-too-distant future for Diana, Princess of Wales.  Sadly, it was not to be.  Obviously, in this probable near-future astral plane dream, Diana, Princess of Wales was fulfilled and had gone on to start a second family and was mother to a rather precocious son; a son whom I might add was clearly at least fourth level old-souled. 

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1996 and the Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house.  The house of death wherein is posited my retrograde Saturn, gave interesting insights to things as they might have unfolded as others’ agendum precluded Diana, Princess of Wales’s life becoming more of an inconvenience.  

*Then, too, as time has unfolded, this rather prophetic dream was actually tuning into a probable reality which has become the collective future of human civilisation and one which we enjoy today.  Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their incredible baby boy, Archie Harrison.  END.  

Of course, at the time of these dreams, I was then resident in Vancouver’s West End.  The dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and seventeen and to be found in volume XXII of the dream opus. 

There was much sturm und drang in parts of the dreams as it mirrored the vicious tectonics, long after Merlin’s passing, being played out legally and otherwise with persons whom I am so glad to be finally rid of.  Chief among them that STD-riddled, dominatrix poseuse and fag-hag to boot, who quixotically saw herself cast into the world to play Merlin’s protector and saviour – the dreams of lost village idiots… indeed. 

At the end of the day, Merlin never liked her and rightly so considered her a damn idiot.  At his passing, he had nothing to do with her; hence the fool spent the next two-plus decades being bedpan-changer of Merlin’s betrayers – a poor play at atonement that. 

Enough about knock-kneed caribou roadkill; the journey endures.  Besides, the bond with Merlin could never have been successfully broadsided. 

Come now my magical darlings, mischievously sport that wry smile known only to kindred spirits, slip into a luxurious plié, take my hand and let’s have ourselves a delicious group flying dream.   We are better for sharing this journey together; for your support, I love you more. 

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Whilst heading down a street in what was undoubtedly Toronto, in this the first dream, it was then daytime.  The street seemed like the one just around the corner from the Underground Railroad Restaurant, on King Street West, to the west of Sherbourne Street – Frederick Street.  Going down Frederick Street’s incline, I noticed along a back lane that there was a large building.  Too, I noticed a great many persons from past workplaces.  The building seemed to be an annex to the main workplace as I had known it.

One of the first persons whom I recognised was Milton Bloomfield.  He was wearing a pair of dark blue slacks and powder-blue short-sleeved shirt.  Excited to see him, I bounded over and went around to the back entrance.  Immediately, I began seeing persons whom I had completely forgotten about.  Indeed, some of these persons looked as though they were definitely astral plane habitués.  In particular, one old White male had that outré habitué look to him.  I was simply astounded to have seen some of these persons.  Truth be told, I had not thought of so many of them long in ages.

‘How quickly we do forget,’ I thought.

Such a very pleasant discovery of things past, it turned out to have been.  That aside, I resumed my search of Milton Bloomfield in earnest.  Again, I saw him in the distance.  This time he was walking away from me without having noticed that I was there.  In the end, though it would have been nice to have interacted with him, I just didn’t see the point in going after him.  On going around another corner, since I was amongst persons from the past, I had thought to go in search of Yaramé Snead.  I went over by some machines which no longer exist, in the waking state, seeing that she would shortly have shown up at the start of her shift.  I then saw her at a desk working away and hurried over to be with her.

Stooping down to her left and rear, I playfully called out hello to her.  On turning and seeing me, her reaction had been low-key.  I was surprised really as I thought that she would at least have been her usual boisterous self.  Her hair was beautifully braided.  Frankly, I felt putout as she seemed not the least bit pleased to have seen me.  With that, not wanting to be more of a seeming bother, I wrapped up the visit.  Since she had declined to have become engaged, I just couldn’t be bothered to have invested much energy in the encounter.

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Part of the focus of this the second dream, a man and I were together and seemingly were lovers.  Tall, he was a redhead; as such, he represented one of my more choice sexual partners.  Somehow, this man was in showbiz.  We were definitely lovers.  Whilst looking at TV Rosie O’Donnell had made remarks about him that were rather cutting.  Initially, I had thought that her remarks had been about Xerxes Hamelin.  The joke had been a crude remark wondering as, to which sex Xerxes Hamelin was.

This was in reference to her having breast reduction surgery.  As I did not appreciate the crass put-down of Xerxes Hamelin, I would abruptly take my leave.  I then went indoors of a house which, here, was like moving from the veranda indoors of the Crab Hill house.  A few persons were inside the house as I ranted, vowing to get that fat ugly dyke, Rosie O’Donnell.  There also was much laughter as I added,

“And we all know that I’m wicked enough, to do just as I say.  But first we’re going to sue her frigging Mickey ass.”  But my lover didn’t want to go through with it, he was a showbiz lawyer.  Snapping at him, I said,

“I won’t hear of it.  I will not be cutting him or her any slack.  Get her fucking ass!  There is no way that that no-classed fool is going to insult Xerxes Hamelin and get off lightly.  End of fucking discussion.  We sue!  During the show’s rehearsal when that joke came up around the production meeting table, she could have had the decency to say, ‘no way, I’m not doing that kind of humour’.  Obviously, she fucking well didn’t.

“It’s not about the fucking money; she will learn a thing or two, when I’m done with her fat-retaining, tired-looking ass.”  What really amazed me was how lucid and lived-in, in the body, I was.  I was really killer mad and out to do battle,  “There is positively no way that she’d have gone out there and made disparaging remarks about Jews.  And if you can’t knock the fucking Jews, you sure the fuck can’t haul your tired grey arse out on a stage to knock Blacks.  Just stop and think about it.  If a Jew would have her head in a nanosecond, then so the fuck will I.”  

After that, we went off together.  My lover was ever quiet and reserved whilst I did much of the talking.  In that sense, he energetically was much like Merlin.  However, it definitely was not Merlin.  

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As we walked about, we ran into Diana, Princess of Wales, who had a little child on her hip.  One had the sense that, after having divorced HRH Charles, Prince of Wales, she had gone on to start another family.  Definitely, this third child of hers was a son.  Apparently, she had always wanted a little girl but here she was with a dark-haired bouncing boy.  Obviously, from the looks of things here, Diana, Princess of Wales was going to have more than one family.

One interesting feature was that the boy was born with almost a full mouth of teeth.  I mentioned in passing that I guess if you end up grinning as much as she does, it would not be surprising to have newborns appear grin-ready.  Too, the child was already able to say some words at birth.  The child was exceptionally intelligent.  The young son’s most interesting feature was that even at less than six weeks, he was able to follow conversations.

The eyes on this child were exceptionally old-souled and wise.  Not the feigned coyness of Prince William was his demeanour.  We were in a huge stately Bentley whilst the child sat on his regal mother’s lap.  Diana, Princess of Wales sat on my left with my lover, a showbiz lawyer-celebrity, seated next to me.  My lover was of British birth; he was a well-placed Londoner and terribly well-off at that.

He was part of the few in whom Diana, Princess of Wales confided and had done so during her divorce proceedings with the Firm.  From the Bentley, we got into another car.  Although he really didn’t need it, the precocious son was travelling in a basket here.  This child perceptively was quite advanced for his mere few months of life.  He represented hands down a case for reincarnation.

Though he could talk, especially for someone less than a year old, he was still rather stubby and full of baby fat.  I took the rather self-aware child from Diana, Princess of Wales and headed for the car.  I then didn’t know whether she would be sitting in back of the car with us.  Considerately, I had opened the front door for her but she told me that it wasn’t necessary.

She then went into the back of the car at which point I returned her son to her.  In all of this, the precocious son hadn’t uttered a word of whiny protest for having been separated.  He had simply looked me in the eye whilst studying me and not, god forbid, because of something as absurd as my being Black.  This woman, his mother, was rather a genuinely sweet-personalitied soul.  Not your typical animus-charged, parvenu, New World wealthy snob, like heaven only knows so many North Americans, was she.  After we had taken off, I had mentioned that I had heard Prince William – who now was much taller than her – was very well-hung.

Furthermore, he loved roughing it with all the little willing boys at Eton.  This supposedly was hot gossip in those circles and which both my lover and Diana, Princess of Wales thought hysterical.  She expressed great pride in having produced such a fine stud for the Firm.  She mentioned that he had to start his studding practice sometime and far better that it be at Eton than with too many willing little girls the world over.  Clearly, Diana, Princess of Wales had no desire to turn grandmother just yet.  She was a very funny person with a distinctive snort-like giggle.

We then went into a store that was called something like Mayfair & Browne or something along those lines.  A small, high-end department store it was.

*The warm blues here would suggest that it was, in fact, Fortnum & Mason.  END.  

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Afterwards, we had attended the opening of Parliament where Queen Elizabeth II had naturally been present.  The Queen had asked the House of Lords to stand and, at that point, they had drawn some heavy red drapes.  At this point, there were rituals of an occult nature which were being performed.  This had been the custom for centuries and had been nobody’s business.  The few priests, who performed the rituals, spoke in an ancient tongue; olde English and Gaelic it would seem.

