Astral Projecting Into Dreamtime.

06.02.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate. In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.

Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s. She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate. Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of. The energy between us was always simpatico. I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.

©Alex Grey

A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city. At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.

Astral Projected Self-Portrait.

Crayola on Paper

What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992. There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra. Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…

*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals. Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness. I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light. It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience.

At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning. All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space. Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded. Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.

Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience. This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken. END.

Dream one. I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here. Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space. I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me. It was most upsetting.

I could not quite figure out what was going on. It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment. By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment. Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake.

However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact. Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right. Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself. The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes.

This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor. Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor. This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex. I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death.

There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see. Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated. I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body. I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body.

At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up. Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body. Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body. Struggling, I pushed against my own body.

It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body. My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed. I simply could not get up. Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.”

It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him. “No, Arvin. I have simply got to get up. I will not suffer this.”

With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed. Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space. Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death. I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were.

Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body. When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there. There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head. This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.

It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed. What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body. It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground.

Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion. Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen. The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body. I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept.

Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment. Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen. It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room. Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge.

Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort. Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food. She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me. I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris.

However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages. It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state. Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking. Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing.

But then she turned and looking into my face said, from under furrowed brows. “Buh chile ah wha rang wid ounu face. Chile yu muss tekk kare ah yur face an ting no man.” At that, she drew closer, putting her hand over my face.

Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…” I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state.

*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state. There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits. Ick! I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache.

Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown. Charmant. This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin. END.

Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face. I was stunned by how realistic it all was. Jan was so protectively nurturing of me. Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances.

She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her. Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it. Thoroughly enjoyed her energy. Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen.

This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes. They were much like the tubes in the old radios. A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery. Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me.

Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.”

“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?”

“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.” Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed. Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system. So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came.

Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space. Very interesting. Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later. She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble.

i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house. Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora. It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before. More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state.

They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway. An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans. I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place. They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has.

A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame. I had been on it before. Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out. I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand.

We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits. The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques. Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space. We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space.

There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use. We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor. Some were even on the wooden bed frame. A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood.

Jan kicked away the shard with her right big toe. When I told her to be careful she boisterously chimed, “Me na kno say ma? Me knoe man, me knoe say ah so de sinting go. Yu ha fe wartch yur self too chile.”

Jan was so refreshingly good to be around. Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit. At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.”

She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.” As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon. I effortlessly moved through them as before.

Dream two. In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight. Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition. In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere. I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever.

The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next. What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door. In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction. It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls.

It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots. With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies. I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio. It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around.

Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper. Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is. Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated. White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red.

Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were. She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit. Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant. Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit.

A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s. Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall. Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style. Functional and comfortable, her criteria.

Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles. On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment. Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.” We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face.

On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek. He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me. Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word. Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller.

He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me. Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual. Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him. There was an obvious, loving bond between us.

This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state. But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul. It was very electric between us. So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating.

I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say. My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready. Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too. Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem.

“And a total embarrassment for this family. I just do not know how we can put up with this. Look, what am I doing here anyway?” Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!

“I’ll have none of this. I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am. I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.” With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were.

“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!” Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this. You own nothing here, nor are you running anything. You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment.

“That’s all you ever do. So shut the fuck up!” I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in. Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted

Dream three. Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there. This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°. Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next. Again, much was different here.

Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time. When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there. Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state. There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief. This was so stunningly incredible. Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body. This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore.

This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane. After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane. This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh. Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators.

We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off. It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism. Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm. Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom.

This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence. These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art. The art of pure creative expressionism. They then announced, “Okay, okay, okay.

“Here comes the other guys.” This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players. One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours. There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side.

The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white. She had apparently had a double mastectomy. Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent. Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear.

She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness. Her body was truly bizarre. It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike. When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned.

Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body. More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden. This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty. As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies.

There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu. It was hard to tell which sex the individual was. What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked. This is what had caused her such distress.

For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her. She was lost in her beliefs. The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences. Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body.

They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body. If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s. The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container. This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word.

Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus. Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies. They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule. They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte.

At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah. There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground. Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare. Not everyone was naked however.

Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman. On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left. Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat. The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates.

“Hi, how are you? You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win. You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing. Look, I’m really happy for you.”

She energetically thanked me. Kathy wore a brown large blouse. Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way. She was so refreshingly real and normal.

Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented. Good for her. The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration. Some were tight buds, buds breaking open.

Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime. Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left. A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod. There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime.

Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them. Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes. Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband. Energetically, she had him come up and join us.

He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus. He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition. The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach. At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah.

I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime. She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense. I was not upset by it, accepting her choice. Alas, it was not the end of the world.

Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy. He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies. He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach. They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around.

It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps. The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality. It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom. This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums.

Perfect teeth, on the four year old. His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead. He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes. God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods.

Spectacular! He was happy and a precocious, charmer. As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me. Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful.

“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his. He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter. It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me. What do you think?”

It was very direct and very connected. With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon. This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda. Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed.

Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life. Good for him. Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me. She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be.

There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground. Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house. The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree. It had been singed on one side, during the fire.

Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful. Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St. Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong. Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts. It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did.

Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink. It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place. Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road. As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street.

At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora. I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy. He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight. As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious.

As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites.

*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency. It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to. Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags. Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness.

Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it. Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority. Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior. A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect.

Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man. Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way. Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger. It came with a pair of briefs attached inside.

She instructed the young boy. She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win. She was her usual feisty self. Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits.

It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to. This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism. This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state. Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora.

“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.” Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other. Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left. Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes.

You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us. Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided. However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy. He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have.

Finally, we did not care for his arrogance. Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont. Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property. I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.

Dream four. Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all. Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground. Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings. Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact.

It was all very garish a sight. As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere. Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed. The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures.

In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground. Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there. My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well. Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign.

So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare. Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road. It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads. The road did incline downwards as we went along it.

This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood. It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden. Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily. But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned.

I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them. Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live. Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale. Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived.

We were able to peer inside the apartment. It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out. It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream. It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels.

No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space. A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids. Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids. We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime.

To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer. Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other. We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there. Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building.

Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park. There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road. The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did. We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by.

We’d originally turned right to get onto this street. We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park. When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park. There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back.

Here, it was very mellow. Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots. Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons. A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family.

She had two daughters and a son. One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model. She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version. She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out.

They were in our way but not obtrusively so. We continued along and happened on these very young-souled Americans. We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled. It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them.

Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm. As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff. Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her. She wore a white silk blouse.

When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me. A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided. The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun. So too was mine, for that matter.

As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection. It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours. Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us. Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders.

The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away. Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance. Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing. Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements.

Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels. She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away. Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in. Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more.

Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.

Dream five. We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons. We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship. It was a new version of it. It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world.

This was all very scary for us, as we read on. It spoke about after the history of things. Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense. So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings.

Here there were poems and historical accounts of events. There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication. The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise. It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel.

The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed. At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel. Twice in a row, I thought. Talk about lightning striking twice.

This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha. This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus. The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast. This was a very densely populous Asian city.

There were also a ton of whites here, as well. They also had very thick Australian accents. I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book. But almost everyone on the bus was.

These people were very young-souled and frenetic. Pandora and I were the only blacks here. Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts. He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book.

Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent. He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion. These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus. It just was not right.

I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right. Stop it!” The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin.

It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia. The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians. They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people. Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus.

When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand. An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s. He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne. They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating.

The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food. They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed. This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally. They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists.

One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents. I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit. Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!”

At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them. When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus. Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board. The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes.

He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans. On his thigh was the tattooed flag. The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks. He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt.

This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness. Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he. Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out. The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible.

He carried a baby of about six months old. Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him. At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan. They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter.

The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up. During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done. The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit. The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up.

And boy did the infant ever go on a binge. Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods. For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food. Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus.

Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down. My main target was the bespectacled zealot. Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you? Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!

“Get out!” Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight. Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour. I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from.

Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence. They were completely stunned by my energy. They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong. After all I was black, not an Australian.

Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness. Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience. Was going to have none of this shit. Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus.

Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too. They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board. You simply had to bail out, toute de suite. We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora.

I went outside in search of her, going up the road. Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it. The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not. Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus.

This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train. So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness. Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case. I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.

Dream six. I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees. There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all. She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her. She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone.

Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on. She was being accommodatingly amiable. I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank. As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off.

He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.” At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling. I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus. Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere.

It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most. Possibly not even young-souled as yet. I had always thought myself a much older soul than that. After all, look at the degree to which I dream.

On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled. For one, the dreaming suggested as much. Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve. Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face.

The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window. An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses. Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench.

*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ. The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar. It was clearly the Jewish calendar. However this was clearly a reference to Christ.

Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included. This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case. This was a king soul on his last life. As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.

All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex. Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast. How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples.

Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.

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To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise! Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.

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Past-life Dream Set at Spencer House.

24.12.201809.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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.

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.

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 21^st 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?”

“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 18^th 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 18^th 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 1^st Viscount Nelson, none other than Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson^†. Naturally, in the late 18^th 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 2^nd 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 18^th 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.

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.

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.

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Crawl the Fuck In Your Casket!

27.10.201607.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Goodness, it has been a long time since I have posted a dream herein. I have been busy putting the finishing touches on the memoir for which many of the dreams shared herein will be featured. The subtitle for the memoir will be: Human Civilisation’s First Dream Memoir.

More recently, I was having a leisurely ride home in the morning up Yonge Street. I had just ascended the last incline on Yonge before it cruises down to a level grade, then it is hang a right and cruise along Wellesley Street East and home. Just as I crossed Carlton Street and begun the real steeply graded portion of the ride, a cab pulled up and immediately out popped a female in suit at the start of her business day; she was headed for the 24hrs Shoppers Drug Mart.

Immediately, I opted to change course and rode around to the driver’s side of the cab and cruised along the little bit of leeway afforded as yet another condominium construction – Yonge & Grenville meant that the two lanes in each direction were reduced to only one. As I cruised past ringing my bell, the cab driver suddenly began opening his door; I could not believe his audacity. I shouted him down and insisted that he let me pass, to which the dirty-looking mid-aged Dravidian shot back, “Oh shut up as if you matter!”

My heart was already pumping beyond the norm after the fright of seeing his door beginning to open as I rode alongside. Indeed, who are we to think that Black lives matter? As I was too exhausted to fight just then, I continued peddling hard then started back to the right and towards the curb where I always ride. No sooner than had I made it round the front of the cab that the hairy back and arsed southern Mediterranean construction worker on the east side of Yonge Street holding up a stop sign, on having witnessed the near miss, shouted, “Kill him! Kill him!”

