Tag: Dream telepathy

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

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On the cusp of the Art Gallery of Ontario’s Georgia O’Keeffe Exhibition opening this month, I am repost this blog.  Do please enjoy.  

Whilst the Moon transited both Libra and my fifth house, these next dreams occurred on October 1, 1989.  Too, it was the seventh anniversary of that magical, and a bit cool, Friday evening in Hell’s Kitchen when Merlin and I would meet… yet again. 

Of course, at the time, he was rather ill with full-blown AIDS and horribly suffering from Candida.  However, as I have known more than 200 persons to have passed of AIDS, Merlin’s AIDS-related illnesses were mild manifestations of what can eventualise with AIDS.  I have always been grateful for that. 

These dreams – one a touchstone dream with Olaf Gamst’s old-souled son as he was during a life when he was an assistant, muse and lover of El Greco’s, the other a dream set remotely in the past on this planet or possibly on another world where the indigenous folks were decidedly extra-human though Sol III human-looking enough – were welcome inspiration. 

Too, the dreams were dreamt during the second sleep cycle that day.  Back then, I took naps as often as I could afford.  Merlin fainted several times each day and the sheer gravity of what we moved through was exhausting at times.  As he would have it, no one knew that Merlin fainted multiple times daily. 

At the time of these dreams, I had taken to the pyramid to meditate with crystals and eventually ended up privately crying at the share stark finality of what imminently loomed on the horizon.  Thus, sleep was a welcome refocussing of my energies – if only briefly.  Of course, sleep and its elixir, dreams, ever kept me focussed, inspired and aware of the macroscopic. 

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In this the first dream, I see Eleanor Bissell – my Canadian-History and English teacher at Harbord Collegiate Institute; she was doing some gardening in a blue dress that was floral-printed.  This garden had tall old trees in it.  There were hydrangea plants – large ones at that.

I went over and I greeted her and said, “Hello, Mrs. Bissell.”

I told her who I was and she had on her glasses and her breath was short.  She was just the same as when I knew her in the waking state.

This dream, the second, was set in another time and another place.  I was captured by this man in a castle-like dwelling.  A very Moorish setting, like in Spain, it was; it was not Moorish architecture like in Northern Africa but it was more so in southern Spain.  Perhaps, it was Andalusia or thereabouts.

It was brown stone which had been burnt by the Sun for years and years, tens of millennia, as a matter of fact.  I got captured and I was taken back into a room with a man; he was saying to me, “Of course you’re mine.  You’re 63%!”

This percentile was supposed to signify, if you like, being bad or evil.

He was describing things to me because he was the epitome of what one would consider evil.  I was saying, “No I’m not.”

I was saying that I didn’t want to be there and wanted to be let out.

The thing is, it was not me; rather, I was the son and he was a bronzed person; he was very swarthy but not Black.  I was his offspring; I was, in fact, his son.  Then some people came in and they were all there and I asked if I could get out with them.  They, however, said no that I couldn’t because they were alright.

They said that they were all 50% and that I was not.  I supposedly had to be 50% and therefore, as I was his son, I had to stay there with him.  I was really upset and somehow I managed to be stealthily taken away during the night, after the father left, by a woman.

She wore long flowing garb and she was again very Mediterranean or Middle Eastern-looking.  She had long limbs and café au lait complexion.  She told me how it all went that I was her son, by the same man, and that she was one of his many lovers.

However, he was never supposed to have a child by her; as a result, when she became pregnant because he so loved her, he broke with tradition and he had her put up in this particular part of the castle.

It was really fortified and very abandoned-looking but she held out there.  Nobody ever came to this part of the castle and it was very terraced and had a lot of inner walls in it.

The walls here were of a slight sandy colour and we were alone at nighttime.  As we were talking, there was battle going on behind us over in another part of the castle; the battle occurred in another part of the fortified town that supported the castle.

There were a lot of cries because there was battle going on.  You could hear a lot of horses neighing and cantering, as in the Crusades, if you like.  I don’t, however, recall having heard any gunfire.

She was telling me not to worry because he would never harm me.  Said she, I was quite well protected.  He did love me in spite of his cruelty and there was no way that he could hurt me because she was fiercely protective of me.

If he had done anything to me, she would be forced to expose him and he knew and feared that eventuality.  She told me to just go on outside and play.  So, I went out into the yard and it was a wonderful elaborate garden – very organic.