As part of the ceremony, the queen adopted a raspy, adversarial and tyrannical tone.  She snapped at them as they spoke to her.  Of course, this was to validate her absolute power as monarch.  She had spoken by using the same ancient tongue as they had.  Quite illuminating was all this for me.  From where we all sat, the monarch sat opposite us at the far end of the stately hall.  On the right was the House of Lords.

On the left, was the House of Peers where things were even more arcane and secretive.  Clearly, there was much more wealth possessed by the members of the House of Peers than those in the House of Lords; for one, they wore more expensive fur-lined robes.  Queen Elizabeth II then stood and put an end to the rituals.  When the priests retreated, the curtains rose again and at that point members of both houses of Parliament rose to bow to her majesty, the queen.

The Queen now looked her usual stoical self.  Next, a loud debate rang out in the House of Lords; this was the point at which bills were being introduced.  All in all, this was a very noisy affair.  This was the point at which my London-born lover was expected to have introduced my suit against Rosie O’Donnell.  However, he was blowing cold on the issue and tried to back out of it.

What caused him to have hung back was the raucous fight that had broken out between two Lords on some point or other.  In point of fact, they had been quite vituperative.  Soon after, we took our leave of Westminster Palace.  Diana, Princess of Wales was not seated with the rest of the royals.  Nor, for that matter, was the more royally scorned Sarah, Duchess of York seated with the royals.  

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The ride to the department store was no more than ten minutes.  Once inside, we had gone some escalators which took us to a cosmetics counter.  The look was pretty much like a Clinique counter, though, I really don’t think that it was such.  On seeing an extended member of the House of Windsor coming down the aisle towards us, my lover had dropped behind.  The focus of my lover’s attention was a rather princely gentleman.  He was young with full red lips but not was horsey-looking.

*This princely gentleman was, in fact, James Ogilvy – grandson of the dashing Prince George, Duke of Kent.  END.  

They exchanged pleasantries and it was clear that my lover was rather smitten with him.  I didn’t though get the sense of him, Mr. Ogilvy, that he was Gay.  From there, we kept going further down in the complex below street level.  Each time that we had come off an escalator, we had headed to the left to get the next.  This in turn had taken us down another flight.  Eventually, we arrived at a level which was clearly part of the city’s sprawling Underground.

As we walked, there were two little birdlike, old English women whose slow amble gait had gotten me fast impatient.  Finally, we managed to have pushed past them and gotten the train just in time.  Here we had travelled at fantastic speeds.  The trip was for quite some time and, somehow, it seemed as though they used magnetic conductors here in this civilisation.  There was a sense too that we had been travelling several miles, at least 100, below the surface.  

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When finally we had arrived at our destination, we had gotten out into a labyrinth of tunnels which had eventually led above-ground in a Japanese city.  We spent not very much time in Japan as it proved a stopover where we changed trains.  Moving on, we had travelled on a futuristic-looking train.  On board were two stylish, East Indian young women.  Both were clearly tired for having travelled a lot and having crossed several time zones.  A loud American was on board; she was an overweight woman.  As can be expected, she talked aloud for everyone to notice her.  She moronically complained about the trains not being aboveground and whined,

“I want it to be aboveground.  There’s nothing to see down here.  It’s all black and dark.”  She said the word ‘black’ with the same customary loathing as she had applied to African-Americans her whole life.  “Don’t they realise that there’re lots of tourists and we want to see.  It’s so boring being down here in all this blackness.”

‘Such a fucking acculturated bigoted asshole,’ I thought.  The train was painted white on the outside with lots of chrome and walnut finishing on the inside.  Very comfortable, red leather seats throughout the interior; this was a truly posh experience.  We had boarded at the front of the train.  We pulled into a station, though, only briefly; the train took off again never having opened its doors.  This time it took off in the opposite direction.  By now, my lover and I were no longer travelling together; however, I did have a travelling companion with me.

On this leg of the trip, we had moved above-ground at one point where we had passed the most glorious stand of ancient old trees.  They were ginkgoes that looked millennia-old.  Each was easily in excess of 200 feet.  I quite liked it here.  Though the vista was beautiful, it didn’t last very long as once again we were below-ground whilst ploughing through the lurching labyrinth of tunnels deep in the earth.

At the end of the trip, we had arrived at a swank hotel which seemed to be in either Switzerland or Austria.  From the hotel, my lover and I were reunited and began trying to get in touch with Diana, Princess of Wales.  He wanted to write to her instead of speaking so had sent her a fax.  Here we were a bit in the future, where everyone was automatically assigned their personal phone number with cellphone/fax.

*Truth be told, rather than a fax, it was a text.  Of course, at the point of the dream texting was well ahead of its time.  END.

No matter where one was in the world, regardless of the borders, the same phone number managed to get you.  Interestingly, they were not excessive amount of numbers.  He had sent her a fax (text) with his private number and had asked Diana, Princess of Wales to call him; he had wanted to lend his support in her divorce proceedings.  

At one point, when we had been driving, Diana, Princess of Wales opened up and spoke about her divorce from HRH Charles, Prince of Wales.  She said that it had left her feeling truly awful.  At the end of it, the one thing that she had taken away was the sense that she felt greater empathy for what Blacks suffer globally.  Said she, she had gone to a couple of stores to shop, after having been divorced, where the mere salesclerks treated her with scorn.

Nobody wanted to serve her as if she had even been hostile to them.  Diana, Princess of Wales said that it had been so overwhelming that in one case she had gone rushing back to her car in tears.  For no longer being a part of the ‘Firm’, the public simply treated her as an unfortunate laughing stock.  Some clerks had been outright rude to her.  She said that she couldn’t believe that anything could have made her so mad.

To have been denied was the most painful experience.  They were so mean-spirited and spiteful she claimed.  Her voice here was high-pitched and almost feverish when she expressed her rage at the injustices she had experienced.  She said that the idea of racial animus that she has heard Blacks speak of, she could finally understand.  Diana, Princess of Wales said that she had experienced something pretty close to it in the lack of civility that she had gotten from everyone.  Intently looking at her large clear eyes as she spoke, I was much impressed by her remarks.  She was rather ravishing-looking and was so in her element for being mother to this exceptional child.

*Long after the dream and as things played out, the male child whom Diana, Princess of Wales had parented in this dream was clearly fathered by Dodi Fayed.  Of course, at the time of the dream, I hadn’t a clue of Mr. Fayed’s existence.  The precocious boy had his father’s nose and brows.

Clearly, this dream was tuning into a probable reality which finally was not to be.  The child was clearly at least fourth level old-souled and may well have been a king or if not warrior soul. 

**More thoughts on this dream.  The fact that the lawyer who proved a lover of mine in this dream was a redhead, is at this time, I believe, a reference to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  As it is extremely rare that I would dream of the latter, it is not a surprise that he was translated here by my waking consciousness as anyone but Prince Harry.  Also, in light of the fact that in marrying Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Prince Harry can be said to be an advocate of sorts for racial reconciliation with regards to the ties that the BRF historically have to the enslavement of Africans.  Interestingly, that Diana, Princess of Wales should talk about having empathy for the racism that Blacks experience on a daily basis, is a dead giveaway.  The theme of race and racism is a prevalent one where her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is concerned.  

For having chosen to wed an entity mate of his (HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex) with whom he has a long reincarnational history and someone who has twice previously been a senior royal in the British Royal Family, is reason enough why the theme of race would be discussed and why Diana, Princess of Wales would be both empathetic and speak passionately about this issue.  Naturally, throughout the dream she would be closely bonded with a firstborn male from another marriage; however, rather than being a firstborn of hers in a subsequent marriage, this older soul child would prove to be the firstborn mix-raced child of her son, Prince Harry, who was represented by the redhead lawyer/advocate who happened to be my lover.  Indeed, Prince Harry can be seen to be an advocate for addressing and advancing racial dialogue and race relations.  Similarly, that his firstborn son, Archie is a seventh-level mature priest soul would indicate someone whose focus in life will be about inspiring, uplift, healing and harmony… god only knows that is sorely needed at this time.  

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Straighten up and fly right!  I love you more than you know…

 

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Audience with Magnetic Old King Soul.

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Battle, Kathleen Deanna 13/8/48 Portsmouth Ohio

This fragment is a seventh level mature sage – second life at current level, likely will be old soul soon.  Kathleen is in the power mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Venus/Mercury. 

Kathleen’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary martyrdom. 

The fragment Kathleen is seventh-cast in seventh cadence; she is a member of greater cadence six – very cardinal.  Kathleen’s entity is four, cadre six, greater cadre 5, pod 408. 

Kathleen’s essence twin is a sage and her task companion is an artisan. 

Kathleen’s three primary needs are: expression, freedom and expansion. 

There are 16 past-life associations with Arvin, 14 with Merlin. 

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This next dream does reflect the beauty of being in the company of spiritually evolved souls.  Said dream was the first on Monday, June 17, 1991, whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house – close enough to the summer solstice.

Interestingly enough, there was a dream within the dream in question.  This was one of the most rhapsodic and uplifting dreams had during my fourth decade of life.