My heart only pumped even more deafeningly as his face became contorted with racially predatory hatred his ilk own so well but are forever careful to claim not to have any awareness of. Exhausted and feeling like I was going to keel over, I soldiered on too proud to have to stop and deal with the ubiquitous ugliness that is racism. Yes indeed, Canada is a racist hellhole and they are so stratospherically sophisticated at being venal racists that unlike their tormented neighbours to the south, they do not need the ubiquity of guns when they have quite effectively rendered Blacks as negligible as a weevil-infested bag of flour in the corner.

Edging less gingerly up Yonge Street than normally I would, I was met two blocks north by more lane closure; yet another block long condo complex was breaking ground – east side of Yonge Street from Maitland Street south. Riding past, I made eye contact with a mid-aged member of the local constabulary who on making eye contact smiled and nodded in kind; I have always found Toronto’s officers to be worlds removed from their counterparts in Montréal. Getting to Wellesley Street, I realised that the store to which I would normally drop in to get my cache of lottery tickets and ice cream did not have my choice flavours.

Thus, I hung right and began homeward east along Wellesley Street East. Riding past, opposite the subway entrance to Wellesley Subway Station, I noticed three large 5 tonne trucks lined up along the south side of Wellesley’s eastbound lane; they actually were obstructing the bike lane. Again, I grew understandably cautious and began ringing my bell on approaching the first of three trucks waiting to service the condo complex under construction on the north side of Wellesley where the three hundred pound-plus Dr. Edward Kamski with a drifting eye serviced one of Toronto’s largest group of AIDS patients back in the 1990s in an office low-rise tower that no longer exists.

As I rung my bell and cruised along, I heard a male voice to my rear impatiently yelling for me to get the hell out of the way. Finally, when I cleared the third 5 tonne truck, the White male pulled alongside on his bike to start shouting at me. I was called a fucking stupid arsehole and a moron and called crazy for wearing a helmet with lights on at just past 0700 when the Sun had not yet fully risen. Of course, White male bigot number 1 million and two wore no helmet and fixed me with hostile looks that were full of rage that had nothing to do with my having been in his way. Naturally, his whiteness is his helmet and were he to have fallen, he could never possibly suffer brain injury of any kind.

I am always so happy when the weather turns icy and snowy because all these casual cyclists who never wear a helmet and are forever speeding and illegally dashing through red lights are not a nuisance for a good six months. Naturally, he let a green light turn red at Church Street so that he could wait for me to catch up to him after he had initially sped off owing to cowardice. Now he had to return to get his fix of being hateful and seeking someone Black to blame all that was wrong and blameworthy in the world.

Again, he started with the racially predatory yelling as though this was some moment in Apartheid South Africa and I was his bitch. Because life is too short to suffer the White tribe and its fucked up psyche, I simply began singing aloud whilst drowning out his dreck – with a little change of lyrics, “Ooooh wooo wooo wooooooo, what a little sunshine wouldn’t do-ooooooo!” Thereafter, I followed with loud merry scatting as though having to drive off another bothersome neighbourhood yapping stray dog. You will never fucking-goddamn-arse snuff out the spirit of the people who invented Jazz! Know that!

Finally, I got to the store along Wellesley Street East where I have visited since it opened a few years back. In the last couple of years, I have stridently avoided frequenting said store in daytime as there is a White female clerk there who from the first time that I entered the store, she was rude and has remained rude on the odd occasion that I would pop in.

Last June close to the end of the school year, I dropped in the store to get a couple of lottery tickets in the afternoon whilst en route to work. Naturally, there was a gaggle of giggly, bubbly youths from Jarvis Collegiate Institute, the city’s oldest high school. As I patiently waited, I admiringly observed three Black males who were negotiating with their Filipino and Somali female friends. They were giving them cash and a list of what they wanted.

Said one youth, when asked by one of the scarfed Somali why don’t they just get their stuff themselves, “She’s a bitch! I’m not going in there to be yelled at.” Another of three out rightly dismissed her as a racist bigot who was always targeting them for being Black. Straight away, I knew to whom they were referring. Finally, I made it into the store where as I got my tickets again, the cigarette-smoking, mouth-breather whose idea of post-secondary education will amount to how to successfully cock-suck and breed more ignorant offal just had to be rude, snicker and fight-pick.

I ignored her because again, life is way too short to have to suffer shit that just does not count. Previously, I had walked out the store to avoid having to operatically scream at her sleepwalking hateful arse. Of course, on that occasion, I got home only to realise that my lottery tickets had not made it from the store with me. I then returned hours later when she was already concluded her shift to pick up my tickets.

So there I was, after having been met by three rounds of racial animus all within five minutes of each other and mere hours of these persons having awakened; at least I was near the end of my day. All I wanted was my blasted ice cream, my lottery tickets and go home, turn up my ever turned-on BOSE to JazzFM and have Garvia Bailey lay some culture on me. For the brief time that I was in the store, as ever, the racist White boor kept up the usual sotto voce remarks and insisted that I get the hell out of the store and take my bike with me. The bike she has always used as her crutch for dicking with me and since I have always had the manager’s permission to bring my bike into the store, long before she ever dropped out of high school, I had no intentions of being bullied by her.

So I ignored her bullshit and had quite had enough when she said, “Are you deaf too; like don’t you hear me, just take you and your bike and get out of the store.” Taking two steps back, I began channelling Leontyne Price after she has just stridden victorious offstage to rapturous applause in Tosca, to Nina Simone singing with stinging rebuke Mississippi Goddamn, to Diana Ross in her live 1992 show in New York City singing with callous brutality, Strange Fruit, to Betty Carter wrapping it all up breezily singing, Thou Swell – and you can always count on Heather Bambrick to drop some Betty Carter when she is on-air hosting on JazzFM.

“Why don’t you go lay your fucking grey arse in the sun…” I lethally shot back, to which she rebutted aloud, “Excuse me! Why would I want to lay in the sun? Like, why would I want to look like… you?”

“No sweetheart never mind that, the sooner you lay your hideous grey arse in the sun, the sooner you’ll get cancer and crawl the fuck in your casket.” Of course, never before having had her daily fix of racially charged aggression challenged, her feeble comeback was another, “Excuse me?” said with the sort of lisp that likely meant that her brother and or father were devout cocksuckers as is one’s wont.

Always having to have the last word, she then added, “Go on, get out the store, you are blocking the aisle.”

“Shut the fuck up and get some sun, you fucking hideous lizard-lipped fraud. Not only are a poor excuse for a human but you long ago used up your quota of oxygen. Go on, crawl the motherfuck in your casket!”

“Yeah whatever, get out of here!”

Life is all about choice: you can either play Rodney King or you own your power and be a proud motherfucker like Lena Horne or Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones for that matter. As I began leaving the store, right on cue, the morning radio show chimed in with the opening sounds of Robert Nestor Marley crying out, “Oh Yeah!” at the start of his famous anthem.

Oh ye fucking gods, never before had Bob Marley sounded so sweet… been so empowering. Getting to the automatic doors, I drowned out her bullshit as the White loutish effete Athenian – whose thick moustache likely stunk of phlegm and faeces – who was in the store observing what went down, got to the counter and began saying some shit about ‘them’; singing for joy, I joined Bob Marley and shouted, “Rasta-far-I” as I slipped through the door and into sunlight which suddenly seemed more crisp, indeed, more vibrant.

In having taken the time to take this racial predatory boor to task, the universe had synergistically harmonised and lifted me higher as Bob Marley’s infectious idealism took control. Never before had Marley sounded so beautiful, been so right. Had I done as too many times previously I had, I would have suffered the indignity of being driven out of the store by the racist lout and missed out, most importantly, on that Bob Marley tune.

I then got home, had Garvia Bailey’s magical energies groove me back to centre. But enough of me kicking racially predatory arse; let’s then focus on the business in hand. I found this wonderful dream of the most glorious eccentric who much informed my upbringing in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. She was the original, the real McCoy… a true eccentric. Unlike that other Florence (Foster Jenkins) there was nothing lunatic about the eccentric Kittisian Florence (Pole).

These marvellously uplifting dreams, which had also included a right proper astral plane fuck, were gloriously lived on Thursday, April 1, 1993 whilst the Moon then bugalooed through Cancer and my second house. These swell uncompromisingly beautiful dreams are to found in volume XV and were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty-seven.

The second dream of eccentric Florence Pole was dreamt on Saturday, March 10, 1990. At the time, it was a full Moon in Virgo and thus Luna transited my fourth house whilst being conjunct my natal Pluto and simultaneously opposing retrograde Chiron and square both natal Luna and its opposition to Mars at the ascendant. This dream of Florence was the most lucidly awakened dream poetry imaginable.

Go on drink from the chalice that is this rare beautiful flower; but don’t get too close and definitely do not get out of line ‘cause I’m a rapaciously carnivorous motherfucker who will hand you back your arse roughly ploughed and bloodied – beautiful flowers always have to protect themselves from being preyed on. More than that, please know that your support these past three years have been immensely encouraging.

I quite look forward to sharing the bounty of dreams and the story of Merlin and me in the memoir which will be dropping in coming months. Be well and always straighten up and fly right, you cool shamanic kindred-spirited cats! Sweet dreams whether focussed in the waking state or dreamtime; anything less is just not living.

____________________________________

Arriving at Florence Pole’s, next door to our Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house, I ventured indoors. Naturally, in this the second dream, the entire house was boarded up.

When crossing the veranda, I had cautiously treaded; I knew that the floorboards there had a history of being broken or rotted away. On entering the doors from the veranda, in place of a living room one immediately entered a bedroom.

This was the easterly room off the veranda which, in the waking state, had always been the living room. A large single, metallic bed sat in the center of the room.

Seeing it brought back childhood memories that were pleasant to the touch. Though it was fairly dark inside, I knew that Florence Pole was in the house.

At one point, she called me from across the house; with that, I went in search of her. From the room, I made it into a large, impressive hall which seemed too large to be contained in the confines of her quaint Kittisian bungalow.

I was quite surprised that it existed and its high-ceilinged beauty was inspiring. Though the entire house from the exterior appeared to be completely boarded up and thus shutting out any possible light of day, there was a great deal of light flooding into the hall.

Several beautiful area rugs were strategically placed on the floor of the hall; the rugs, however, never overlapped. They were in the center and were placed in square formations.

The parquetry, down the centre of the hall, was so well polished that it shined. To see all this splendour really blew my mind.

Seeing that she is such an eccentric, I thought that perhaps she would been some celebrated aristocrat in a past life. She certainly is an intellectual aristocrat; Florence is so fine-tuned that she is beyond the ordinary.