It had this pool and there inside were dolphins.  I went in to play with them.  It was a muddied pool but very large like a manmade lake.  They were playing with me as I frolicked in the water with them.

One of them had its fluke pressing down on my bum from above me.  Whilst sandwiched between them under the surface the other used it nose to push up against my breastbone and solar plexus; thus, they propelled me through the water at great exhilarating speeds.

It was a beautiful sense of motion because, of course, they travelled quite fast and they always stayed clear of going out too far.  There was a point at which they had jokingly made a fast turn and I hadn’t caught up.

So I went to stand up and it turned out that it was a very large pool and a rather deep, deep pool.  I panicked when I broke surface and they assisted me back to the shallow area.

When I came back indoors both the father and mother were there now – the swarthy humans, that is.  I said to them that there was something here in the pool a big opening, you could feel it.

I also sensed it from the dolphins as being something in the pool that they themselves feared.  The father figure was laughing and told me not to worry about that because he knew, of course, what it was.  The mother had remained quite silent and looked at me, all the time, because she was slightly to his left and behind him as he spoke.

All three of us were next in a room in the castle and, somehow, the dolphins were here as well.  There was a break in the floor, a wide open hole, and they came up and were swimming and churning up the same muddied-looking dark water.

A man then entered who looked like and was, in fact, the American actor who starred in the film, Paris, Texas.  I think that the actor’s name is, Harry Dean Stanton, but I am not certain of that; he is a scrawny, hard-faced, thin-lipped man.

He came in and had a gun and said, “I want to get paid.  I’m doing work in this building and I’m not getting paid.  I’m tired of being held up here.  Deliver!  Or else I’m going to take you out and shoot you.”

It was an interesting-looking silver gun.  I was standing up on a cabinet and he went to shoot me but I knew that he wouldn’t shoot me.  He had, in fact, turned the pistol so that the two shots rang off to my right.

What surprisingly came out, when he fired the shots, was water; however, it had light in it.  It was like lasered water and it shot out in a large chunky jet and went almost instantaneously to the wall and crashed there.

He shot rounds of it and both parents remained absolutely icy cool; they paid him very little mind.  Later on, the mother telepathically told me not to worry because he couldn’t harm me; too, she telepathically shared that I was not to move and give in to fear.  I was not to show any signs of panic.

*This was clearly a civilisation which was set here on Earth long millennia before the current ape-central, fear-ruled madness we now know.  This was a time long ago in human history when there was contact between both humans and cetaceans.  Telepathy was de rigueur; too, psychic abilities were more evolved then.

Perhaps, this was an Atlantean society or some other civilisation which predated the Atlantean.  The persons were seemingly of Mediterranean extraction and it was, however, definitely not Egyptian.

I would guess that it was post-Egyptian – the latter having occurred easily more than 60 thousand years ago; although, Europeans in their racist elitism – never having had anything to rival pyramids in Europe – reworked the agedness of Egyptian civilisation to their ends.

**I am now left to believe that this was in some way an Extra-Human civilisation where the humans closely resembled Earthly humans.  They were, however, swarthier and were archly telepathic.

Too, their foreheads were also considerably higher and had a slight concave look at the top.  Dolphins, it seems, were kept as indoor pets – just as cats and dogs are for humans.  Hence, there was the watering hole, which led to a vast underground network, where the animals could come and go from the fortified castle to the ocean, however far off.  END.

Almost instantaneously, in this the third dream, I was in another scene; it was one in which I was playing and my companion was Lars Gamst†.  We were drawing, in fact, we were painting.

Lars said to the same actor, Harry Dean Stanton, who was now with me in this new dream – both the parents, incidentally, were no longer about.  Lars wanted the actor to assist him by editing.

The guy misunderstood him and didn’t know what was what.  What Lars was doing was covering the painting with a black wax and, later, he was then going to strip it off.  So he needed the actor to go and get the chemicals and equipment to go and strip off the wax.

He was somewhat impatient that the guy was so stupid and didn’t understand; Lars had had to spell out what he wanted.  I was trying to explain to the guy what to do and what Lars meant, as well as, the process involved.

When he did go away to get the things, I came over and approached Lars and assisted him in the painting of the work that he was doing.