I was going out from this apartment block’s front door.  I was aware that in apartment 6, down the hall, the door was slightly opened.

I could hear some classical music being played and tried to figure out who the composer was.  It was very complex music.  I went down to the front door of the building, unusually enough, to call Whoopi.

However, I had decided not to open the door to call her because if I were to have called her there, I wouldn’t have wanted her to then start showing up at that door to be let in.

I had noticed, on the way to the door, a whole stack of mail outside the door to one of the apartments here.  It was a door, which sat in the middle of the hallway wall, where there shouldn’t have been a door.

Stranger still, it was brown unlike the other four doors which were white.  So at that, I decided to walk under the ground floor by going down into the basement.

Whilst I was going, I was still listening and then heard Kathleen Battle being introduced on the radio…  She was going to sing.

As I was walking, Whoopi appeared in the basement as I headed for the backdoor of the building.  She began playfully running amongst all the many boxes stacked high in the basement.  From time to time, the adorable cat would run ahead of me and was quite playful.

Kathleen Battle† then began to sing and, my dear sweethearts, greater music has never been woven in the waking state.  The music was highly complex indeed.  It was supremely divine.

The aria this woman sang and the beauty of her voice was supremely stellar.  It was dignified; it was divine.  It was so beautiful that, as I walked and Whoopi joyously played, my body became healed to have heard this music.

At that, I hurried Whoopi upstairs into the apartment and took to lying in the bed to more intently listen to the music.  There was much talk afterwards about the music.

There was a White man around and I was being told by him that this music was, in fact, not native to this world.  The music was not native to Earth, he claimed.

I certainly agreed with the information.  It galactically towered above any of this world’s greatest music to date.

Also, lying on the bed with me was a girl.  She deliberately was forcefully putting her feet down the bed and was trying to put them in my face as I lay in my bed with my head at the foot.  She was White and I was just too into the high just experienced with the glorious music to have had time to go fighting with anyone.

Later on, I went out to wait for a bus.  Yet here too, at the closest bus stop, the music kept on playing.  It simply permeated the fabric of the dream experience.

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*Of course, it should come as no surprise that all throughout sleep, the radio here in the waking state was on in the room whilst I slept dreaming.  END.

However, the music being filtered into the dreamtime had been considerably transformed.  Here it was uplifted and expressed in a superior light which befitted the dreamtime’s magic.

The radio being on became my leap off point to experience some truly uplifting moments in the dreamtime.  Though CBC FM was playing classical music, at the time of my dreaming, the galactic music that I was hearing far outdistanced the familiarity of classical music by light years.

It was so complex and cerebral that as I stood there, at the bus stop, I suspected it was the classical music created by cetaceans.  I speculated that a pod of dreaming cetaceans was weaving their music, in the classical idiom, in the dreamtime.

I merely happened to have tuned into it, whilst the waking state music served as the leap off point, for vicariously entering the cetaceans’ dream dimensions.  This was so much more complex than classical music.

It was an intellectual high beyond belief.  Kathleen Battle, throughout it all, kept on singing.  It blew me away, to contemplate the amount of breath work involved in Ms. Battle singing that complexly and for that length of time.

There was a guy when I got onto the bus which was like the double-deckers of London.  I was on the lower level, in the middle section, looking back to the rear.

On the same side, as I was seated, there was a guy there who seemed very familiar.  He was aware of me in the same soul-resonant way that I was him.  However, we did not interact.

Across from him, there was a rowdy guy who seemed drunk.  The police had come and taken him to the front of the bus to take him away.  Interestingly enough, the police wore the uniform of the London Bobbies with the hat and the whole gear.

When I got to where I was going, it was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful tropical island with a beautiful mountain range.  There were two large homes and I was told that both of these homes were, in fact, owned by Kathleen Battle.

This was where she retired to recharge her batteries.

‘How fine, indeed,’ I thought.

There was a party being thrown for her by marvellous celebrities.  It was then that I recalled having been at a concert earlier prior to going out and taking the bus.

It was either at Salzburg or Bayreuth.  When Ms. Battle was onstage, she wore a blue dress that billowed in the breeze which created a wonderfully hypnotic slow-motion effect.

She had more fucking-goddamn fire planets in this dream, I can assure you, than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis does with her six fire planets no less.  Kathleen Battle possessed, in this briefly recalled dream within a dream, great spiritualism.

She sang and what she was doing with her voice was nothing short of magic.  She was as if the ocean because each note was so liquid, time-stretched yet complex.  There were more nuances worked into each note than is, in the waking state, humanly imaginable.

It was not unlike all the funky innuendo that a female Jazz singer can cram into one little song.  It was absolutely incredible what she was doing.

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When she was done, the house went wild.  Everybody here was so spiritually elevated.  I was up in the balcony, on the right side of the stage and I screamed down bravo with thunderously deafening passion.  My ecstatic celebration made all the people close to me laugh with enjoyment at my rapture.

As I lay asleep, my body simultaneously began zinging and tremblingly with energy as I thunderously shouted, ‘Bravo’.  When articulating my passion, I had shoved out my neck and at that my neck began elongating.

My overjoyed face moved possessed as my voice operatically roared from my soul itself.  My face ended up snaking down through the air, from the balcony to the stage, my neck like some exquisite anaconda swimming through the air bearing my proudly ecstatic face.

My face was peeled wide-open with ecstasy.  Indeed, the fire in my eyes was just phenomenal.  This dream was inordinately empowering.

It was as though I had become truly animated with a hyper-elongated neck and my face was not unlike the faces of those spiritually elevated and regal ladies that I had recently dreamt of.

Also, I was quite certain that my warping behaviour in this dream had been much inspired by the eloquence of physique that these strangely beautiful women had presented me with their august bodies in another dream of days earlier.

To have best expressed the gratitude that I felt, from my very soul itself, it was as if my neck had become a giraffe’s.  Here I was looming down over the house and up to the stage.

To begin with, in all of this, I had not even been seated at the front of the balcony.  My ‘bravo’ was a very long, extended, purely male-energied war cry.  This was pride in this woman that had nothing to do with our shared race of being both Black rather our both being human.

I was simply applauding her very soul itself for its great achievement in artistic self-expression.  In point of fact, I actually got a high from hearing the thunder of my voice when saying bravo because this very deep and resonant baritone was not my familiar register.

Moving up, I climbed up the hill to both Kathleen Battle’s houses.  There was a woman there who was White and older.  She was helping this old, old, ancient White man.  I wondered,

‘Who is this man?’

I knew straight away that he was definitely very important, in the spiritual scheme of things, here on this planet.  I thought that, perhaps, it was Herbert von Karajan but he is now passed on.

He did, after all, have quite an attachment to Kathleen Battle.  This is why she was always invited to Salzburg.

However, then too, I thought that it was more than likely Herbert von Karajan because the energies of this man were incredibly magus fitting the archetype of the magnetic old king from the Michael Teaching which Herbert von Karajan was/is.

I thought that perhaps he looked as old because he was doing so much immense energy work in his function as a sixth level old, magnetic old king soul.  Naturally, his agedness would have been a reflection of his having passed a large number of lives, to date, at sixth level old.

He was very transcendent and, you could tell, was no longer physically focussed.  More importantly, everything about this dream indicated it being very much so alive.  The dream was very much so real and set on the astral plane which is where that magnetic old king, Herbert von Karajan, now resides.

In any event, he was being helped down by this long-legged, handsome, strong-willed woman.  She much reminded me of Marella Agnelli, the wife to the CEO of FIAT motors of Italy Gianni Agnelli.  However, this woman was older than Marella Agnelli presently is.

*One of the things about some, definitely not all, wealthy persons is that their stratospheric wealth enables them to be in their element.  As they are such mature-souled, august, reincarnationally sophisticated souls, money allows these spiritually elevated persons to exist in the world unencumbered by the Maya of the wretchedness of every day existence.

Such wealth enables them to transcend the Maya of financial limitations that entraps and stifles the merely working class to upper middle class.

For the latter classes, the lines of demarcation are more nebulous than they would like to accept.  Hence, the excessive restrictiveness and obsessions with class, looks, greed, Brahmanism et al.

Some of these truly wealthy people do not suffer the strictures of belief systems.  This allows them to just live in their element and be supremely human.

This is not true of all wealthy persons because, for one, the nepotistic cupidity of Hollywood certainly validates this.  These people, such as Gianni Agnelli and Marella Agnelli, do not suffer the displacement of humanity that many greed-fixated wealthy persons experience.  END.

This woman here in the dream, in that sense, reminded me of Marella Agnelli.  The latter impresses me as someone who truly does embrace her humanity.  One gets the sense of her that she is not separated from the little people of choice.

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We then all came down after, of course, I had gladly gone to give the graciously handsome woman a hand with assisting the magus himself.  We sat in this long, long, long enclosed veranda that had a fine linen mesh covering it.

There was a wonderful breeze.  The magus was on my immediate right and talking away.  Indeed, he did make my energies zing and become reshuffled.  It was at the level of the atomic and it was subtle but noticeable.