This makes it impossible for her to relate on the level of the mundane. How good it was to see her ensconced in such splendour.

She is certainly an eccentric, mature-souled, evolved creature. A breed apart and onto herself, for that matter, I thought as I moved through the palatial hall.

On further reflection, I realised that her inner life would really look this opulent. There would be nothing but splendour here; after all, all she gets in the waking state is social ostracism and derision.

The rugs were genuine Persian rugs and were in tiptop shape at that. They were well preserved and of the finest quality; seemingly, they were hundreds of years old.

There were two long ones, on either side, which ran the length of the hall. Between them and the dark, rich panelling of the walls were some two feet of empty space.

The grid, which formed the rectangle of exposed parquetry, was some five by twelve feet long. Wanting to hear the sound of my feet when striding through such a majestic place, I kept to the parquetry as much as possible.

The sunlight flooding the hall left the space infused with the very warmth of Florence Pole’s spirit. Eventually, I entered the room off the central hall from which she had called me.

When I entered, she greeted me grandly and was truly eccentric. She recognised me, right away, and was warm and genuinely excited to see me.

Her energies were thoroughly theatrical. All that I could think was how wonderful it was to see her again.

Here, in this room, there was an identical bed to the one in the guest room; this one, though, was in a far corner of the room. This room was sparsely furnished.

Over in the far southwest corner of the room, the head of the bed was facing due south. The door faced eastward and into the hall.

There was no disputing the fact that the interior of this house was considerably larger than her waking state house. As a matter of fact, it was palatial in dimensions and the home of a very wealthy person.

This, of course, was a metaphor for this woman’s considerable wealth of spirit, intellect and creativity. Florence Pole has substance and it was being borne out in this dream.

That no one in the waking state actually perceived her, for her true self, is not the issue. They frustrated her because of their intolerance but ultimately, she was not lunatic, crazy or demented.

This dream encounter validated my suspicions, held since my childhood, of her. Style and character were innately hers.

Florence Pole had this one particular painting which was in the far, northeast corner of the room. The painting was on the northern wall but towards the eastern edge of it.

This painting was the most incredibly beautiful work of art. The art was held in an ornate wooden frame that was gold filigree; the frame was about two and one half inches thick.

Bevelled, the frame graded in towards the painting. The painting was oil on canvas and was quite rich.

There was a wonderful sense of the ‘blue’; indeed, it was an aqueous sky. On the ocean was the most magnificent large ship.

The ship was from the age of the buccaneers. Right then and there, it dawned on me that the painting hearkened back to a past life of Florence Pole’s.

Thus, I presumed, she perhaps had been a pirate; a European pirate who had come over on one of the galleons during the 16^th or 17^th centuries. Perhaps, I further speculated, she had come to St. Kitts and had so loved the place that her soul had decided to pass a future lifetime there; of course, that future lifetime is the life that she is now living.

She would definitely have been European, perhaps, British, French or possibly Spanish. That experience, as it were, had ended up planting a seed in her soul.

There was no mistaking that this lifetime of hers presently hearkens back to a disputatious lifetime of hers; a past life in which she was White of European descent and deeply involved in the pillage, rape and plunder of the spoils of colonialism. She had clearly had a swashbuckling lifetime somewhere back there.

The ship was brown and black with three masts. Two of its sails were unfurled.

The ship was the most majestic vessel imaginable. Never before had I seen a painting that was so alive with sheer realism and creative genius.

She stood there whilst admiringly looking at me as I rather admired the painting. I knew that Florence Pole knew that I was getting the gist of the ship’s importance.

The oils used were as if still wet and slowly, hypnotically in motion. This painting was as captivating as when I stood before Rembrandt van Rijn^†’s Night Watch back in 1992.

Quite simply, I was blown away by the languorousness of the painting. This was not static; it was as if having a window onto a past in which simultaneously said ship was on the high seas centuries across time.

To say the least, Florence Pole in that past life would have been on board that ship then and there. Perhaps, she was even the captain of the vessel.

The colours here were so masterfully rendered. A truly realistic reproduction of things this proved.

In that sense, it truly was magical as it simply seemed to be the seed point from which the actual vessel was created. The blues of the sea, as contrasted to the blues of the sky, were so subtle that it was mind-blowing.

This was a very rich blue with different tonalities to it. In its subtleties, this work of art was so sublimely magical that it was mind-expanding.

Also, in the room were two antique chests of drawers. There was as well an antique rocking chair.

This woman was so very regal and dramatic. I rather got off on being in her presence.

We completely connected; there was no way to get around the fact that we were not strangers to each other. She did very much so appeal to my Sagittarian energies.

Our sense of self and style were completely harmonious; in that sense, we were kindred spirits in the true sense of the word. So very good it was to see her that I said, “Oh, it’s so very good to see you…”

With that, I grabbed her by the hand and energetically squeezed it. She warmly smiled and together our hands remained at our sides.

The touch of her hands relayed to me that energetic spark of her soul itself. The feel of her vibration was readily familiar.

She was showing me around the room; together, we spent much time looking over the oil painting of the galleon. Florence Pole then told me that it was her very favourite painting and held a special place in her heart.

This, of course, made perfect sense to me as it was clearly a pivotal lifetime of hers. Clearly, it was a lifetime in which she commandeered on the high seas and was quite the adventurer.

There was no sense that there was something lacking in her life, in this lifetime, because she was isolated. There was a lot of processing going on in her life at present.

I had the sense that she was in the process of transiting soul ages; as a result, she was having to take stock before making the next big leap forwards. There was nothing wrong in her present lifetime.

She was an older soul; of that much I was, for having experienced her, certain. I then left the room and walked about the hall more leisurely whilst exploring the various rooms off the central hall.

Meanwhile, Florence Pole could be heard very beautifully singing as though I was not even there. This was the kind of inner musings in which she constantly engaged without as much as a thought to others’ opinions.

This was one of the most pleasurably rapturous experiences.

*To have been in this great eccentric’s presence as she was simply being herself whilst caught in a groove, I thoroughly understood. This truly was an utterly amazing dream odyssey.

Here, it was quite nice and uplifting. More than ever, this astral plane encounter impressed on me how very rich a life this woman is leading.

She was letting me into her innermost lair whilst following her inner voice. This was the most beautiful and intimate of dances of souls.

I thoroughly connected with the every complex idiosyncrasy of her being. Florence Pole, contrary to waking state misperceptions, was quite grounded and completely aware of her selfhood.

This woman has achieved a great deal in this lifetime and I am very honoured to have been witness to it; a totally admirable soul. During childhood, this woman was the object of intense study for me.

Every time that she would fly out onto her veranda, taking to the stage, I would become as if possessed by her. There was no way to get around the fact that this was great theatre; every time she appeared, I was captivated by her every stunning, quicksilver innuendo.

What I learnt most of all, about her self-absorption, was that it does not matter what it is you do. You simply have to go ahead and do it because ultimately no one can either stop you but you.

When it is all said and done, Florence Pole was simply exploring her beingness. For flying out onto her veranda, in full operatic rant, she was fulfilling herself. END.

When I ventured into another bedroom, I found there a man. He was mesomorphic, tall and blond. Although his body reminded me of Storm Isbister’s, I could not make out who he was.

He called me over to join him in bed – even better than I would have scripted it myself, “Oh, my goodness! Yes… let’s make love…”

The sheets were a quilted satin, the most luxurious touch, as I seductively slithered into bed. Passionately, we groped each other’s hard-ons whilst groaning and hungrily looking into the other’s eyes.

We truly delighted in each other’s bodies. All the windows to the house were of course closed; thus we were provided with ample privacy.

Climbing atop him, I rubbed my cock hard against his. As he lay back there, into the propped up pillows, his body reminded me in its largeness of Karl Weller’s.

Nimbly, I straddled him whilst making his body familiar territory and all mine at that. We grabbed a hold of both cocks whilst frottaging atop the other.

His cock was longer and considerably thicker than mine. He was also uncut.

What really freaked me out about the whole experience was how wonderfully real it was. I could smell his maleness: his balls, cock, precum, armpits, sweat and breath.

Our passionate play was profoundly grounding. After pinching hard his nipples, with my left hand, I flipped around.

Now I straddled him with my back turned to him whilst still frottaging. With that, he righted himself by propping his upper body with the elbows.

Grabbing a hold of my contracted scrotum, I began rubbing the ridge between it and the anus against his hard, throbbing cock. Sweaty and on the verge of going wild, I cried out to him, “Yes, oh god, let’s fuck.”

With that, I went to get a vial of lubricant that sat across the room on a bureau. Straight away, he drew my attention to the fact that this was the dreamtime and there was no need for lubricant.

More to the point, his referral was to the condoms which I brought back to the bed. Irritated, he shot at me, “Come on, let’s not use them.

“Look, at you. Look at where we are, will you?”

Yet I felt the need to use them, of habit, as in the waking state. He did not protest any further; I then began squeezing some of the lubricant into my palm.

The feel of it was so cool and luxuriant that it made me shiver throughout. I so wanted him that I lunged at him and began passionately kissing him.

We both hungrily struggled in the other’s arms whilst consumed with one another. The experience was so incredibly intense.

I did take note that his eyes were very waking state in focus. That is to say, there was nothing soulful or old-souled about them.

He was very grounded, young-souled and sexually dynamic. I am not quite certain that this was indeed an encounter with Karl Weller.

His face was not distinctive; besides, I was too overcome with lustful desire to have paid his looks that much attention. All the way through, I kept on groaning whilst completely enjoying myself.

Nothing else in the world existed whilst being alone with him. I was not the least bit self-conscious about Florence Pole being close by in another room of her palatial digs.

In all honesty, it was hard for me to transcend my lust and get into him. All I wanted was to have my size queen’s every yearning fulfilled.

Nothing about him mattered to me but his cock. I wanted his cock inside me; I wanted the feel of his powerful body all over me.

On my knees in the bed, I faced out whilst he got well lubed and slippery. The slippery bulbous head of him was just comfortably past the plush, relaxed rim of my butthole when we heard Florence Pole noisily rushing down the hall towards us.

From outside the door, she called out concerned and wanted to know what noise was this. Stealthily, we both leapt from the bed whilst still engaged and onto the floor.

We threw ourselves onto the ground, on the far side of the bed – north side, away from the door. Somehow, in our energetic manoeuvre, I had managed my way on top of him whilst he was now completely buried deep up inside me.

The feel of him was mind-altering and exquisite. Florence Pole then entered and projected her usual feisty, argumentative waking state persona.