*A rather insightful dream this one and the energies with Lars were, as ever, pleasant and sublime.  I find this a rather telling dream too because, in later years, on having Lars’s Michael Overleaves charted, I would learn that not only is he an old soul – first level old slave and entity mate to his equally old-souled father (Olaf Gamst) and sixth cast artisan like myself but he was the favoured muse of Doménicos (El Greco) Theotokópoulos and his chief assistant.

Naturally, for Lars to be so immersed creatively in a painterly fashion – in the dreamtime – was truly about revisiting a skill and time in the past which brought him great fulfillment both spiritually and creatively.  This was so clearly an astral plane encounter between us.

Being in Lars’s presence was quite expansive; you could actually feel his soul being deeply creative.  So fully dilated were his pupils, Lars’s eyes were almost pure black.  He was terribly eccentric and clearly there was much bleed-through from his having been greatly inspired in that lifetime by El Greco.  He worked feverishly with great attack.

He quite appreciated the fact that I was not a dolt and could be of able assistance to him.  This was such an astral plane encounter that it was as real and connected as that time we rode the subway together and the connectedness we shared blew my mind.

Incidentally, in that sixteenth century lifetime, Lars was much younger than the great artist and they did have a passionate relationship.  I have a distinct impression that there was a bleed through of what Lars looked like, in that lifetime, as his features were not as they are now; he was more Latin and darker, strong-nosed.

It was an aquiline nose.  Too, he was robust-energied and had massive hands like those of a sculptor’s.  Terribly expressive and passionate, too, were his hands.  END.

I was on the phone whilst speaking with Owen Hawksmoor, in this the fourth dream, and I could see about his apartment as we spoke.  I was calling him because I wanted to get laid and I was really raunchy and stir-crazy but he was not up to it.  I start calling him on it and I told him, “Oh yeah, why don’t you get up and go to the bathroom?  And drop your teeth in the glass of water, on your way, before you come back?”

In a very sarcastic manner, I had laced into him to which he responded by being coolly dismissive of me by broadly laughing at my desperation.

Somehow, Pandora da Braga was part of this dream and she had an awareness of my play for Owen and my resultant rejection.

*Featured art:  Santiago el mayor by El Greco.  At the time of the dream, Lars appeared as he did in a past life; his was a strong aquiline nose in the dream.  This look features prominently in many of El Greco’s works.  In that past life, Lars was a favoured muse, assistant and lover of El Greco’s who was in a recent incarnation the sublime American artist, Georgia O’Keeffe. 

As Lars is a slave soul, the look of St. Francis and also the look of Christ carrying the cross are those of a slave soul; at least that’s my impression.  Since, Christ was a seventh level king soul on his last life, the El Greco Christ of the aquiline nose is decidedly not a king soul and more so a slave with priestly airs.  Perhaps, this is how Lars looked then. 

What I also love about this particular El Greco painting is that the green draping proves an evocative prelude of things to come, as it were, with regards Georgia O’Keeffe’s sublimely sexualised flower paintings. 

For that matter, I love how Georgia O’Keeffe’s sensual masterpiece, Jack in the pulpit No. IV is a reanimation of El Greco’s Christ on the cross which is in the National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Japan.  END.  

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Art:  Santiago el Mayor

Oil on Canvas

97 x 77 cm

1610 El Greco

Provenance: Museo del Greco

Christ on the Cross

Oil on Canvas

95.5 x 61 cm

1600 El Greco

Provenance: National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Japan

Jack in the Pulpit IV

Oil on Canvas

40 x 30 Inches

1930 Georgia O’Keeffe

Provenance: National Gallery of Art, Washington D. C.

Grey Lines with Black, Blue and Yellow

Oil on Canvas

48 x 30 Inches

© 1923 Georgia O’Keeffe

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

Astral Plane Life Review.

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As if a testament to the bucolic splendour that we shared, this next dream occurred on Thursday, January 13, 1994.   At the time, the Moon transited Aquarius and my ninth house.  There were so many of our personal truths being validated in this dream.

Here in this quiet moment, Merlin and I found each other.  Magically, we were able to squinge up and become lost in intimacy soul-to-soul.

Certainly being thus engaged with another human being, always afforded one the ability to escape the ubiquitous dreck of racial animus, which is never far off when one happens to be a Black male.

So very good it was to have found, from within the dreamtime, the magus Merlin.  Though he seemed in that initial dream – in 1978 – to be of points unknown, Merlin would prove my elfin-dream magus extraordinaire.