He was talking about the music, raving about how great it was, and how fabulous Kathleen Battle had been in performance.  Next, he opened a large bottle of spirits which was like champagne but it looked more like a bottle of gin.

He then took up a magnum of some expensive champagne or other and raised it saying,

“My dear, you must have a drink.  You have earned a drink.”

He had a wonderful soulful voice.  Whatever he said became the law.  He was beingness in the flesh.  He simply held court.  You experienced his spirit, more to the point, one experienced his very soul.

He was truly what the Michael Teachings would call a magnetic old king.  One just intuitively sensed and knew it because this, after all, was the astral plane.  One did not doubt insights gleamed here.  He was so grounding to have been next to.

When he was pulling out the cork it proved very long.  In fact, it was extremely sexual what he was doing with the cork.  It was very slow and hypnotic.  I got a sexual high experiencing him uncork the champagne.

I never did look into this man’s eyes overlong because his face was so powerful and so tremendous.  He was someone who was clearly passed on.  I also knew that it was not Merlin.

I had only looked at his face, in the distance, when he was up on the hill.  He wore the most spiritually refined face imaginable.  Up close, I knew that I just did not have the power to peer overlong into this face.

I was too drunk by his magus energies that bled outwards magnetically permeating and fine tuning everything – man and nature.  Thus I had to hold the champagne flute with both my hands with my knees sexily drawn up whilst my feet rested on the edge of the chair.

Giggling, simply giddy from his energies, I said en Français,

“Champagne!  Oh god I love champagne.”

He began pouring in the champagne whilst it was fizzing.  He poured it in a decadent manner.  As it crashed into the glass there were a lot of bubbles from the bottle, gurgling aloud, where gobs of drink orgasmically splashed over the rim of the flute.

It was so sensual, so timeless and wonderful that on concentrating on his actions, I experienced the stasis of time.  I began besottedly drinking and grew giddy at the implications of the fine company that I was in and that he was serenading me at that.

It much reminded me of the garden party that I attended in Toronto with Merlin, the second to last summer of his life, when the writer Ted Allen had me sit by him spending the party regaling me and flirting with my spirit.

It was a nonsexual thing… just an intimate commune of our spirits.  Really fine and memorable it was too.  There were other family members about – Pandora as well as Harella.

He told me to move away the glass before the champagne did not spill, over onto my lap, which shortly it would have had he not prompted me.  I moved it to the right between him and me.

Immediately, on taking the first sip from the flute my mind stood still because the cool potent touch of it illumined me.  Instantly, I realised that the bottle of drink was merely a metaphor.  What I was being given was an elixir from his very soul itself.

The magus was healing me thus.  What utterly potent aqueous magic.  It was cool yet simultaneously warm.  It was all the things that the music was and more.

In fact, it was exactly what I needed after having been made drunk and high from the music of Kathleen Battle’s magic.  When he finished, it turned out that he had only poured a drink for two other persons of all the others gathered at the party.

I was so blown away by the fact that he genuinely wanted me to be sitting next to him.  Perhaps, it was because I had been considerate enough to have assisted him.  I had made it possible for him to go down, the hill from the upper mansion’s gardens, to the veranda of the lower house.

He chose not to have passed on the drink to anyone else.  It was very subtle but was not, of course, lost on me.  He did not pass it around although everyone had glasses and were quietly waiting to be served by him.

Certainly, the impressive magnum could have amply supplied every glass.  I was then told by Harella not to be greedy and she advised me to perhaps offer my glass to others.

Ignoring her, I languorously looked out beyond the mesh and thought aloud in a whisper,

“God this is such a wonderful dream.  What did I do to deserve this dream?”

Just like that the dream dissolved for me being doubtful and seemingly unappreciative.

vDream one.  Earlier, in one section of the dream as I had listened to the music, I saw an inner vision of a holographic diagram.  The hologram indicated where in the Cosmos the particular music that was playing, to which Kathleen Battle was singing, had originated.

There was this cardboard-like diagram, which much resembled an Olaf Nordstrom lithograph, which was very sculptural and intellectually placed.  Olaf Nordstrom interestingly does, in fact, have six air planets.

Simultaneously, I knew that as much as the successive diagrams were of the cosmos, they were also of the human spine, the nervous system and the human chakra points.

I could see the crown chakra which was very, very expansive.  I then saw the first chakra which was close to the tip of the spine.  I was being shown that it was very tight and needed to be opened up.

I was being told, by way of seeing this network of cables of light, one had to have one’s energies realigned.  It basically was about yoga, breath and, also, about the awakening of Kundalini energy within my body.

It was about becoming more so opened up, at all chakra points, so that I could get more flow.  Too, it was stressed that I needed more positive light into and through me.

There was a great deal of blue light flooding the diagram’s holographic systems.  There was red light, as well, in certain areas of some of the chakra points.

It was deemed to be neither good nor bad.  Rather, it was an energy that was presently focussed in my body.

I was being told that it could be successfully transmuted.  I certainly think that I know, to what it was referring, in terms of the sexual energy flow and my sexual centre’s proper functioning.

It was mentioned that it was terribly ego-based and not all that highly evolved in the end.

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As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support; I am immensely grateful.  Sweet dreams and don;t ever forget to push off and start flying.  

 

 

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Past-life Dream Set at Spencer House.

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These dreams are from the upcoming third volume of my dream memoirs.  I share them here and now as within there is at least one dream which is set at Spencer House, which I finally visited in this lifetime on the occasion of the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing.  

The dreams were recorded on audiocassettes over the course of a decade following Merlin’s passing as he had requested that I stay tuned on his passing as he intended however possible to get through to me from the other side.  250 audiocassette tapes later, at the end of that decade in among them were the most glorious dream encounters with Merlin on his passing.  These dreams in their rich pandimensioality were dreamt in lucid astral plane realism in late October 1991.  

As this is an excerpt from the as-yet published third volume all the dreams are in italics and everything else in normal script.  Observations after the fact about dreams are not in italics and conclude with END at the end thereof.  At the time, though I did not know it, the dream was set at Spencer House.  

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Before ecstatically flying off in search of lives up ahead, it is oftentimes good to know where one has been.  These next dreams occurred during the second or ‘B’ cycle of sleep and dreamtime that day.  Prior to sleep, I had been meditating with crystals in the pyramid and was inordinately focussed in my intention.  After having adequately fortified myself, I was clear in my intentions to dreamquest in search of past lives.  Thus, I would vicariously revisit two past lives which were complementary.  During the first life in question, I was male and Merlin was then present with me and female.  We were musicians at the court of King George III where also present was the Prince Regent and future King George IV.  The second life seemed to have been longer-lived and in that one I was female.

The dreams of both lives overlapped and it was good to have acquired the past-life information of those lives through Michael channeller, Sarah J. Chambers.  Of course, there was a dream of a third past life, it was that of my immediate past life.

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This having been the first dream, it was an extremely involved odyssey.  A dream it was in which I had gone off to a performance, at nighttime of course, but it was as though it had been onscreen.  Before the performance had begun, there had been a comedian onstage.  There had been many wings to this performance because it had been set in a house.  In fact, it was a period piece.  The people who had been watching this had been, as it were, very much so out of time.  This was set in the late eighteenth century.  There had been a very nasty racist, in fact, send-up of ‘the savages in the jungle’. 

This was all in British accents and very eighteenth century language. 

*As I had meditated before sleep, I had opened myself up to experiencing insights into past-life reincarnational monads.  As it had turned out, I would end up gaining much insight to my reincarnational past.  This was set in the parlour of a very affluent Georgian residence.  There was a white comic onstage, not unlike Tom Kneebone — who was possibly one of the most loathsome pieces of bigoted shits that I have ever met.  Otto Dix arsehole that he is; Tom was a vile, pinched, sphinctered nobody-arsed faggot.  Whilst looking at the comic onstage, I realised that one of the reasons why I loathed Tom Kneebone — on meeting him — was because he bore such strong resonance to the past.  The comic was uncannily like Tom Kneebone.  By that I mean that my visceral connection to the very racist performer was because, he was me in a former life in Britain — lived at court as a white male performer.

Of course, it was not Tom Kneebone but he had the same racist, pinched, WASP lack of tolerance and awareness as the Otto Dix arsehole — such an ill-evolved piece of shit that one.  END.

The comic was entertaining the guests in this salon.  He was doing this whole thing about, ‘the Pickaninnies’, ‘the darkies’.  Also, he had had to have an accompanist to show the ‘natives’ and their gargantuan, elephantine dicks.  Clearly, from the way that he had been holding it, the cock had not even been yet erect.  He was all bulging eyes that had rolled with wide-opened mouth.  Everyone was just spellbindingly charmed by his wicked witticism.  I, however, had not been in the least entertained by it.  In fact, I had felt greatly embarrassed to have seen him. 