Right away, she demanded to know what we were doing; this, of course, was her way of feigning ignorance. She then grandly announced that she did not want us messing around or carrying on like this in her house.

Speciously, I called out to her and let her know that we were not doing anything untoward. My left elbow was on the bed, bracing me up, whilst he was lying behind me on the floor; at the time, he was totally hidden from view.

I sat squarely on his cock, with my back fully elongated, whilst yogically breathing. Whilst she stood there and stayed her ground, I tried to stave off her intervention but the feel of his cock thrusting unabated and rhythmically deep into me was fast rocking me to a cerebral orgasm.

To not lose it and shriek at her to get lost, it took every fibre of my being. Consciously, I began elevating my vibration whilst simultaneously projecting this process onto her.

The object here was to quiet her fears and elevate her life condition to a place completely removed from all fears. Try as I might, she would have none of it and simply stayed her ground.

Florence wanted to have whatever we were up to, on the other side of ‘that’ bed in ‘her’ house, to be readily concluded. Fussily, she told me to get up and be decent.

I was not, after all, even wearing any clothes. At this point, we had long since ripped off all our clothing.

Florence then insisted that I get dressed and immediately get going. Pulling up off his cock, I groaned aloud as there was a vacuum tug created in the wake of his bulbous-headed departure.

I could not have cared less that she had heard it all; there was no way to have controlled such intensity of emotions. This was the kind of cock which on seeing it in the waking state, one had to readily sublimate one’s usual posture as top and pay homage by way of experiencing a momentary lapse and play bottom.

She came over to the bed whilst insisting that we both get up and take our leave of her house. I then suggested to my uber-lover that we slip out the house, by way of the side doors, which would have faced Jestina Hendricks’ house to the south.

He did not like the idea of being seen together when leaving the house. Agreeing, I offered to meet him down the street after heading out the front door.

He was mindful that no one suspect him, or us, of having been physically intimate. I then offered him to come home with me as I had to be heading back anyway.

With that, we parted and left the house at opposite ends. Eventually, we came together around the corner of the house; there, we pretended to have just met.

We then went walking along the street. What was really interesting was in my haste to get dressed before Florence Pole went truly wild, I had pulled on my blue jeans and forgotten to put on the underwear first.

Funnily enough, I had only remembered the underwear when I saw it fall out the left leg of my jeans. The underwear had slipped out ahead of my pointed foot as I hurriedly got dressed.

Quickly, I grabbed it up off the floor and tucked it into my waist. I secured it there so that it would be held in place beneath my shirt by the belt.

All that I could think of, when we were alone outside, was the fact that we had not used condoms. All this even though I knew pretty much so that this was a dream.

In my mind, I went through a battery of fears about him being riddled with STDs of one kind or the other. I became quite concerned and fearful.

I then got in and on entering the house, I could feel Isha da Braga’s vibration about the interior. Pandora da Braga was there with a brown-folded brochure for a concert or some such.

We were looking at it when she began naively asking, what I had been doing; there was so much implied about the super stud with whom she had seen me out in the street. Deflecting her intrusion, I told her that I had merely been next door to visit with Florence Pole.

Next, I pointed out that the guy was there with her. We met and he decided to go for a tour of the place with me.

Earlier, as we walked home, I had been urging him with the suggestion that we go get a room at a bathhouse; there, at least, we could fuck our brains out. All I wanted to do was to be with him and fuck ‘til daylight.

I told him that there was no way that we would have any privacy at my family’s. Looking disappointed in me, he let me know that he never went to places like that and did not like my idea of finding nothing wrong in frequenting such a place.

“That’s not my scene. I wouldn’t want to go to a place like that, at all.

“I just wouldn’t be comfortable,” he protested.

Nonetheless, I was persistent, “Come on. It’ll be just you and me.

“We’d be together in a room, away from being spied on by anyone.” I could see that he wasn’t going to get into it.

Contrary to the waking state arrangement, the walk from Florence Pole’s to our house was unusually long – especially for being a next-door neighbour. Both houses are separated, in the waking state, by the narrow earthen lane.

Outdoors, it was quite sunny and bright. This, too, had been the case inside the sky lighted grand hall at Florence Pole’s palatial digs.

Sol’s intensity here was also a metaphor for what I was feeling, deep within, as I had literally been walking on air – after having played St. George to this veritable dragon of a schlong. Well quelle scandalle!

He would have none of my deceptive banter. Just like that, he put in and let Pandora da Braga know, “No, no, no. We were over there, in bed.

“And we had a good time. We really connected and we fucked.

“I mean, we didn’t get to fuck as much as we’d like to. But it was really a good, good fuck nonetheless.

“It’s like we didn’t do anything. Yet, we did everything…”

Talk about being completely mortified. Yet, there he stood all man and no bullshit.

There was no way to get around his candour. Obviously, he was feeling the depth of sublime connectivity as much as I was.

The passion to be sure was there as well. Though we had not been able to go all 15 rounds, it was all around a pretty damn good fuck.

Interestingly, Florence Pole’s interruption and nonstop banter moved us onto an alternate, totally unexpected plane. We were arrived at a groove where we were able to experience the most meaningful of orgasms: an intellectual high, communion of spirits.

What passed between us was quite incredible. Overwhelming it was and thrilling too.

He was pleased at what we had experienced and, for that matter, he could not bear to have the beauty of it marred by my being in denial of what had had transpired between us. Finally, I felt embarrassed before both.

Pandora meanwhile, to say the least, did not much care to hear about any such thing. Adroitly, before being possibly late for some appointment or other, she declared that she had to get going.

With that, I took my leave of them both.

*Back to Florence Pole, she was channelled by Sarah J. Chambers as being a mid-cycle mature sage. Previously, Florence had been the daughter of the Maharajah of Jaipur in the 15^th century.

Too, she has had many celebrated lifetimes on the stage; furthermore, she had had an illustrious past life in Rome. There, she had been a celebrated sculptor some of whose works still exist.

More than that, as is obvious, she was no stranger to either Merlin or I. Of course, Florence never did meet Merlin. END.

___________________>0<______________________

I was on the veranda of 20 Amelia Street and this old White couple who live here in Cabbagetown were present. They live on Metcalfe Street right at the corner of Amelia Street across the street from Mark Stuartson’s.

*This same august-souled couple also worked at Canada Post Corporation. They worked there until long years after their official retirements. END.

They were going home from Parliament Street across Amelia Street. They stopped because this man was coming towards them; he stopped and they took the time to talk with him.

He was telling them, “Oh yes man. Yup, Florence Pole died.”

I immediately ran down towards them. I was truly stunned and called out, “Ou true!”

I ran all the way down and around onto Parliament Street. On entering Cabbagetown’s Parliament Street, it immediately became the main road in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.

You could see all the people in Crab Hill. They were hanging out around Florence Pole’s house.

They had her corpse lain out on the veranda. I went up filled with love and paid my respects.

I was really pleased to see her because she did look good. Florence was the picture of ethereal serenity.

Laying there, truly in state, she was truly at peace with her ruggedly eccentric, accomplished life. Though she obviously was not breathing, there was no getting around the fact that she was aglow.

Everybody was laughing and basking in storytelling tributes to the dear old soul. Then somebody had us all howling when they said, “Is all dem cussing why you see ‘e live so long ‘o know.”

Truly, it was a testament to her marvellous spirit that it seemed as though all of Crab Hill, if not Sandy Point, had turned out to pay their respects. Rightly so, Florence was being deferred to.

She lay in a vivid purple casket which sat on three sturdy-looking typical dining room chairs as those popular in West Indian homes. Her head was facing due south towards Brimstone Hill Fortress and her feet towards the north, the main exit from the veranda and our home.

Florence wore a rich multitoned blue dress which was muted by a thin film of white diaphanous linen. All about her body were a rich array of local flowers and that green vine whose leaves looked like miniature Christmas trees.

Though it had never been used when she was widowed, the official stairs from the main road up to the veranda was opened. Persons would arrive to pay their respects by mounting the official, though never used, stairs from the main road.

They would then move about the casket with some speaking lovingly of her. On the side of the casket closest to the house stood a group of women – they were actually fairly androgynous-looking persons.

Their sole purpose, it seemed, was to fulfill their role as astral guides. Perhaps, they were astral plane habitués with an obvious soul connection to Florence.

Truly impressed, I had taken my time and stood beside her coffin. With head cocked to the side, I lovingly looked on at a truly remarkable life in full which had been lived with the greatest panache.

Whilst admiring the collapsed lips of her supremely serene face, my already enthralled lids slid shut. They did so more for being hypnotised by Florence’s regal beauty than for being intentionally slid shut.

Just like that, my lids reopened. The moving dream vista before me, however, was totally gone.

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Art: The Mary Rose and Fleet

Artist: Jean Walker

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Sequential Dreams of Winged, Simian Mammalian Extra-Humans.

05.03.201323.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the time I had thought,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a most beautiful civilisation.

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Photo: Machu Pichu, Peru.

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Older Souls Commune.

20.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha3 Comments

So, on Friday, November 3, 1995, as the gibbous Moon waxed in Pisces – measurably drifting across my tenth house – I would dream this dream which concerned the dynamic between both Merlin and Oleg.

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A house that much reminded me of the one in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts proved the setting for this most potent dream. There were five of us here; although, one person’s identity now eludes me.

There in the living room, seated on the blue sofa of our Crab Hill home, was Merlin with his back to the north. Directly behind him was the five-foot oblong mirror; it was hung against the living room’s wall. On the other side of that wall, in the waking sate, was Harella’s bedroom.

Here in the dreamtime, which was definitely astral plane in focus, the living room was elongated; it was more oblong-shaped, along a north-south axis. Merlin’s right side was closer to the veranda and the main road with the McHughs across the road.

Across the room from me, with her back to the street and facing due east, was Gita Gurucharan – Oberon Samuelson’s lovely wife and mother to miracle worker extraordinaire, Vijayalakshmi Gurucharan. Oleg de Brontë was seated directly opposite Merlin.

There was a man, to my immediate left, who sat directly opposite Gita. Whilst I was closer to Merlin than anyone in the room, I was not however sharing the sofa with him.

Abruptly, Merlin got up and took his leave of us. He went into Harella’s bedroom.

The others had dropped by to visit. It was clear, early on, that Merlin simply wasn’t into it. There was strain to the social dynamic which Merlin put an end to – he rudely took his leave of us. This was so unlike his former self during his recently-concluded incarnation.

Yet, I fully understood where he was coming from. Whilst being in the soul state, he was now more so his true self. This gathering of persons represented the past to him, which at this point, clearly served no interest for him.