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I found myself in a house at night time.  Who should I be there with me but Merlin?  On seeing each other we lit up; we both greeted the other quite warmly.

He looked up at me and winked, at which point, I went and joined him as he sat on a large sofa-bed.  Sublime…  A very comfortable seat it was, too.

This was a beautifully crowded home with lots of furniture everywhere.  This was also a work area.  I had been busily writing at the time.

On joining him – he had called me over – I went over and cuddled up in his arms.  Merlin’s arms were protectively wrapped about my enraptured body.

Then Merlin did the most sensual thing, he began kissing me in my left ear.  Instantaneously his wet, soft, warm tongue made quivering labia of my lobe.  I can’t now recall having experienced such quiet intimacy in ages.

In what was so obviously a study, all about the room were shelves crammed with books, books and more books.  In the foreground was a large writing desk.  There, I had been doing a great deal of research pouring through several books.

Pulling away, I had looked directly in the eyes at him and was so very aware that this was a dream with the dream magus and said,

“Merlin, I’m so glad that we had that time together – those seven years together…”

This was one of the most real and intense dreams that I have ever had, to date, in this lifetime.  Until having this dream encounter with Merlin, I would have argued that this degree of realism and intensity of focus in the dreamtime were not possible.

Clearly, this was a very potent astral plane encounter between Merlin and me at the level of soul.  This is also the one dream, since Merlin’s passing, in which both he and I have been so directly communicative on several levels.

Never before had we done so much speaking, one to the other, by actually using words.  We were deeply conversational.  Our eye contact, as well, was more intense and unwavering than before it has ever been.

As a matter of fact, I would even go so far as to say that our eye contact, during this rather lucid dream, was more intense and sustained than at any point whilst he was incarnate.  It was truly sublime.

Though we did not have sex – which rarely we ever did in the waking state – there was a great deal of physical intimacy between us.  Goodness, I could smell the warm familiarity of Merlin, as though he had just returned from a theatre gig that had kept us apart by some six or more weeks.

Rather than jeans, Merlin wore a white pair of cotton slacks.  His favourite maroon-coloured pullover, he wore.  To feel the familiarity of his sexy elfin body was more poetic than had we been together in the waking state.

As Merlin made love to my left ear, the feel of his beard was more ticklishly orgasmic than if I were female-sexed and he were deep inside my warm, moist, surrendered depths – so utterly sublime was our intimacy here.

As he held me, lovingly rubbing my body, I told him over and over how very beautiful it was to have known him,

“I’m so glad that we had those seven years together…” I repeated.

“…We did so much… accomplished so much together…”

“Oh, I know my darling.  I know…” said Merlin hugging me even more tightly as he whispered almost absently deep into me,

“…And you don’t realise how much it is…”

“Of course, I know.  It really does do a great deal of work, for all time.  I mean, had we not had it and gone through what you did at the end with me having abandoned you, everything would have turned out so differently…”

“Oh I know, my dear.  And don’t you worry.  Everything is going to turn out right in the end.  Don’t worry.  I know that…”

Merlin was very reassuring, soothing, calming and confident.  After we rested a while, I said to him in passing,

“You know, I really ought to get up and get back to my work here…”

“No, no, no.  You mean you’re still into all that clap-trap…”

I couldn’t believe what he had just said and became convulsive with laughter, all the while stomping my feet, my hands lazily clapping for joy.  He then began tickling me.

Merlin was so very playful, at which point, he allowed me to recover and I said to him,

“You know Merlin, it’s only the other day that I was thinking to myself that I’ve almost forgotten so many of the little things that you used to say…”

I told him that, in the waking state, I had been reading through some notes and my diaries from the time of his illness and death.  I was amazed at what a clear sketch they painted of his idiosyncrasies.

Now so many years later, I had completely forgotten many of these gems but for the fact that they exist as notes, here and there, recorded at the time.

He told me that he knew what I meant but then dismissed it all as not being the important thing, adding,

“…however, you still have the essence though…”

“Yet it’s so important.  All those little things keep the portrait in focus.  Until you just said that, and I was reminded of how teasing and playful you were, I’d have been totally at a lost to have remembered something like that.

“That you were so teasing and perpetually made fun of my spiritual approach, does bring back how much it used to hurt…”

“Oh I know. However, you know that I was only ever just kidding?”