This was like having to have faced embarrassing skeletons in one’s reincarnational closet.  After his routine, it then led into this performance that they had been putting on.  In point of fact, the performance actually was quite funny.  Everyone would leave the salon and then come back in but they would all have on Regency dress and wore makeup specific to that era.  At one point, all the women had come back in.  From where I had seen the performance, through an open door, there were people off to the left in a smaller room who were not performing.  They were crowded around on divans.  There was a large open space on the floor where the exquisite rug sat. 

There was one woman there who had had a bad sniffle; she had kept on sniffling and was near consumptive.  Why does she not just get up and get lost?  I was quite impatient with her.  At the time, I was closer to the main players.  These were people who had been sitting in the salon in front of me.  There was a whole cluster of them immediately before me and to the immediate right of the large white doors that led you from room to room.  Exiting that particular room into which I had looked, where the performance was taking place, were more doors.  The door half, which was close to us, was open and served as the wings to the stage. 

Up in front of the mantelpiece was where the performers had come on to perform their scenes.  They were quite funny.  There were parapluies that had wonderful little floral designs on them.  The performers were made-up in such a way that their faces looked like bouquets that resembled large English white and faded yellow roses — very oversized roses.  The faces of the persons were very much in keeping with the zeitgeist of the late-Georgian era.  This was the look that was proper in that time.  As a result, the souls that had been incarnate at that time, were wearing those faces.  At two separate occasions, everybody seated in the salons had had to get up and leave then come back in. 

The last time that they had come back in, all the women were dressed in long, flowing tangerine-coloured dresses that had dragged on the floor.  All the dresses had little flowers on them.  The tangerine colour was muted by a sheer fabric of white silk overtop the tangerine bodice.  The silk had left it a seemingly faded colour.  All along the grid patchwork were these tiny roses that were the colour of the fabric underneath the tangerine-coloured material.  The look was very beautiful.  As they had spoken, there was wonderful repartee going around the room.  This one woman was croaking away, saying, “Oh why don’t they go to church, anymore? 

“Doesn’t anybody go to church anymore?”  She had gotten up, going around the room, to make the point.  She had then come back and sat down on the arm of the chair.  Her husband was very stout and he had remained seated there in an armchair.  One chap, who was on one of the chaise longues where some of the other spectators were seated, was bantering away.  He was very dynamic, in a sage-souled sort of way.  The costume changes between sets went on almost forever; at such times, the salon would become abuzz with lively discussions about whatever socially or politically was au courrant.  Of course, that had meant anything that was superficial and that they, at their level of society, had found très amusant. 

This particular costume change was quite long and some of the players, who were going to have been participating in the next piece, were seated on that particular chaise longue.  They were talking, amongst themselves, when this one man had said, “Well, I certainly hope that you don’t go, looking like that…”  His was a very cutting double entendre because, though the dowager was quite the frump, it was really a comment on her horrid-looking face; this, in an age, long before plastic surgery could have come to the assistance of women of her class.  The woman’s face was very puffy and dowdy and, also, full of makeup. 

She, so without a clue, had replied, “Well, what’s wrong with me going like this?” 

“In a dress, there is certainly something wrong going like that.”  This was very, very witty racy banter and much filled with double entendres. 

The poor frump was daft and had not quite gotten it.  She was wonderfully being sent up by everyone.  “Oh dear me, I never quite seem to know what to wear.  The fashions changing all the time, I can hardly ever keep up…” 

This had only made for more cutting, though hushed, laughter.  I do not even know but it was at this point, as she had spoken, that I had seen her in close-up.  I had wondered if, perhaps, she were not Francesca — the name of a past-life of mine lived in Georgian England.  Just as in that last dream encounter with Francesca, during the onset of menopause, I experienced the same visceral connection with the subject.  Then, as now, I was seeing her face in keen close-up.  Now, I was experiencing her at a much later stage in her life.  She was a late septuagenarian.  Still, though, she was very much so into the heavy makeup but at this point, she had suffered from senility and was pronouncedly neurotic. 

Afterwards, everybody had looked out at me and asked me if I had ever seen the performance presented like this before.  One of the things that they were talking about was an expedition that had just returned from, ‘Deepest, darkest, Africa, in the Jungles.’  This was, in fact, a production of Romeo and Juliet that had been set in colonial Africa.  They had openly wondered, specifically of me, if I had ever seen so racy a production.  All these people were very sophisticated, sagely persons, of whom it was safe to say, they were all very much so artisan-like — in essence, they were the glitterati.  More to the point, they possessed goals of discrimination and predominantly were in repression mode. 

“Well actually, I had seen the original classic production.” 

“Yes but have you seen any modern updates of it?” she had asked, by which she meant a production from the Georgian era. 

“Well, no.  Well I did but it was when I was at school, in Sandy Point.” 

Of course, they did not get it at all and found my accent far too queer for words.  Besides, it was all very post-modern as far as they were concerned.  At that point, the lights in the salon went down, in this beautiful, large high-ceilinged place.  A movie screen then appeared and Diana Ross was going to be the mother to Juliet and the Juliet was a beautiful, beautiful, long-haired High-Yellow heroine.  She had seemed East Indian but was not.  She had gotten up and gone running to the window because Romeo was calling her.  Clearly, it was a filmed version.  She was wearing a black and white checkered dress that had no sleeves. 

The dress really was more like a jumper — an A-line dress.  She was so gorgeous; the young actress was stupendously radiant.  Presently, she was praying and the camera was a slow, sweeping crane shot that had kept on rising up and away from her left profile.  Filled with so much earnestness in her face, she was quite beautiful.  A teenager, she was quite the stunning little actor.  The actress was not Diana Ross‘s daughter, Tracee Ellis Ross but someone who had a stunning High-Yellow resemblance to Diana Ross with those stunning eyes and with very, very gorgeous long, long wavy hair.  To just above her arse, her hair was thick and beautifully cascaded down.  She was very gorgeous. 

When she had run to the window, she was as if a ballerina by the way that she had held out that beautiful, delicate tiny face.  An exquisitely beautiful face it was that sat on that long neck of hers.  Looking out the window, she had dreamily called down, “Oh Romeo.  Romeo.  Romeo.”  Truly, it was sheer spellbinding magic. 

A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama                                       

In this the second dream, I had gone off and was walking in Crab Hill, Sandy Point.  Whilst there, I had seen these unfamiliar persons.  One of them had had one of the most interesting faces.  She had a very unusually large face and very beautiful teeth that were somewhat compacted.  She was very lovingly dark-skinned.  She was unusual-bodied; her head was very, very large and her body, in comparison, very squat – unusually so.  To be precise, her body was like a dwarf’s.  Her legs were very stubby and bulky. 

My goodness, this woman could run.  She had had a great deal of physical power.  A lot of Earth planets that were fixed, to be sure, were part of her makeup.  I found it very, very interesting to have watched her.  On having passed her, I had said hello and noticed that she had shut her eyes.  That was when I had realised that this woman had almost never looked at anyone.  Then, finally, I had commanded her attention and directly looked into her eyes.  To have looked into her eyes was tantamount to looking into her soul. 

Her eyes were so large.  Hers were as if seeing, up close, the eyes of a giant cetacean.  Yet, these stellar eyes were on a human face.  These eyes were extremely large with the lids half-collapsed over them.  The brown of the eyes was dappled and mixed in with some blues with little streaks in the blues.  Talk about beauty.  Nonetheless, they were very, very old-souled and very, very powerful eyes.  At the time, I had thought of how much they reminded me of the eyes on the totemic cranes that I have seen throughout my life. 

She had just laughed and turned her head away.  She was a woman of substance and great grace; not unlike Jessye Norman°, in that sense, was she.  I had specifically focussed on her right eye.  Hers were not unlike the dappled blue-green colour that Owen Hawksmoor°‘s eyes take on, of course, when he is wearing his coloured contact lenses.  However, her eyes were quite gorgeous.  Predominantly brown but there were lots of brown and red streaks in the white of the eyes.  These were from very large bulbous blood vessels.  The whites of them were very white, almost caramel-coloured on closer inspection, from the timeworn passage of their agedness. 

Boy, this woman had a lot of strength of character in that body.  Hers was a solid, solid body.  Following after this guy, I had then come back over this little barbwire fence.  We clearly, I realised, cannot go getting ourselves scraped.  As we had been passing, there had been a window to our right that had looked into a house.  Whilst looking at the screen, on which Romeo and Julie was supposed to have been playing, we had gone and sat down.  Protesting, I had said that this could not have been the case because it would only have meant that I had missed so much of the performance.  In all this time, of having gone and wandered off, one would have missed too much of the production. 

At that point, there had been someone on the screen performing a Shakespearean soliloquy.  This clearly was an updated version of the text.  I had started watching it and got back into the film.  The one thing that I had not liked about it, was that there had been lots of flies on the set.  After having been made uneasy by the bugs, I had gotten up and walked about for a while.  When I had gotten back into looking at the production again, it was as if looking at it from the Georgian salon again.  However, now it was slightly different.  To myself, I had remarked that it had seemed so much like Toronto. 