I then got up and stood next to Gita who was on my right. After Merlin rudely took his leave of us, we had all silently gotten up. To say the least, it was awkward. As we faced towards the dining room, our backs were now to the veranda.

Filling the void that Merlin’s departure had created, Gita and I began making conversation. To say the least, it was a strained, canned affair.

Here, I was keenly aware of how much I am dismissed as a social misfit. I was aware that these were persons who had long ago decided that I was not the swiftest of souls – I don’t indulge in clever repartee and such plastic aggressiveness when socialising.

The Black man then came over; he was tall and handsome with a gorgeously mesomorphic body. He stood to my left, directly facing Gita, and began talking. There were a lot of pauses here; they were trying to get me to shove off by firmly excluding me.

Finally, I dryly said,

“Well, I’m going to go and see how my man is doing.”

I then walked between the chairs, on which Oleg and the Black man sat, as though heading for the boys’ bedroom rather than Harella’s to which Merlin had retreated. I then, however, made an abrupt turn left going instead through the door from the living room to Harella’s bedroom.

On entering the bedroom, I saw that Merlin was lying in the girls’ bedroom next-door. Merlin seemed as though asleep. He did look as though ill with full-blown AIDS. It was not, however, distressing to have seen him thus; I was lucidly awakened here.

Initially, when out in the living room, Merlin looked robust and even leaned towards a robust, mesomorphic body type. It was clear though that having to visit with these persons, from the past, had very much so enervated his spirits.

Rather than sit there interminably, enduring what was an unpleasant situation for him, he thankfully had taken refuge when he had. On drawing closer to him, I gently caressed his face – all the while thinking of how difficult this was for him.

I wanted to share some of my energies with him; I wanted to restore his. The vibrations from the living room, however, were distracting.

After excusing myself from Merlin, I returned to the living room. Immediately, I dramatically shifted personae and became rude. I told them to sit down, at which point, we all did.

Oleg then got up after awhile; he was holding a long-necked, brown beer bottle. There were three empty identical ones on the floor and next to his chair. There was no mistaking the fact that he was drunk.

‘Who the hell gets drunk on the astral plane anyway?’

Oleg wore a woollen jacket that was dark and nondescript. Incidentally, on my return, the Black man was no longer present. In his place was a White man with the same physical description; he came over trying to save face.

The unfamiliar man charmingly suggested that it was time that they pushed off. Oleg had gotten very drunk indeed; he was not at all being belligerent.

It turned out that Oleg had gotten emotionally distraught – about Merlin’s condition; he was upset at the way that things had turned out between them. The fact that things were unresolved between them, at the end of Merlin’s last life, caused Oleg a great deal of distress.

He did not know how else to deal with it; thus, Oleg got miserably drunk. I wanted to be of solace to Oleg, however, since my energies were already committed to being with Merlin that option proved a nonstarter.

Clearly, Gita and the other man had been there to try and broker some sort of peace between Oleg and Merlin. Obviously, Merlin was not up to it.

At one point, I had actually headed to the dining room and called back to Oleg. My voice rang out as I asked Oleg if he wanted another beer.

This was the point at which the unfamiliar White man had interrupted and declined the offer; instead, he suggested that they take their leave of Merlin and me.

Oleg, of course, was inclined to take another drink. I did not like my role here – that of keeping Oleg grounded by drink. Certainly, it did give the impression that I was trying to block any resolution or any communion between both him and Merlin.

Although, to be honest, Oleg had begun drinking after Merlin had left the room. It was quite embarrassing really. Oleg could hardly get up – let alone stand on his own.

The man had had to rush to Oleg’s aid. Like Merlin in the bedroom, Oleg was completely enervated though he had used alcohol to drown his pain.

Oleg was devastated that Merlin was not going to return. More importantly, Oleg knew that Merlin had positively no intentions of suffering him for a minute.

The man threw his arms about Oleg and braced him up. More than that, he was fortifying his very spirit.

Again, I took my leave of them in the living room and headed back for Merlin. However, I did not spend time visiting with Merlin.

On returning to the bedroom, I got a long, black, woollen evening coat. It was rather expensive and cut close to the body. Bearing the coat, I returned to the living room where I insisted that Oleg take it to stay warm.

For not realising that he had been drinking to excess, I had felt badly. He was truly distraught; nothing pained me more than seeing this truly beautiful man’s spirit in disrepair.

Whilst his White friend got him into the coat, I stood in back of a disjointed Oleg and held the evening coat open.

Interestingly enough, Oleg’s handsome, Black friend earlier was the same handsome Black man, with the striking resemblance to Maxwell Bowleson – he had appeared with him in that august-energied dream, on Friday, July 21, 1995.

Eventually, they all took their leave of the house; they were rather low-key when doing so. When I had returned to the living room, after having visited with Merlin in the girls’ bedroom, Gita had not said anything further.

No sooner than had they all left the house that Merlin came out to the living room to join me. I was surprised to see that he was again looking so healthy.

Directly opposite Merlin, I now sat alone. Merlin silently sat there. Whilst consciously sending him loving energies, I held my back erect.

Much to my surprise and amusement, Merlin carried a large, clear plastic bag with about 1.5 pounds, likely more, of marijuana. Merlin meticulously rolled a large thick joint with all the Zen focus as he had when incarnate.

I sat there being truly blown away at the sight. I had completely forgotten the sublime, almost Zen, sight of Merlin rolling a joint.

Moments like this were when Merlin really turned up the hues of his magus nature. It was a groove into which he slipped, in order to conceptualise – to non-linearly think.

These ganja joints were so thick that they looked like short white cigars; they certainly smoked profusely like a cigar does. I was mildly humoured by Merlin’s realness. It was grounding.

On looking up, Merlin paused before lighting up and turned up the sensual hues in his large brown – which they were not when incarnate – eyes.

Coolly, Merlin intoned,

“I have no intentions of seeing these people…”

He then pursed the fat joint in his rosy lips and lit up. Casually, Merlin blew on a long even breath that readily perfumed the air with its pungent aroma.

Up to that point, the room was sillaged by that most glorious of scents patchouli – it was Merlin’s favourite fragrance.

As an afterthought, Merlin added that Oleg had intended to come back tomorrow and join him for lunch. There was supposed to be some woman or other present then.

Apparently, it was not going to be either Morag O’Hoare or Gita Gurucharan. I don’t know who she was supposed to be but it was also definitely not Elektra Skanczchowicz – and definitely not Hélène Plotte-Visage.

Merlin took his time and drew on another breath. He then announced that the luncheon had been arranged by none other than Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny. Merlin, however, was not into it.

“Are you sure that you’re going to be up to it?” I asked obviously concerned.

As I looked across the room at Merlin, I spent a great deal of time being spiritually focussed and sent him energy. What was really interesting in this process was that with his long even breaths, when dragging on the ganja joint, I used his breathing rhythm to become harmonised with his vibration.

The focussed process of sharing my energy with him was very potent – real. The energy flowed with great ease. For being intensely lucid, I thought of elevating my vibration’s frequency. I had hoped to thus cycle off a ton of my energy into Merlin.

I accomplished this by envisioning us both encircled by spheres of intense blue-white light. Soon, I saw my energy body cycling off a coil of white light.

This light originated both from the top and bottom of the sphere of light which completely enveloped my seated body. The light travelled the distance between us, across the room, some seven feet away at most.

It made contact with both poles of his energy body’s identical sphere’s integrity. Together, we were truly in communion soul-to-soul. The interesting thing here was that we both continued casually visiting though I knew that Merlin was keenly aware of the energy work that was being accomplished between us.

As he continued his detached Zen-like smoking, I knew that it served as a backdrop to his being receptive of the energy work that I was doing on his behalf. Our breathing was completely synchronised.

I used each inhalation to draw off the negative vibrations. It was this energy that had caused him to become completely enervated when seated opposite Oleg whom he clearly had no desire to have encountered. Merlin then chose to abruptly retire, whilst the others visited, to the girls’ bedroom to crash.

With each exhalation, I sent him intense, white-light energy that was being liquidly drunk by his energy body.

The marvellous thing about this entire experience was how utterly feminine Merlin’s modalities were. This was in marked contrast to my very masculine, martial, warrior-energied focus.

It was truly a validation of the creative principle, Merlin being yin to my yang. Together we were becoming whole. Together our energies were perfectly harmonised. As a result, Merlin’s energies were thusly realigned.

Too, for being in this very expansive state, I caught brief glimpses of the outlines of the light energies that were being manifested between us. During the moments when he would exhale potent puffs of smoke, I observed the manifested spheres of light each time.

The smells of the patchouli and ganja, combined with the ganja’s smoke, created the effect. I was so grounded for being here in this astral plane reanimation of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house. It was a truly sublime magus experience.

It was clear that Merlin had no desire to experience unpleasant aspects of the past. As he sat there, Merlin waited for the air to clear; he waited for the ganja to wane and the strobe of the light spheres to fade out before replying,

“No, no. It’s okay. I’ll be okay…”

As Merlin spoke for the first time, he looked healthier than he had looked at any point before during our astral plane dream encounter.

Earlier, he was lying on his stomach with his left cheek on the pillow; his face looked out the door that led to the room from Harella’s bedroom. There was a cool sheen of sweat then that covered his brow and body; he laid there looking truly wasted.

Even his breathing was loud then. As I patted his cool brow, I could hear the crackling in his lungs that suggested that he was again suffering from a bout of pneumocystis. On soothing his spirit, I had brushed the wet strands of his shoulder-length hair from his brow.

It was so very good to have seen Merlin. The most exquisite pleasure of being in his presence was the great sense of peace that I felt for seeing him whole again.

The simple act of his rolling a joint was, for me, on the order of bliss; he was transcendent. Of course, as was the case during our relationship in the waking state, he did not offer me a toke of the cigar-like joint.

I do know that I found the second-hand smoke pleasurable. It was sweet; it did much to relax me, along with the focussed deep breathing that I independently did – that we did in unison and which had been triggered by his breaths when smoking the joint.

Feeling the need to come down from the intense energy work that I had accomplished with Merlin, I got up and walked slowly over to Merlin. I asked him if he was going to be okay on his own.

He assured me that I had nothing to worry about; he would be fine. I knew it too. So with that, I took my leave of him. In a bid to move back into my regular-dream body, I went out to get some air on the veranda.

He assured me that I did not need to come back, later on, and join him. He would be quite okay to handle things on his own, he assured me. I believed him.

Merlin simply glowed throughout; his cheeks were flushed and fleshy even. Merlin looked centred and genuinely contented.

I then found some ice cream, beneath one of the living room chairs, which earlier I had been eating. Naturally, it was not all that great as it had melted down and lost its flavour.