“Of course, I did, at least now I do but at the time it was part of the fun and rivalry of the dynamic.  It was so good what we had…”

“Yes, I know…”  He absently said this as if an afterthought to himself.

With that, we fell silent whilst I collapsed more liquidly into his arms.  There was nothing but stillness of the greatest order.  There was nothing but intimacy as we touched soul-to-soul.

From those rare moments, I now have no recall of what transpired afterwards between us.  I have no idea to where the dream matured from that point.

For, at the time, I was ecstatic, enraptured, in love.  Truth be told, I was flying without moving.  Truly no poetry more sublime could our souls have woven than the beauty which was this dream.

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Photo: Stately study.

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

Sequential Dreams of Winged, Simian Mammalian Extra-Humans.

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

Here’s A Gift for You, My Darling.

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A New York Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really know who you are, kiddo….” 

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

It was a great intimacy that we shared. 

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

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

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Photo:  The New York Times.

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

Anointed By the Exalted Mentor, Merlin!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sat up calling her name,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My darling, kiss me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had been moved anew by Merlin’s magic.

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

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

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

Sweet dreams you, I love you more!  END.

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

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

Now That’s A Hollywood Wife!

Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

a madonna mtv 1990

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dad, I want to go.”

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

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

It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought very rapturously awakened,

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

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

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

I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She said hello very warmly and apologised saying,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In any event, it was quite interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying,

“This is so unfair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania.

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

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

‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought then and there,

‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’

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

Why, was I participating?  I do not know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back,

“I dare you…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A truly, truly funny dream this was.

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

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

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

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

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Photo: Madonna in costume at MTV Awards 1990.

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

These Goddamn Humans.

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Whilst the Moon transited Aquarius and my ninth house, it proved the most hysterically luciferous of dreams.  I would on Monday, September 3, 1990 dream the most insightful of dreams which was the first dream that day.  

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I encountered a gibbon, another animal of some sort and a weasel.  Perhaps, if not a weasel, it was a beaver or a groundhog.  A dark brown-coated animal it was.

They were furred animals that could manipulate with their front legs/hand-like paws – all three of these animals.  It was an interesting animal.  I think it may even have been an oversized raccoon.  They were, at night time, on a walled ledge.

When looking at them, the gibbon was on the far right.  This very antsy weasel, or whatever it was, was to the far left.

Across the road, from the animal contestants, was a White woman standing who was conducting a test.  It was like a lottery that was being televised.

It was really a scam because they would ask questions of the animals.  Needless to say, the poor creatures wouldn’t have a clue. They would just sit there very dumbfounded such that it was all a big joke.

The resultant prize, a rather sizeable jackpot, would go up higher.  It was like a motivational thing – maybe one day when it went up so high then one of the animals would finally blurt out the answer.

The question was being posed to the respective furred contestants,

“What did all three species have in common?”

I knew that it had nothing to do with the fact that they each had tails or fur.  Too, it was being asked of different people.  Immediately, I knew the answer and got very excited.

I knew that the correct answer was that they were all carnivores.  I even went and was trying to put in for the creatures.  However, as a human it was unfair of me, I couldn’t intervene.

Alas, as soon as the question was asked down off the wall jumped the little weasel character.  It did not even know the goddamn answer but went greedily running up and making faces.

It excitedly gesticulated and showed off that it had hands that were not unlike a human’s.  The excitable creature began clapping to prove that he was very humanlike.

It was pathetic really.  It was just a greedy, greedy little fucker.

At one point, I looked over my left shoulder back at the gibbon and it rolled its eyes as if to say,

’Really… such a greedy, little fucker.  Why doesn’t he just come back and play dumb like everybody else?’

This was quite the shrewd insight, to have gained, of the animal kingdom’s take on us ofttimes absurdist, fur-depilated bipedal simians.

’Can’t he see how fucked up humans are?  If we did not realise what a mess humans were we’d already be talking ourselves.’

This gibbon had such a regal face.  Whilst it was deliberately being very telepathic, it knew that I was able to discern its thoughts.

That was why I had looked over my shoulder and back in its direction in the first place.  It was so intelligent and so extremely funny.

I was telepathically communicating with these animals.  Finally, I was able to psychically connect with this busy-bodied/mind creature.  I told it that the answer was, in fact, carnivore.