That was because this production, like Toronto does in summertime, had all these damn flies.  All the people around me in the Georgian salon had not gotten what Toronto had meant at all.  As well they understandably would not have, they had looked at me very strangely.  There were flies in the air which I had kept on swatting out of the air.  There was a whole scene in progress, when I had decided that I would just have to have seen the production again or, perhaps, get it on videocassette.  At that point, I had simply missed too much of the production.  I had realised, too, that I could easily have seen it when it made it to the Revue second-run cinemas about Toronto.  At that point, I had turned and left. 

*This heavy-lidded young girl could well have been me, Theresa, in my immediate past life.  That life was lived in Brazil and I had a goal of dominance.  Of course, on Tuesday, September 17, 1991(39), I would dream of Theresa in her adult years.  Similarly, she also could have been Merlin reincarnated.  In December 2006, Merlin was reborn female in the Netherlands; however, at the time of the channelled session, the female reborn Merlin’s ethnicity was not shared.  Thus, this could well be Merlin reborn in early 21st century Netherlands about whom I was dreaming.  END.

I had next, in this the third dream, been up on this rise with Isha where she and I had been doing something.  We had discussed the fact that I had needed more money.  I had told her that my PIN number, for some bank card that I had had, was 8411.  She had called up the bank and was being pushy with them.  Isha was telling them that she had been very ill and incapacitated.  For being bedridden, they would therefore have to let her have the money in cash with me acting on her behalf.  She had assured them that I would be right over and to let me have the funds.  As she had spoken on the phone, this black woman and her white husband had come by. 

The man wore glasses and they were, very much so in love, embracing each other.  There was a little girl with them to whom I had meltingly said, “Come here sweetheart.  My goodness!  You have American money and you have a 10.00$ Canadian note there, I see and a 20.00$ too.  Why don’t you let me have an American bill?  And some of those Canadian bills because you’re not going to need the Canadian bill.” 

“Why?  It’s my money.” 

“Okay then, fine.  Come on over here and give me some sugar,” I tried charming her as she had been off to my left.  On having wrapped my left arm around her, I had kissed her on the cheek saying, “Return the kiss, please.”  We had kissed and had done so, on both cheeks, in the French style.  I had looked down at her parents and they were quite sweet and in love.  At the time, I had been thinking of Pandora.  I could not, though, have made out the mother’s face all that well from the table; I had been seated there with Isha.  A square, black metallic affair with a glass top the table proved. 

As a result, the table was covering the face of the woman and I could not make out who she was.  At the time, I had thought of Pandora and her present beau.  This child had then appeared but it was like a doll; she was so tiny and was, in fact, as if a pygmy.  She proved to be Barry Thomas‘ younger sister.  Every time that she had bawled, her neck had extended and craned up into the air and was pinkish-coloured like a white doll.  She, though, was actually a black baby — you could tell from her facial features.  She was very much so alive but she was in this rubbery body that was like a doll’s.  I had put her up on a mantelpiece to sit because she had been so damn noisy and obstreperous.  

Penina had come and disputatiously confronted me about what I had done to the poor little girl.  Whilst Isha had been on the phone, I had gotten up and gone to take a pee.  On entering into the bathroom, I had been shocked and horrified.  On looking in the mirror, I had noticed that Isha had cut my hair.  I had let out the most enraged scream, “Isha!  How could you do this to me?”  What had happened, was because of the way that I had been lying on my back, she had managed to cut off all the hair on the side of my head up to the top and on the other side as well.  This was the most ludicrous haircut. 

In the back, leaving the length in place, my hair was still long.  “I don’t want my hair looking like some bloody Mohawk warrior’s,” I shrieked.  To have seen the roots of my hair, which were unpermed, I was truly pissed off.  Having my hair chopped off, was not something that I had wanted and I definitely did not want this frigging fascistic cunt fucking with me.  I had been truly incensed at her.  Truly enraged, I returned to confront her and found her lying down in bed.  Immediately, she went on the blind defensive, “I don’t see anything wrong with it.  Besides it’s already done and you might as well cut off the rest,” she had laughingly dismissed me. 

“Isha how could you do this?  This is exactly like when you destroyed my writings.” 

Impatient with her indifference, I had launched through the air at her and begun beating the living shit out of her: hitting, slapping and kicking her.  Grabbing anything that I could find, I had beaten her with it.  All the rage that I had felt at her, for destroying my writings back in the mid-eighties, had come flooding out. 

*Back then, when she had been confronted, she had launched into a clawing defensive attack on me as we rode home in a blinding rainstorm from Solomon King‘s wedding in Rochester, New York.  END.

Earlier, I had gone to get my brush, to brush my hair and, on not having found it, had borrowed hers.  On brushing my hair, I had noticed that the brush was really scraping my scalp.  On having looked at things in the bathroom mirror, I had been left horror-struck.  On seeing what she had done, I had sucked my teeth and decided then and there to kick her arse.  I had known then and there that this would not have happened had I taken her to task, blow-for-blow, back in 1985.  Also, I had seen this brown bag, a large, black canvas bag and a shoulder bag — they were all mine.  In the travelling bag were these two tickets because I was going to be travelling.  I had really been upset and pissed off at Isha as she had laid there under green sheets. 

Penina had come into the room and tried intervening on Isha‘s behalf.  Penina had tried to get me to accept the fact that what had been done, was final and to just get on with things.  That had only more infuriated me.  Turning on her, I had screamed, “Oh Penina, why don’t you shut up?  You’re so damn stupid!  Of course, you would agree anyway.” 

This woman had then shown up who was Jewish and it had turned out to have been, Ariel Gothberg.  She had worn this dark purple turtleneck bodysuit — over that, she had worn a brown very, very thick, woollen jacket.  The jacket had lots of gold zippers that showed down the front and the length of it.  The jacket had no collar.  On either side of the sleeves, there were gold zippers that went midway up the arm.  There were two on the breast, one zipper each, over each breast for pockets.  They had little golden tassels that held the zipper.  The outfit was quite nice and was in brown and black. 

Ariel Gothberg had looked quite smart.  I had asked her what she had thought of my hair looking like that.  “Well it’s your hair and it’s natural.  I think the natural version looks kind of nice, anyway.  Well, you’ll decide what you have to do with it,” she had then gone off, up these stairs.  Yeah, right; fuck you, you bitch, I rudely dismissed the thought of her.  Whilst there, she had joined two or three other smartly dressed persons.  I had come around and begun leaving then went out into the outdoors.  There, I had stood by a shed whilst talking with somebody about things in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands.  Just then, a large plane had gone by directly overhead. 

At the time, I had thought this plane too unusually close to the ground.  We also were close to the ocean.  The building was a long white shed, like a greenhouse, beyond a sandy slope.  Generous clumps of long grass held the sand from drifting too much.  We were standing just beyond a stand of palm and sea dates trees.  The ocean was rather tranquil and gently breaking.  The ambiance here was rather beautiful.  I had then seen a large plane come by that was like an American Airlines plane; except, on the back of it, it had had this large caboose. 

This was a large unusual extension that had flared out.  To say the least, this was most unusual and there seemed to have been no exhaust.  The bottom of the craft was very silver.  Also, there were the red and blue stripes along the sides like an American Airlines carrier would bear.  However, nowhere were there any demarcations, indicating that it was an American Airlines craft.  Unusually so, the craft was very long.  Long and sleek, like a Boeing 727, except that it had had no mid-fuselage wings;  way at the back of the plane, there were some smaller wings.  As it effortlessly sailed through the air, I figured, oh dear no, it is going to crash.   

As it had flown by, it had bizarrely veered off to the left and head first.  Next, it had shot up into the air and then come down.  I had screamed aloud, horrified for the passengers aboard.  Immediately, of curiosity, people had begun running towards its obvious crash site.  To check things out, I had gone running around the corner of the building.  There was smoke in the air but it was general pollution from the community; also, there had been no smoky fireball as with an obvious crash. 

“Oh dear.  I think it crashed…” I had helplessly said to a man who had reminded me much of my uncle Michel King, rather than his brother Marcel King°

 “No, it didn’t,” he had confidently said.  Another plane had then come in and that was when I had suddenly remembered that I had had a flight to catch.  At that, I had gone running, hurrying out of there, and gone around the building.  This was a wonderful large hangar-like building.  In this building, there were many persons.  I had seen several travellers there.  Once outside, I had had to go up an immensely long flight of stairs to have gotten up to where the plane was.  On the outside, it was a pure white aircraft with two propeller engines on each its wing; the propeller engines were running at the time that I had arrived. 

The wings were extended; they were actually quite long.  I had demanded that they cut out the engines so that I could safely make my way to the man who had been at the gate.  He was an older, dark-skinned man in uniform.  He could have been Egyptian, Hispanic, East Indian or Arabic.  I had had to pay him to get aboard the plane and it had come to 14.00$ for the flight.  Incidentally, as he told me that, I had recalled that the PIN number was 8411, which coincidentally does add up to 14.  I had given him a 20.00$ bill.  He had told me not to worry, that it was already running late, and assured me that I could get my change on board the flight.  I had boarded the plane which, oddly enough, was unusually low to the ground.  On having entered inside the plane, it was as though you were outside again and had to go up a further flight of stairs — just like the ones that had earlier gotten me to the tarmac. 