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Photo: Colliding galaxies.

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Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans.

20.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha3 Comments

These utterly stunning dream experiences occurred on Thursday, February 16, 1989, whilst the Moon transited both Cancer and my second house.

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I was on a street and just beyond the other side of the street was the edge of a cliff; it looked down into a distant valley. It was very sunny out. I was seated in front of a house.

On my right was a man who had come home from work in a car. He looked very Italian except that he seemed to be very hirsute – as though he had quite dark skin.

However, on closer inspection, he turned out to be rather hirsute. A little later on, he came outside again. His neighbours were looking at him, kind of strangely, like they weren’t already accustomed to looking or reacting to him in a strange manner.

He sat down next to me outside, on the neighbouring bench to my right, both of us with back to the neighbours. He turned and looked at me and his face was rather ape-like.

It was the colour black and his hair was quite different. This man had a long widow’s peak and his face was literally the colour black. It was quite ape-like. He said nothing. More than that, he seemed rather friendly and nice.

Along that street, there were kids when a car had pulled up. They were very teenage kids – all boys. A boy came out further along and returned to join one of his companions.

Then it turned out that his companion was in a car that was black and seemed to move, as it were, on air-cushioned rubber wheels. This black car of his was rather aerodynamic.

After his friend took off, he then – this is the little blond timid guy – went over towards the cliff. Directly in front of the hirsute ape-like man, who was seated to my right, the blond guy went into the bushes.

The young guy turned out to have been his brother – that guy who looked like a twin of his or resembled a brother. They hung out together and then he went moving on.

As he passed me, going from right to left, a friend of his was coming down the road. The road had a curve in it and went steeply up a hill. The hill, in fact, looked like the hill at Toronto’s Prospect Cemetery on the south side of Kitchener Street.

His friend came down and he was wearing a helmet because he had been on some sort of vehicle. He removed the helmet, carrying it in his right hand, as they greeted each other.

Strangely, they greeted by grabbing each other around the hips and rubbed their crotches together, joked and laughed. In essence, they engaged in clothed frottage.

I thought it interesting that two males would engage in open sexual play, however, this seemed the natural standard way of greeting in this culture. Clearly, this was a sign that this was not exactly Kansas.

I had the distinct impression that the twin blonds had gone into the gorge to do drugs. As they were blissing out, only the crown of their golden mops was visible.

They were using the very intense lushness of the rolling hills, in the valley way below, as a stimulant. Everything here was so pronouncedly healthy, even the star that shined seemed more intense and pure than Sol.

I carefully looked at some of the trees and realised that they were bonsai, furry, mossy centuries-old plants that seemed to hum at a frequency higher than their arboreal counterparts on Earth.

I was able to zoom into the plants in the valley way below and experience them in intimate close-up. Of course, this I accomplished whilst remaining seated on the bench where to my right on another sat the über-poilu, intensely warm, handsome ape-like man.

The helmet was the same black, light, metal-plastic alloy material as the car. It seemed to have the ability to absorb the intense sunlight, which was not scorching, and cool the interior.

The blond who greeted his Italian-looking helmeted friend – they were all, incidentally, the same hirsute ape-like stock as the jet-black man seated to my right – had patted the car as he moved around its rear into the road to meet his dark-haired friend.

He had patted the car much like one would a trusted horse. At that, the car had hissed and lurched to the road from its hovering stationary position a foot off the ground.

Later on, in the second dream, I was still on the same street. There were all these little kids. They were on skateboards. They came down about four, five, six, of them – little guys.

One of them was Black. He was quite light-skinned. They were from a high social class. They were very friendly and nice and I warmly interacted with them.

However, they were quite reserved and it wasn’t as though they weren’t friendly. As I was a stranger, for that reason, they kept me at bay.

On the lower part of the street, where I was with them, it was clearly a cemetery. As far as cemeteries go, it was quite different an arrangement. It had quite large tombstones in it – monuments.

There was one woman there in black who was seemingly Italian. She was carrying on; she was grieving by this one monument. It had on it a very interesting design and some of the graves were fresh.

I explained to them, the little boys, that this was where one went. However, then one came back from there and was able to live a life again like they were now living.

I explained to them in those terms, however, I did not force them to look at funerals. People’s focus on funerals as the end and fear of death was the trap, I explained to them.

In this the third dream, I was under these hugely tall trees and was working at the time. Clearly, I had been working for someone like Pete Wilkens or someone like him.

I had left a shovel around. The shovel had been left about and from a long, long time ago. This was on the grounds of a park-like setting where there were lots of skeletons about.

The skeletons were covered with a whole bunch of ants. It was strange because it seemed as though the bones were the remnants of lunch and had just been eaten.

They seemed like the skeletons for fish except that the head bone of the fish – skull – was quite flat. The head had three sides to it and the skeleton was again a narrow filament that had two identical spines that trailed the unusual-looking skull.

The skeletons were quite white and were flexible like the white cartilage of a chicken breast. There was a bunch of ants all over them.

I might also add that these flexible, double-spined, fish-like skeletons were covered with ants that were quite feathery and lumpy. These ants were almost like miniature tarantulas because they were so bulky, dark, rich and, in a way, nice to look at.

There was a shovel sitting about and I realised that I had left it there, when I worked last time which was some time ago, last season. However, nobody had actually moved it because it meant that it was my responsibility to have moved it.

So I ended up moving a couple of rakes – they were, in fact, more like pole saws. When trying to clear the space, I took them from one area to the next.

I must say that I was quite struck by the face of that particular man that I did see, whilst he sat on the neighbouring bench to my right, in the initial dream. Even here in another dream entirely, I kept seeing him in my mind’s eye.

The fourth dream found me going back to an apartment where Merlin and I were living together. There were ants all about the apartment.

I told him,

“You have to get out and go away for a while so I can clean away the ants.”

I then went about disinfecting the place and got rid of the ants. I was even disinfecting beneath the floorboards… everywhere.

Owing to his being full-blown with AIDS, I did not want Merlin being exposed to the harmful chemicals in the disinfectants. That, certainly, could have resulted in horrific consequences on his vastly compromised immune system.

With the fifth dream, I was in a large department store. There, I saw Isis da Braga who was there to buy a scarf. At the time, I was with two males; it was a Gay situation.

Owen Hawksmoor was talking to someone who had a very large nose. The man to whom Owen spoke was Black. He seemed like we vaguely knew each other. He seemed, in fact, like Don Baxter.

However, the face on this man was black and had hues of red in it. Not the colour black but as Black people look. More than that, such that it looked like the nose of an animal’s would like an aardvark or some such, the nose on this man was more like a snout.

He wore white; both he and Owen did. There was some function, that one had to go to, for which Owen had complimentary tickets.

These two people, whom Owen and I had encountered, were saying that they did not know where their complimentary tickets were. I said that I knew I had mine. Anyway, Owen left them and went back up a flight of steps.

It was quite light out, up the staircase, as though there was a skylight hung high overhead. Owen moved on and I went in search of Isis who had passed by. She was quite embarrassed, in fact, at seeing me with my arm about some Gay person.

She went in and picked up a scarf and the scarf was worth 52$, I think, because she was putting down the balance of the money – the other half – 26$. She was there shopping.

It was a black scarf and it had beautiful… the borders were red and green designs. It really was quite nice. I came and leaned on the counter and said hello to my sister.

She was reserved, cool and detached. She turned to me and was beautifully made up and looked very young with beautiful, flawless, flawless skin.

She spoke about the fact that she did not go shopping with me anymore. She insisted that my accusation that she did not go shopping with me anymore because I was with men was not true.

She was wearing a beautiful mustard-coloured jacket and a scarf about her neck. Indeed, she was quite well-off.

*The thing about these unusually droopy noses is that they looked as though this was a race of extra-humans (extraterrestrials) which had evolved from simian mammals who were descended from proboscis monkey stock rather than not. It is a race of primates native to Borneo and the faces of those simians are rather human.

This is how this man and others in this dream would appear. However, it was more than that look. END.

In the sixth dream, I was in an office that was like an indoor greenhouse. If you like, it was a mausoleum rather than greenhouse. It was sky-lit and there were a lot of caskets about. Some of them had flowers and some of them did not.

When you came in, you went down some stairs and into a more open area. There you saw a burial crypt. It was an indoor burial crypt. There was a man about as well as a grand piano.

Whenever the employees of the place came in, there was a woman standing about and she would excitedly say,

“We have to go out, we have to go out.”

I was with those little children, from the earlier dream, who were skateboarding and whom I had instructed earlier about the whole idea of reincarnation. These children were mostly White. We were also being hustled out of the place.

The woman then said,

“What is he doing? There is not another service. Why is he trying to start up that piano?”

The man at the piano was large and bent over and he looked somewhat out of place being there. Before we could be ushered out of the place, I managed to run up and put some flowers – some yellow flowers, on one of the brown caskets that was there.

*He was inordinately tall and hence drooped over a lot. Whilst seated at the grand piano, his towering height made it look as though an adult seated at a dollhouse piano. Too, he was inordinately pale… END.

As we were going out, the procession was coming in and people were being hustled in. It was quite a fast procession. I stuck around and tried to see the place and see why there was so much hustling.

There and then, it turned out that I saw the casket. It was very flat and plain and I thought,

‘Well why is it being hustled out? If it’s a funeral why would the relations be so ecstatic?’

However, it turned out that because the burial box was so flat I thought it was going to be cremated. It turned out, however, that it was for the office. There was going to be a surprise party.

It was actually a cake. It was covered up in wonderful, colourful wrapping paper. There was going to be a celebration and those were all the workers from the company. The atmosphere was quite nice and friendly.

In this the seventh dream, I was in a very, very large and busy restaurant where I ordered myself a bowl of soup. I was going to go upstairs to the bathroom but I had my bowl of soup in my hand.

It was very Gothic-styled. It seemed, in fact, like the inside of a château. It was in the Gothic style except that the walls were rose granite – rose-coloured granite. It was, however, rather smooth-surfaced.

I then accidentally spilled my bowl of soup. The waitress who had come to my aid was dark-haired – short, dark hair. She looked like a dancer who danced with the Winnipeg Contemporary Dancers when I was living in Winnipeg – the one who was Lebanese and had had a back injury.

Anyway, this waitress went off and I was waiting there being quite embarrassed. I was trying to rush to the toilet. I asked someone where the toilet was and they said,

“No, no, not upstairs.”

It turned out that the washrooms were, in fact, to the rear. So off I went to the bathroom and I was quite embarrassed.