As soon as it learnt this, the creature immediately began panting and gritting its teeth in a masticating manner.  It just got so overly excited that it was really too funny.

It wanted to be the one to get it right but the poor creature just did not know how to verbally communicate it.  I suggested to it that, perhaps, it could write the answer since it couldn’t speak.

So immediately the little pathetic fucker wanted me to teach it how to write… on the spot.  It was so impatient that it began trying to bark – shout – carnivore which just sounded like it was miserably choking on a giant fur ball.

It was so pathetic.  However, this merely proved more entertainment for the humans.  More than that, what was really funny was seeing the way the gibbon was rolling its eyes and being very bored by it all.

The gibbon then telepathically imparted to me,

’I don’t know which is worse, these goddamn humans or this pathetic little creature.’

It was very funny.  There was a great connectedness and dialogue between this gibbon and me.

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Photo: Aged Baboon.

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

Hey, not so fast Corky!

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Exactly one year later, after those momentous dreams wherein Merlin imparted me his sword of empowerment, I would have dreams of uplifting grandeur.  These ones, however, were of a vastly different thematic nature.

These dreams involved travels in consciousness which took me to another world.  This dream further validates how lucky were Merlin and I to have found each other in this world.  Indeed, how lucky are all lovers to find each other anywhere in the vast expanse of the cosmos.

The dream occurred, on Monday, September 9, 1989, while the Moon then transcended both Libra and my fifth house.

I get onto an airplane that I thought was a Boeing 737 – it seemed narrow-bodied like one.  It had two seats on either side of the aisle which was, unusually so, very wide.

The aisle was lower than the platforms on which the seats sat.  The windows of this craft were quite large.

There was a White woman down the aisle who was going on and on about having lost her luggage.  On closer inspection, she seemed more High-Yellow than White.

She also had the same unusually long torso as the man of a couple of dreams back.  There was a flight attendant wearing white and he was obviously impatient with her.

When I looked out the window, I thought that I was looking towards the front of the aircraft.  Then the flight attendant said to everyone who was standing, me included,

“Will you please take your seats, the aircraft is moving.”

I hurried to take my seat but noticed that the seats were facing in the opposite direction to what I had assumed was the front of the craft.

I was close to the front, at a window seat, with Pandora also at a window seat in the row behind me.  There was a window for every seat.

There was a large space by the large open area, which had no seats in it, up ahead.  The entire spacecraft’s interior was silver-grey.  There was a bath cabin-like area and the lines inside this craft were very smooth and round… seamless.

Everything blended, everything melded into each other.  There were large doors that led to the area ahead of what I thought was the cockpit.  However, it was an unusually large door which sat at the end of the wide aisle.

Then I thought to myself,

‘But why isn’t the plane moving?’

However, when I looked outside, I saw that the landscape had low trees like at most airports.  I also noticed that the wing was rather low, in fact, way down the fuselage.

Closer inspection revealed that the craft had three wings in all.  They were not very long wings, though very wide, preventing you from looking down to the ground below when aloft.  Your only view was distant and above.

I looked off and saw the tarmac where there was an aircraft.  It was moving so slowly that I thought that it was coming to a halt before throttling up and then barrelling down the runway to take off.

However, this was the speed at which the aircraft was moving owing to the perspective of the flight that we were on.  We were going south – I intuitively knew as much.

I assumed that since I was with Pandora that we were going back to Paris to investigate her lost luggage.  Perhaps, I thought, we were going south down to St. Croix… just taking a trip.  It was rather an unusual craft.

I did then look out of the aircraft after the male attendant, now wearing a blue jacket, had had a spat with the High-Yellow argumentative woman – she still hadn’t yet taken a seat.

The window had arched up to the ceiling of the craft thus I could hardly see where the male attendant had gone to.  Obstructing a direct view of the entire cabin, the walls of the craft were round.

He also had an extra-long torso and wore greyish, off-white pants.  Come to think of it, he was not audibly speaking – it was all telepathic such that telepathy was the in-flight PA system mode.

I thought it unusual that, here we were, the plane was ascending with clouds drifting past yet at no point had there been any sensation of motion.  Nonetheless, the land was tilted way below dropping back rapidly with these heavy-looking wintry clouds cutting past us.

I thought that this was most unusual.  There was also no flight attendant giving us instructions.  Then I thought,

‘My god I’m not even wearing my seatbelts.’