A truly dream surreal moment this proved.  Penina had been concerned because, on this flight that had just come in, there was supposed to have been a little boy that we were supposed to have met.  He had been coming from Nevis.  I had told her that I still was really frigging pissed off — at having had my hair cut off by Isha — and could not have cared less about any little boy.  So we had gotten into the plane and it was again unusually interiored.  There was a wide enough single aisle with all the passengers in seats that had faced each other.  This had immediately reminded me of when I was a child, prior to having taken my first flight, I had always envisioned the seating arrangement on board an aircraft to be like this.  There are, of course, no such seating arrangements in conventional aircraft. 

As we had moved down the aisle, we had passed a number of little boys.  There was a little boy on the right of the aisle and I had thought that, perhaps, that was him.  However, we had gone down with Penina having followed after me.  There were, incidentally, lots of potted plants here on board the highly unconventional aircraft.  The aircraft was white-interiored, as outside, and there was a lot of sunlight coming through the top of the aircraft which was completely glass-topped.  The ceiling was really like a long trough in a greenhouse because there was a drain in the ceiling that had run the length of the aisle.  Lord knows, we were definitely well beyond the Kansas City city limits.  Also, it had been very humid inside the craft. 

Many, many potted hibiscuses were present and some of them were in bloom.  Just where the stem had exited from the pot, one plant had fallen over and broken.  On righting the pot, I had felt for it.  The plant had sadly kept on dangling over.  I had called the boy’s name which was something like, ‘Orello’, to which he had immediately answered an alert yes.  He had been way in the back.  I had pointed him out to Penina and told her to go and take care of him.  Furthermore, I had told her to get off the plane with him because she was not supposed to have been travelling anyway. 

I had then gone up to the front of the craft and there I noticed that there was a large opening.  Here at the front of the craft, it was as though one was in a hangar or large indoor room.  Whilst other people were lost in reading, what had clearly been scripts, there was a girl doing some homework.  The studious girl was very stout and wore a school uniform.  Early teenaged and definitely black, she was very light-complected.  A tall, gangly white male had come in; this man was very much so old.  He was incredibly gentle and soul-soothingly so.  He was as if a gardener or caretaker. 

He had sat next to me and warmed me further when he asked, “Do you have piece of paper, please?  Just something to write on.” 

“Well, I don’t even know…” I had really wanted to help him out and been of service to him.  He was so sweet-spirited like Catherine Angelica (‘Lica)  or as Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon°, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother seems — that kind of evolved grace of spirit.  I could not immediately find anything and, in the meantime, the girl had not been prepared to part with any of her school paper.  There, I had told him, pointing in front of me to a little desk on which were some clothes and my bag.  I had gotten out my bag and started talking to him.  He was very, very wonderful and very old-souled in feel.  He was very healing to have been around.  He had reminded me of James Tramble or Merlin’s guide as I had seen in those dreams — the tall shaman. 

He had commenced writing on this piece of paper and he had asked me my name to which I had replied, “Arvin da Braga.” 

“Oh really?” he good-naturedly replied.   

I had then given him my statistics.  Continuing on, told him that I was born on August second, nineteen sixty.  We had talked on some more and then he had asked, “And what about your friend?” 

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“Oh Merlin?  Merlin Ben-Daniel.  Merlin B.”  When he had asked me my name, I had initially said, “Arvin M.  M, as in Merlin, spelt ‘lin’ not ‘lyn’ and which, incidentally, was my lover’s name.  Merlin; spelt the same as my middle name.”  As we had spoken, I had grown more and more intensely lucid and light-headed; it was as though I was channelling.  “Merlin B.  B, as in Bechbache, which is his mother’s family name.”  We were talking about Merlin and he was doing this write-up about Merlin and me. 

He had then turned to me and said, “Well anyway, I’m leaving you now and I want you to write this down.” 

“Is it a number you’re giving me?” 

“Just some important information.  But you must remember it and you must never forget it.”  What he had said was, “Proper posture leads to purpose and prosperity in time.”  He had said it with the greatest enunciation and slowness. 

There was a woman who had stood out in my mind as he had spoken.  She was very much so like Francesca who was down below and outside an opening in the airplane.  She was inside the building at a window, looking up at me and saying, “I will be with you, don’t worry.  And I’ve remembered it.  I’ve recorded it.  And I’ll keep reciting it to you if you need me to.” 

The gracious gentleman had then left.  His was not unlike the yogic centred serenity of Yehudi Menuhin.  At that, I had had a sense of motion and that we had travelled.  The sensation was not for very long but you just knew that we had covered massive distances in what had seemed a mere breath.  As I had watched him write with the greatest of care, he was right-handed.  At one point, he had stopped and disruptively said as I had spoken of Merlin and me, “You’ve a very distinctive accent and it’s so layered.  You can see so many languages in it.” 

“Well, yes that’s because I’ve lived all over the place, actually.  My upbringing was very middle class in the West Indies with maids, in fact.  I like speaking this way because it’s who I am.  It’s about intellect.” 

“Right you are,” he had said whilst warmly smiling. 

We had then gotten to where we were going but he was no longer with us.  We had deplaned and come down the flight of stairs.  Everybody had gathered about this courtyard and was walking around.  Most people who had deplaned had been white.  All the kids were in the rear and we were separated — the kids and I.  I had then left everybody and started walking ahead because I had wanted to go and get Penina.  She had shown up and was running to go and get Orello now that he had arrived.  She had on this long, floral-printed dress that had proven to be a jumpsuit that had turned into culottes. 

Her outfit was brown, yellow and green which were all one-inch slats of colour.  The jumpsuit was a predominantly off-white, faded yellow number that had these yellow, brown and green horizontal slats that were crammed together and haphazardly spaced.  They had created a wonderful motif on the fabric.  Somehow, it seemed that I was supposed to have been deplaning.  Seemingly, I had to get aboard a larger plane and continue on with my flight.  For having interacted with Penina, I had missed the connecting flight.  This had mightily upset me.  Initially, when she had come aboard the first flight with me, I had turned to her as we had progressed down the aisle and asked if she had remembered to get all my bags. 

A second flight, not unlike an American Airlines carrier, had come in through the air and landed.  This had proven my signal, to have started moving and get aboard the initial flight.  When I had deplaned, I was supposed to have gone to another flight.  For some strange reason, everybody was marching in a circuitous route.  They had gone down this street and turned off to the right; they then had gone down this wide boulevard into another courtyard.  That courtyard had contained another plane which one had to board.  A sareed, East Indian woman had looked back at me and energetically said, “Hurry, hurry, hurry because the engine has already started.” 

“Don’t worry…” I had evenly replied.  She was a really sweet gracious soul. 

You could have seen the engine and when it had started, the wing that had been turned horizontally then swivelled and turned to the vertical position.  This was set in a compound that was surrounded by a large white fence.  Going up to the courtyard, the steps were white and the interior of the building and all the low-lying buildings around were all pure white.  The look was that of permanent whitewash paint. 

“…I’m coming.  I’m supposed to be on this flight,” I had called out. 

When I was making my way there, there was a large wooden gate that had a glass in it.  One of the things that had kept me distracted, was that I had gone into this room, where Penina had been and wanted to look at the Romeo and Juliet drama again.  Instead of having been able to get it on television again, there was a video music station on.  The music video was set in a large room.  Irene Cara was singing a song in said music video.  Natalie Cole° was there, as well, as some other black entertainers.  She was in a living room in that segment of the video, which was for a love song.  Natalie Cole was participating in the video but not singing.  Irene Cara had worn a black tunic overtop black narrow-legged pants. 

Natalie Cole had worn black and white; they were very much so enjoying themselves.  Soon, I had caught myself when being distracted and had gone running out of the place.  I suddenly remembered the petite, beauteous East Indian woman; she had a striking resemblance to the author and socialite, Geeta Mehta.  She had been telling me that I was supposed to, in fact, have been getting onto the other flight.  So off I had gone, running down the road; it was a narrow stretch of earthen road.  Even though it had long been closed, I had opened the door to the craft.  The stewardess was slowly closing the door when I had leapt through the air and pulled it forcefully open.  At the time, the engines were already running — all of them. 

They had had to stop the engines so that I could make my way past them and safely get aboard the flight.  I had shown her my ticket and very cleverly said, “Here’s my ticket.  I’m supposed to be on board this flight; thank you very much.”  Again, the interior was much like a waiting area and a greenhouse at that.  There was a sense, once again, of light coming through the glass-topped ceiling of the craft.  The craft’s interior was all whitewashed.  There were lots of persons, mostly guys, standing about.  The first thing that I had noticed, was that they were all dressed in white and were dressed in clothing from another age. 

They were dressed as in the latter half of the eighteenth century — the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart§.  I had passed the flight attendants; they were off to my left and up towards the cockpit.  There was the familiar large open area, as well, off to the right of the skylight.  There was a narrow door that had gotten you back to the main cabin of the plane.  The 18th century persons were in the open, which had an earthen floor.  Here, it was very humid and damp.  These were all young and white males, who wore white clinging tunic that went down to just below the knees.  They wore tight breeches, really tight, with white stockings that came up to above the knees. 