I tidied up myself and I came back out and my white cotton pants – nice, beautiful trousers; they were baggy but they came in tight and folded in a pleat at the end at the hem – were quite stained by the soup.

It was a dark sort of pea soup. A dark brownish fare, like a lentil soup, it was. However, it was not like a lentil soup because it was red.

I was trying to ask this man to move, in order to get by him, en route to the washrooms. There was a couple behind a man and they were very lovey-dovey.

The man had to ask them to get up to let me get to the bathroom. He did not want to get up or anything like that but he finally realised he had to get up. So he basically moved and he was quite unusually blond.

Everybody in this place was very unusual-looking. They had extraordinary features about them. They were excessively good-looking but they had an outstanding feature that made them seem Thothesque.

Again, noses here were very long, droopy and bent over. Their noses were almost beaklike in that sense. That was the extraordinary thing about that jet-black skinned man, in the initial dream, as well as this blond man who had the same feature.

These persons were all exceptionally tall. They were each on the other side of seven-plus feet. Also, they were so über-poilu, it made it look like they were either jet-black when Black or yellow-white for being blond.

Finally, he did move and when I was leaving, I looked at him. He was looking down at me because I was out of sorts, out of place, being there. Standing before him, he really did tower over me.

Clearly, these persons were EHs – extra-humans or ETs.

Another person had come by and tidied me up. He busily got me back to where I was seated. Then he had mumbled something like,

“Why don’t you get out of here real fast?”

So I went out into the vestibule and I was waiting and waiting for the waitress to come by because I wanted to pay her for my bowl of soup. I think it was going to be $3 or something like that.

Isis just said,

“Why don’t we just get out of here?”

We were waiting out front and it was busy so I finally got out. However, I was arguing and said,

“That’s not the point of it.”

I strongly felt that I should be paying my way. So I thought to just go back and put down my money on a table somewhere – I would feel better.

However, I did finally leave, after having been more or less harassed by Isis without having paid. She was asking,

“If you can save the money, why not save it?” that was her attitude.

When we were leaving there was a tall, enormously tall, man. He was White. Again, he had the same beaklike nose and there was something about his face that I found immediately sexual. His face was intensely sexualised.

I was going to indulge and not leave because I so wanted to explore this man. However, Isis hustled me out of there.

Dream eight found me in the streets. I was walking with a baby – a little Black baby who was light-skinned. I carried the baby on my shoulders.

It was rather nice. This time, out on the street, it was dark out and it was nighttime. This place we went to, that was quite busy, was bustling with lots of wonderful, wonderful people.

It was very cosmopolitan here. A brief dream it was too.

I next found myself in a ninth dream experience that had a great deal of uproar and tumult to it. There were figures in black who were part of some sort of religious sect. These persons were just alarmingly fanatical.

They were terrorists and they wore black. They had some sort of insignia on their bodies. As a matter of fact, they were looking for me.

There was no mistaking that fact.

I was in what would be Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s yard. I was trying to hide out there. There were, somehow, attempts to get me out.

Then there was this truck which the people who were like security guards used. I was told where to find them and where they weren’t.

So I went into this yard and it seemed like part of Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s property and the neighbourhood in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. However, it was differently set up here.

There was an Indian-looking girl – Amerindian-looking and not Dravidian. She, too, had a beaklike nose and I tried to explain to her,

“Well look, you know I’m being pursued…”

“Oh yes!” further, she made reference to the fact, “Oh yes, you’re the one who killed Bob… or somebody.”

Up on the roof was like Bob’s brother, whoever Bob was, but it wasn’t a name that I recognised. His name was Bob, however; it was Patrice Wellesley, of all people, who was keeping a lookout.

He was supposed to notify the guard-like people. I intuitively knew that on the far side of the wall, of the place where I was hiding out, was a guy and a girl. She had very long black hair and was quite militant. They were looking out for me and talking.

I was telling the Amerindian-looking girl with the Thothesque nose, who was talking to me and dropping pieces of information, to just shut up and calm down,

“You don’t need to say everything and carry on and on.”

However, she still kept on blabbing away.

I then managed to go around the side of the house. She was with her sister and they were playing some sort of game. So I thought to actually go around, to the front of the house, to ask her who her sister was.

I then went around to the front of the house and there was her sister who seemed like Diana Nottingham – with whom I modelled at OCAD and did that pose with her at OCAD that Olaf Nordstrom had painted.

Anyway, she was quite wonderfully made up in whiteface. As though she were a Kabuki actor/actress, she wore white pancake makeup. She was, in fact, an actress. She was waiting to go on and perform a role of hers.

It was quite interesting because she was, in fact, filling me in on what was going on,

“In point of fact Arvin, you know, basically someone died because in self-defence in a rumble with them… it was just a lazy man about town, an idler and a drifter.”

He apparently ended up dying because, during some sort of attack on me, as I was defending myself he was accidentally killed. As a result, I was on the run and there was a plot – the militant group was out to get me.

She told me that what I could do was go behind the Methodist Church in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. The place, however, was set out as if a mélange of Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts and elsewhere.

So she told me to go across the railroad tracks. On coming around, I would be able to come home free to my home in Crab Hill. However, she pointed out that all along the route there were the same guards – militant fanatics.

However, I just had to play it safe. She confidently assured me that they could be headed off. I was grateful for her advice and took her directives to heart.

Well, low and behold, the girl – the militant sibling – came around the yard and caught me. When she caught me, I fled in escape. I went and hid behind the wall.

I am not referring to Diana or one of the two sisters who had been around the backyard but there were two other sisters. These other two sisters were part of the militant group that was on the hunt for me.

The girl pulled out a weapon and it had a little blade on it. It was quite deadly and I kept hiding myself trying to extricate myself out of the place. I did so by holding up one of the sisters, in front of me, as a hostage.

Someone got spliced in the left hand. I don’t recall that it was me or if it was me, I simply did not feel any pain when attacked. The vicious-looking wound had self-healed right away. I had focussed my light energies on the wound and caused it to instantaneously self-heal.

Anyway, I was able to push the sister onto them. I then made my way around to the back of the house. By this time, the brother was coming around the house from the other direction.

When I say I went around to the back of the house, it was where I had originally encountered the two militant sisters. By that point, she had already called for help from the guardsman. He was somewhat ecstatic as he came around. However, this was my chance to flee.

So I climbed over the fence and immediately there was a lot of plastic on and all over everything. When I climbed over the wall it was, clearly, what in the waking state would be the very back end of the Methodist Church estate.

It was covered with a heavy plastic and there was a lot of wood. There was scaffolding everywhere. I climbed along the wood and the sister – the white-faced, actor of the two sisters – had told me that I could get immunity by saying that I was coming to work on the grounds or some such.

Next, I crawled along the scaffolding and looked to my left. However, this being a dream, it had semblances to being Sandy Point but it wasn’t really Sandy Point either.

I realised that there were apartments, tiny apartments, which were glass-enclosed. They were all quite in disarray. People lived there but nobody seemed to be home.

Here I was trying to make my escape and if anybody had seen me, of course, I would be squealed on. Then I finally jumped down, out of the ceiling-like area, because there were crates and boxes and a straw-stuffed bed under me directly below the window.

I came down to an open area and there I saw a much darker version of Artemis da Braga my niece. She was sitting wrapped with a telephone cord about her as she played with the phone.

I greeted her but I did not want to get her excited because I wanted to flee the area.

Next, in dream ten, I came out of this beautiful house and came out into a wonderful backyard. Immediately, whilst there, I saw another of those vans. There had also been a van in the earlier dream that showed how these people, the militant people, worked.

They had a van and it had another little van on the inside when it opened up claw-like. It appeared that the top and the bottom, the back rather, could open up. Inside it revealed another vehicle that was covered in a brownish greasy goop.

The most interesting feature of this entire affair was that, although they looked human enough, the militiamen were not human. They were extra-human. So too was the machine which, from its goopy fluids, was sentient.

It was an EH species which they were using to capture and feed one to. It seemed that the machine-like EHs were, in fact, in control of the militia-type EHs rather than the reverse.

It seemed more creature than a vehicle and, somehow, this was what I was supposed to be put in when captured. These two Black men, who were guarding the house and who let me know that they were guarding the house, were saying,

“Aha! Now we’ve caught you.”

You know, I thought about it and there was just no way that I was going to let them capture me.

‘I’ve got to get away,’ I thought.

At the time, one of them was taking a pee – both these men were Black. They were quite casual about having caught me. They apparently were going to get their supervisor who would take care of me.

The supervisor came and he looked like the guy from Trinidad who had worked as a chef at the Underground Railroad Restaurant when, long ago, I worked there. He did, at least, seem like that man.

This man, who was their supervisor, was also Black. He had the semblance, the air about him, of that chef but he did not so much look a great deal like him. He was rotund and fairly light-complected.

He lived in the house. Rather, he did not live in the house but he was staying in the house as a caretaker. I thought,

‘I’m not going to be captured. I’m not going to be caught. I can disguise myself.’

I immediately started accelerating my energies and, as a result, I was able to transform myself. As I upped my frequency, I heard an increase in the universal hum.

I looked down at the backs of both my outstretched hands, keenly observing the intense sunlight react to my skin in a glowing sizzling manner, until my aura intensified and became visible about my body.

My aura’s light grew brighter as my skin actually glowed with increasing intensity. It continued until the skin, throughout my entire body, was indistinguishable from the rest of the intense morning sunlight.

When they went down the hill and came back with the guy, I was standing there right in front of the house. It was this particular, large wooden house.

It wasn’t large, for being a bungalow, but the door was large. This house was definitely not part of the landscape in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. As I looked on, the guards came bearing the portly gentleman.

I was aware from the way he – the supervisor, Zen sage – was talking that he was aware that I was there. Perhaps, he could see me but the other two – the militant guardsmen – couldn’t see me.

I realised what I had done: I had made myself light so that I blended in with the landscape and couldn’t be seen. I had rendered myself invisible!

I then decided that I could further transform myself. Next, I made myself into this little white piece of what seemed like string. However, it was more like nylon. It was like shiny waxed dental floss.

Such that half way there was a loop in it, it was tied in a knot. It was doubled on itself so that it was, I would guess, three to five inches long at the most.

I obviously was astrally projected to another world where, rather lucidly, I was dreaming and interacting with extra-humans. The dental floss-like string was the cord of light which keeps one’s astral body connected, to the waking state body, when astral-projected during sleep.

Immediately, the caretaker guy took the cord – the wax-like cord – which was my transformed-dreamer self in his hand. It was my astral body’s cord which was left rendered visible whilst I remained invisible.