I then quickly buckled up, the cream-coloured seatbelts, further settling into the large black seat.  Next, a female flight instructor came and instructed everyone on how to use the seatbelts as these were very complicated ones.

It had two sets of buckles which you had to put in at the top.  When you did so, it seemed like it was locked but it wasn’t.

You had to press down really hard, three times, before it would finally snap into place.  The number of presses actually was part of its locking code.

I did as she was doing and, sure enough, it snapped into place.  On the underside of the buckle there was another lock system.  It was that one which you had to rotate clockwise and at that point you were then locked in.

This safety belt system also, I noticed, had straps that went between the legs.  I was concerned because I thought that if we were to impact I wouldn’t fare very well – my seatbelt was quite loose.

Too, it was then when I noticed that the seatbelt just did not go around the waist – it also went and strapped into the seat between the legs so that you couldn’t get up during flight.

As she was talking, I also noticed that the underside of the belt was cream with red horizontal stripes.  She was describing things and that’s when I clued in again that, like the male attendant, she was also not speaking aloud.

What she was saying was being telepathically shared… most unusual.  Truth be told, this was most unusual.

Next, when again I did look out the window, I saw that down to my right were all these stars.  Against the very unusual blackness of space outside, the stars were visible yet it wasn’t nighttime when we took off.

In a sea of reddish-pink light that turned to purple, millions and millions of stars there were.  In certain places, this light was mauve rather than pink or purple.

It had a shadow to it and it turned out to look exactly like the horse head nebula, Barnard 33, in the star system we refer to as the Orion constellation.  You could clearly distinguish the neck and the head of a horse.

It was then that it occurred to me that that was what the Orion nebula looked like.  I was passing over a nebula!

I took my Chinese-motif-covered, dream diary book, from the waking state, and placed it up towards the window.  I was looking up into the sky, thinking that maybe I would see the Moon there, seeing that we had now cleared the clouds.  It had all of a sudden gotten very dark out.

Here again, I saw different star constellations than those with which one is normally familiar.  I knew, then and there, that this was not a Boeing 737.

At that, I looked back to the woman whose look suggested that she knew then that I had realised what was going on.

In one cluster of the cloud-like nebula, in the northeastern sector of it, there was a large, large cluster of stars that were encircled.  They were circled such that they seemed, en masse, to be like a ringed planet.

This unique ‘world of stars’ was silhouetted against the deep, rich blackness of deep space.  It was like a ringed planet but was really a cluster of stars – a galaxy.  Then I thought excitedly,

‘Whoa what’s going on here?’

Here we were and I was thinking that we were travelling so slowly such that I had even grown fearful for the aircraft.  I was thinking that we were moving much too slowly and that we would never make it on time.  I had even been saying as much to Pandora.

However, when I looked out the aircraft again, we were still rising.  Now we were passing over a wintry intersection.  You could even hear the cars outside as they drove through the intersection.

We were very unusually low and I thought,

‘This plane is not rising fast enough.  I’m not hearing engines.  What’s going on?’

Then as we were going, we were still rising but were now coming into a developed area that was like a housing project.  It had townhouses that were unusually high-ceilinged.

I thought that we were going to have to go upwards or we were not going to make it.  I got somewhat frantic.  However, the craft soon landed without incident.

There was a guy outside the craft who was clearly a local.  He was White and exceptionally blond.  He looked distinctly Polish.

He had an unusually long torso and short legs – not just short comparable to his extra-long torso but even squat as compared to the legs of a normal six-foot tall human male.

He approached us and said that he could take us where we were headed.  He insisted that he could do it real fast, as it were, faster than this old thing.

Of course, he was referring by ‘old thing’ to our craft that had just crossed deep space at light speeds.  I realised, at that point, that what had happened was that I had left Earth and had travelled into interstellar space.

So when I was seeing that intersection with snow on the ground and cars, and so on, it was not Earth but another planet altogether.  Then there overhead passed a plane.

It was like the one that we had just travelled interstellar space in, with the three wings, except that it wasn’t a plane.  It was like the fuselage of a plane that had been sliced in half, sealed, covered and made into a little shuttle vehicle.

The craft moved quite slowly and silently through the sky.  It was the same greyish colour as the one that I had arrived in.  I thought,

‘Indeed, we’re really not in Kansas anymore…’

I remember at that point that Isadore da Braga and Angelica Ponce-da Braga, his wife, had gone to Montréal.  I thought that, by now, they would definitely have gotten there before we would.