They wore white shoes; large ones with white buckles.  Large-sleeved white shirts, most of them, although some wore shirts whose sleeves were those of the conventional style of the waking state.  They were, all of them, very young and very dark-haired.  These persons had the faces that were exactly peculiar to their age.  The hairstyles, the makeup and the expressionism; it exactly was what the aristocrats of late eighteenth century Vienna looked like.  On having entered this craft, I had immediately noticed that there were little rooms as in a salon in eighteenth century Vienna.  There were these white doors with glass panes for two-thirds of them.  There were little concert hall boxes that were set up; all this occurred inside the cabin of the plane no less. 

I could distinctly have heard the engines whirring away, outside the craft, whilst drinking in this most unconventional of plane interiors.  We were going to take this flight and whilst in flight, there would be a performance.  Everybody was an actor and like that man on the chaise longue, with the wicked tongue, also very much so sage-souled.  I then went and took my place.  There was a box where the performers would sit, as in an opera house, but it was on the ground.  This was not a Boeing 747 series type airliner.  The opera house-interiored craft had been lined with red carpeting and red velvet.  The seats were all one embankment and quite plush. 

There was a doorway there with a man who had been crouched down.  He was dark-haired and had a mole just below his left eye.  He was most handsome and looked like the soulfully august aristocrats, of the court of King Joseph II of Hapsburg-Lorraine, in the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart.  His face was very, very unusually large.  He had worn a ponytail that was tied back with a black ribbon.  Just inside the door to my right, he had been crouched down.  I had looked off and on having seen him, had smiled.  He had looked up at me and was quite smitten by me. 

I realised that I had found my place and had come in to the box to sit.  We were obviously about to witness a drama that was clearly Romeo and Juliet that was set, in the Mozartean era, in the city of Vienna, Austria.  I had gotten so energised for having been in the company of these people, whom clearly I had known at the level of soul, and thus had squealed and laughed aloud.  Also, my response was in anticipation of the great fun that we shortly would share.  At that, I awoke in bed. 

*I was not chagrined to have awakened at that point.  Already, I had been refamiliarised with all these persons.  There was something very much so familiar about the handsome-moled man.  We did look at each other as I took my seat and I was passingly reminded of Merlin.  Beyond the eighteenth century energetics that he wore in that life, he was familiar, intimate and a companion.  That was all I had needed of the very layered, very enriching and very, indeed, pandimensional aspects of this dreamquesting odyssey into a past life.  This was very real and I was very much so in my element.  That dream initially was definitely set in the Georgian era and the people there were all familiar.

They were all white and very much so alive.  I guess that this was an astral plane projection in time, to experiencing aspects of past lives.  I was able to have used the astral plane, to have transited the spiral arms of time and enter two different time frames in which I was clearly incarnate.  Also, it was very much so the eighteenth century and the height of the colonial era.  Here was someone who had just returned from an expedition to deepest, darkest Africa.  Down to the accent and the language as it existed then, they were very much so British.  The most important insight that I learned, for having revisited that lifetime, was the lasting effects of racism to which I was exposed, engaged in and was much informed by.  To say the least, in this life, I am truly repulsed by racism’s ubiquity and its effects.

This explains why I am so passionately impatient with and can see and understand, so clearly, my hypersensitivity to racism.  I see it for what it is and where it comes from.  The second flight’s exposé into Mozartean Austria was, I am certain, more about getting insights to a past life of either Merlin’s or someone with whom I share as strong a soul connection.  Perhaps, it was someone on the order of my essence twin.  I am not convinced that this was Merlin, in a past life, even though I did not see the eyes in close-up.  I knew them not to be his eyes.  The eyes are always the dead giveaway in these instances.  Though packaging changes from life to life, the eyes do not; except to change colour and grow older and softer with the reincarnational maturation of the soul, the eyes are always recognisable as self’s in past life dreams.

**Further insights that I would like to add at this time, I do believe that the latter dream of the Mozartean era, harkened back to when Merlin and I were incarnate together, again lovers, and were court musicians.  This, however, was during the court of one of the English rather than Austrian monarchs.  During the reign of George Hanover, King George III, which was during the 1700s to early 1800s, Merlin and I were then incarnate.  Also, the Prince Regent and later King George IV was also familiar to both of us.  The latter monarch would have been instrumental in the flourishing of the arts, which is why Merlin and I had creatively blossomed in that life.  King George IV, when the Prince Regent and during his brief reign, had been a great patron of the arts — life at court would have been artistically fulfilling and that it clearly was.  In any event, I also sang during that life.  Usually, my performances were to smaller audiences of aristocrats; Merlin, then female, played the harpsichord and was my accompanist.

I guess that the Francesca lifetime could have been a complement to that lived at court during King George III’s reign — whose father was rather German and caught up in the Austrian succession intrigues during the early 18th century.  There was a late Georgian to early Victorian sensibility to the first dream; it featured a septuagenarian Francesca who rather than me in a past life, was Merlin when a harpsichordist and my then lover.   These are insights gleaned from Michael Overleaves by Sarah J. Chambers who, prior to passing in 1999, channelled the Michael.  What’s more, at that time, also present and likely participant in this dream was the Duke of Bronté.  Of course, said duke was also the 1st Viscount Nelson, none other than Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson.  Naturally, in the late 18th century, Horatio Nelson had spent much time at court whilst trying to get  himself positioned after the American war of independence, which left the admiral and many others out of work.  At the time that he spent at court, both Merlin and I, knew and socialised with the young, dashing admiral – the 2nd Earl Spencer was the Lord of the Admiralty, which would have made him an invaluable contact to Earl Spencer and a frequent guest to Spencer House.  No doubt, it was his tales of his adventures and especially his time spent in Nevis that served as a source of wonderment for me.

As Merlin and I were then cohabiting as lovers and professional associates, it is likely that I then expressed some interest in going off to an exotic isle like Nevis.  Indeed, perhaps, the reference to deepest darkest Africa was really to the West Indies.  Either way, it is obvious that the fascinating Duke of Bronté, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson planted a seed, which would lead to my choice to reincarnate three lifetimes later in Nevis.

***I should also think that the man with the extra-large head and the striking, large mole below his left eye, should have been more readily discerned.  Merlin’s dear friend, the actor, Joe Morton°, is the one who would fit this bill.  Indeed, Joe does have just such a large mole below his left eye.  The only difference between these two — Joe Morton and the moled actor in the dream — was their disparate races.  The white male’s in the dream was the exact same large mole at the exact same position as is Joe Morton’s.  Further, this Caucasian male’s teeth exactly were like Joe’s as they are in this lifetime.  Again, apart from their disparate races, there was one other difference between Joe Morton and his past-life counterpart.  Joe’s mouth and lips are bigger and fuller respectively and Joe’s comparably was, to say the least, a more elastic and expressive face.

To say the least, that was rather insightful a past-life dreamquest.  Joe, of course, is in the fifth/sage position in his cadence which not surprisingly would leave him inclined to being so sage-like and regal in essence.  Naturally, this regal energy is due to the power mode energy, which innately infuses all fifth-cast fragments, especially in cadences 1, 5 and 7.  Joe, of course, is in the first cadence in his greater cadence.

****I should also like to add here that the large-moled gentleman may well have been in London; at that the time of mid-to-late 18th century, there was a large Austro-German community in London.  King George III was, of course, German.  At that time that Merlin and I were then incarnate, we were rather familiar with one such German patron who happens also to be an entity mate, Arianna von Reinhard.  Wealthy, the German patron of the arts very likely could have funded a trip to Austria and German, during which time Merlin and I could have been on a concert tour to royal courts of those countries.  Who knows, perhaps, at that time, we even met and attended concerts for stellar creative genius, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart§.  END.  

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At the conclusion of audiocassette-recording these dreamquests to past lives, in late October, 1991, I got about the business of choosing an appropriate musical complement.  Naturally, I would end up playing some Joseph Haydn° symphonies.  Back in 1987, whilst being a muse to Olaf Gamst, I was introduced to Joseph Haydn in great detail as he was a composer whom Olaf favoured.  When sitting for the artist, often were the times, when he would play selections from his formidable Haydn collection.  Without doubt, I would come to favour Haydn’s London Symphonies.  That is why, I had crawled through a couple of secondhand record shops in a bid to build my own Haydn collection.  To that end, I got out an old recording from 1977; it was still in fairly good condition.  Released on the Philips label, Neville Marriner conducted the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.  

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For the rest of the day, I repeatedly listened to Symphony No. 104 in D Major Op. 21 ‘Londoner’.  This symphony truly made my spirit soar and allowed me to remain resonant with the past-life to which I had so lucidly dreamquested.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, sweet dreams and my dream memoirs, the first in recorded human civilisation can be found online at Amazon and wherever discerning bibliophiles satisfy their insatiable need.  

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