He began giving the two guardsmen a walk-through of the house in which only he should have been. It was a house that was no longer lived in. It was wooden all about and very organic.

It was a house that allowed for natural light to pour in. There was a skylight. The house was low in the sense that it was dug in. The house was built such that it was somewhat half-buried below the surface.

In that way, it was kept cool because it was partly below-ground. All about, on either side, as you walked in every part of this beautiful, sprawling bungalow were every manner of cactus.

These were cacti that were shaped like trees that had leaves. Absolutely stunning and incredible, they enlivened the house throughout.

He gave me a tour of the place with the two guardsmen, who could not see me, in tow. As he walked them back to the front door he said,

“So you see, he really couldn’t be here. You go off and look for him.”

He tossed me or what was my representation – the wax-looking string or my astral body’s umbilical-like cord of light – from his right hand sending it through a doorway of the house. He then went about his business and showed them to the door and got rid of them.

At this point, I rematerialised back to my regular dreamer self in this dream and I was able to let on to him that I knew that he knew of my being invisible. So I called him, on another phone in the house, and I remained absolutely silent.

I then telepathically shared my thoughts with him. I inferred that I knew that he was aware that I was present in the house though invisible to most. Of course, he knew that I was there but he was just not going to acknowledge my being friendly with him.

The fact is that he knew that I was in trouble. He was just trying, out of the goodness of his heart, to help me out. However, he wasn’t going to befriend me or anything like that.

So anyway, on my own I began exploring this beautiful, beautiful labyrinth-like bungalow. The walls of it were wooden. It was a reddish wood like redwoods normally look. It had a shiny hue to it because it was polished.

I was talking about it to someone, later on in the dream, and it was in fact the same guy – the caretaker – who had accompanied me at one point. I said it seemed like it was built by Frank Lloyd Wright and he said,

“No. Not really…”

It seemed like it but it was a different style altogether; however, it was more or less like Frank Lloyd Wright. Seriously though, it was a totally different style.

So I went about exploring the place. I went in this one room that was clearly a bedroom. I opened the door and went in – it was a glass door. I went in and on the left were shelves.

There were tiny, tiny, little cacti in pots and some of them were large and some of them were blooming. They were heliotropically craning over to one side.

This place had been abandoned for quite some time. However, all the cacti in the place had managed to grow quite large. They were big, bulbous, beautiful and wonderfully lifelike.

The spread to the bed was turned and discarded. It had been left just as when last used by the owner. There was a bulldog; it was not a live one but a statue of a bulldog.

This person had a great deal of style and was quite successful. I realised that the owner, the former occupant, was Black. I saw the face and I can’t say that I can recall the face but, somehow, I got the impression that the face was a face of mine if you like.

It was interesting because when I saw the face that is basically the information that I got from looking at the face in the photo. There was a tiny time-faded photograph of a face. It was of a Black man.

This was the sense that I got from it, that it was me, in fact.

There were beautiful trousers about. As well, there was a large armoire with tons and tons of beautiful, silk robes that I had worn in that life.

They were worn around the house by the former occupant. There were, on the bed, some clothes. Too, there was a table beside the bed.

Everything in this bungalow was very organic: the bed was very organic, the desk was and even the fixtures were very organic. As well, the cloth was very organic – by organic, I mean that it wasn’t inanimate.

It was organic because it was lifelike. More than that, it was organic because it was breathing. That’s why it had lived so long because it was quite some time since last occupied by the owner.

However, it was very much so still alive. The sheet and bedding, on the bed, were woollen and greyish-coloured.

The only reason why I had entered the room, in the first place, was I wanted to roam – to see if there were any signs of underwear… there was. There was tons of underwear on the shelves behind me.

I wanted to check and sniff his underwear, to see if he had masturbated.

Anyway, when I got into the room, that little adventure had totally evaporated. For having seen the photograph, if you like I was quite interested in exploring the place and getting to refamiliarise myself with the place.

The bedroom was just absolutely beautiful. Off to the left, rather behind the shelves and straight ahead, was the closet and the bed was to the right of the door.

Down this long hallway that was sky-lit were the tables and tables of clothing. There was a door past the shelves, on the left, and it looked into more and more clothes.

I then came out of there and I went about exploring all over. This time, I went to explore all the cacti in the place. There were tons and tons of them.

Shortly thereafter, I was joined by Carl Leroiderien, Merlin and someone else who seemed like Mario of Paris – Mario D’Agostino, however, it wasn’t him.

I had a sense of Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny being about and Carl Leroiderien had seemed like a custodian of the place. Carl was a caretaker or curator of the sprawling bungalow which now seemed like an historic site.

When he was excitedly walking everyone through the place, to show them the place, he was referring to the owner. I was there but, again, none of these people had any awareness that I was there – not even Merlin.

He was sort of filling them in on who the owner was. From what I could see, Carl was doing a good job of it.

There were cacti that were tall. There were also red ones. There was one cactus that was tall and it had needles on it. It had large, large leaves and two or three leaves like those of a royal palm’s.

Most of it was like a palm tree but it was like a breadfruit leaf or some sort of leaf like a maple leaf – albeit an extra large maple leaf. It was, however, cactus.

Everywhere there were plants on either side of the skylight hallways. The bungalow was a series of long halls that were all connected and veered off in different directions.

However, it was a house that had basically become a living garden such that it was organic. The cacti truly were the lungs of the house. The air was really nice and it was cool.

The humans were able to live with the cacti because it was a totally self-sustainable dwelling. As the light came in heliotropically sustaining the various cacti species, it added breath, depth and dimension to the space thereby making it equally organic.

Too, because it was partially submerged belowground, there was a lot of moisture from underground that kept these plants alive. The cacti were quite happy and they had grown so beautifully.

It was as if they were bonsai cacti. It was quite incredible how they were all over the place throughout the house.

Then I went down some steps to another open area of the bungalow. Again, there were more cacti. We moved off and came to an area where Carl said,

“Oh let’s go downstairs, I can show you the basement. You can see all these wonderful things.”

When you looked out the skylight area, it was of the street, the pathway into what would seem Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. So I immediately was afraid to be seen yet I was assured by Carl as he stilled my nerves telepathically saying,

‘Oh, it’s okay… it’s okay.’

I was concerned about the people, who lived across the street, reporting me to the militia-types. There was bamboo, organic bamboo if you like, that was made into a fence.

It seemed like the backyard of what was the neighbour’s house and they weren’t there. I was told it was quite safe that it was okay. The neighbours weren’t there to squeal on me.

Before you went down the steps, into this other area, there were all these beautiful, beautiful organic works that are quite common in the Orient. For example there were many objets d’art.

These were objets d’art which were beautiful temples and totems. They were all made from the ivory of elephants’ tusks. It was all beautifully detailed and in miniature – all the miniature designs were made of ivory.

That was the sort of stuff. This particular objet d’art was large. It was square-shaped so that it wasn’t like an elephant’s tusk. More like an obelisk, if you like, it was.

They were more so little temples. They were shrines and Greek temples if you like. What was truly fascinating was how incredibly detailed they were though scaled down versions of the real architectural gems.

We moved on and now we came to an area that had nothing but wares. There were lots of baskets everywhere because this was where the ornaments were kept. They were all stored therein.

Carl was the caretaker of these things. He was quite familiar with every item and, again, there were bamboo basket-like wares and objets d’art.

I was told that this was, in fact, like a wine cooler. It was so delicately and intricately made. Also, the item was collapsible. It could open. The objet d’art was like a valise and it could open up.

Merlin went and opened it and was prying into it. It had two African skulls or heads on it and it was quite beautifully detailed as a matter of fact.

We then moved on and came into the downstairs area. This place was like a cellar. Somehow, copious rays of sunlight made it to this part of the sprawling, multi-levelled bungalow.

Even though we were further underground yet, somehow, the sunlight came in. However, I soon realised that it wasn’t sunlight. It was just this light that was white and somewhat diffuse.

It was quite soft and nice to the touch. Among the many stored wares, there was something that had a white bamboo-like coil. This thing had a piece of string attached to it with two yellow sticks or shoots like chopsticks.

You could insert it and it was, in fact, quite sexual. The Mario D’Agostino character immediately grabbed it up. Whilst simulating sexual play, he was playing around with it.

He was making noises filled with sexual innuendo and then said,

“Umm, get undressed and put it on your cock because that’s what it’s made for.”

Oh he was so happy to perform and went off to try on the item.

*Here now, some further comments set in the dream in the beautiful house. Here, the atmosphere in this house was one of serenity and it was a reflection of that particular life that one had led whence the proprietor was Black.

Tall and very erudite, he seemed a man of the world. He was well-travelled. He loved beautiful music and he had a collection of things in his bedroom that were totems from his travels.

He was obviously tall because there were lots of khaki and white summer pants which all gave a sense of his height. When I had first entered into the room, there was also a rack that I had bumped into.

I hadn’t noticed it because it was suspended from the ceiling. It was racked with leather suspenders and an enormous collection of belts: broad belts, narrow belts, as well, skinny belts.

There were all kinds of beautiful belts. They were very expensive and they were also very organic and ancient. They weren’t brand new any of them.

It was all a reflection of the person’s spirit. You never met the person but you knew the person through the house. It was beautiful and wonderfully planned out.

The sprawling, organic bungalow was so multidimensional; it went off in all these directions and avenues because that was who this person was in that lifetime. In a box to call home, he was not contained or restrained.

The organic house constantly veered off. It had many apartments and veered off and had many cul de sacs. There were areas where he could go and be removed from all the other areas yet be surrounded by plants.

At all times, he was surrounded by life itself and it was healthy… quite nice.

Whilst at the restaurant having the lentil-looking soup, the reason for the extra-tall, obvious extra-human being impatient with me was more subtle than one may assume. With their sophisticated proboscis, it is safe to assume that smell was the most developed of this extra-human race’s senses rather than sight as is the case for we humans.

Likely, there was something very off-putting to my pheromone makeup which left the seated extra-human uncomfortable. I don’t think that it was a matter of my race, Black, but my species, Earthly human, which made the über-poilu, blond extra-human uncomfortable.

As I was in his home world, he naturally felt put upon of having the unfavourable aspects of my pheromones anywhere near him. At the end of the day, he was an incarnate ensouled fragment who is one of seven soul types and with the same selection of overleaves as any Earthly human. Any Earthly human would have similarly responded to having someone of outré pheromone and species in their midst.

A very serene dream it remarkably was. END.

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Photo: Proboscis simian mammalian.

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The Dreamer Awakens.

16.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Having the staff I was, however, quite anchored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreams truly are the poetry of the Soul. END.

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Photo: Angel oak tree.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: Crab Hill