We were waiting because this was a stopover.  It really wasn’t our destination.  The guy was being really insistent saying to Pandora,

“Come on, I can get you there in no time at all.  In fact, you can get there in time.”

From the way he enunciated time, I knew that he meant that he had the capacity to fold space and time.  In that way, he could get us to our destination on time.

He was confident that he could do so and even faster than if we had gone there directly by conventional Earthly means.  I interjected by politely declining.  I let him know that we would rather wait… it was quite okay,

“Please, just leave us alone.  We’re really not interested.  Pandora just wants her luggage.”

I turned to her and added,

“Let’s just hurry up and get out of this place.”

We were walking down this ramp where the plane-cum-EHV (extra-human vehicle), that we had arrived on, was obviously inside the terminal that he had motioned to.  The flight attendants were in the terminal and were waiting for us to be refuelled before moving on.

The local guy then came around again.  This time, however, he launched into a verbal attack,

“You’re stupid.  You’re not coming with me and you’re insulting me.  Come on, you have to go with me.”

He then directly went across, away from me, as though if I were to approach he would attack.  However, he was moving as though in slow-motion.  Looking at him I thought,

“Oh god he’s going to come up and try to kick me.”

I could actually see it being played out – that is, the probability of this.  Seeing the scenario being played out, at one point, I was going to kick him in the balls or something.

Though when he went to do it, since he was moving in slow-motion, I quite quickly – not being native to his local physio-molecular astrophysics – moved out of the way.  As a result, he landed hard on the ground.

It was too bad for him that I was, for being extra-human on his world, possessed of super-swift ambulatory skills that outmatched his.  I then went and grabbed him.

With that, I spun his body around on itself – his body was able to fully spin around on itself because of the extra vertebrae spine.  Sure enough, he became corkscrewed.

I took his head and started banging it into the ground.  Soon, his face got bloody.  His unusually turned up, little retroussé nose got bloody.

*Though I find the retroussé look most unappealing, on this EH it was truly hideous.  It was not a nose like Earthly humans’ when retrousséd.

Though his eyes were not fear-based, however, the look of the archly retrousséd nose gave an almost frightful and even austere look to him and his EH kind.  They were not necessarily violent an extra-human species either.

There was no way of knowing, for another thing, whether for looking like a twenty-something Earthly human that he was not a centuries-old, extra-human local.  END.

I thought then, ‘My goodness, here I am in alien territory and I have committed a crime.  This may be an offence worthy of being sentenced to death.’

I knew that I had overstepped some diplomatic lines.  Immediately, we had to re-board the spacefaring craft and get out of there.

I grabbed Pandora and we began heading towards the spacecraft, at which point, holding her hand I willed myself awake – my intentions were to spirit us both out of there.

*The slowness and sweetness of moving in this spacefaring craft was incredible.  Being in interstellar space and seeing Orion’s horse head nebula was captivating.

The colours were very beautiful.  As these colours represented the explosion and birth of multiple billions of stars, they were intense beyond imagination.

You really had a sense of the liquid blackness of space – the cold starkness of it.  It was quite nice.  It was like moving through a very slow-moving, liquid dimensional sea.

I would like to add that when I awoke, more than two hours after I had fallen asleep, I still laid on my back.  All the crystals were still in place as they were when I fell asleep.

This is most unusual, for two hours of sleep.

Also, when I awoke, I was aware of my body being there… still and motionless.  I then had the sensation of starting to breathe again.

The sensation of breathing was one of discovery.  It was an exciting event.

To feel my body expanding and contracting with each breath inhaled and exhaled, it proved an excitingly interesting discover.  On awakening, it was quite simply one of the most thrilling moments of my life.

I had been so under, so deeply submerged up past the moist wet folds of sleep’s embrace, that my body had simply shut down to a shallow breath every now and again.

I had been cetaceous, in that sense, during the course of the two hours of sleep and deep spacefaring dreams.  While dreaming, ever so often as it were, I would surface for a breath.

Before I fell asleep, I was also meditating.  I had called on the white light.  I then saw a large sea of clear crystals that were of different sizes.

They were all pointing upwards from this valley.  Beneath the crystals was a pool of pure white light… it glowed.  I gravitated towards it.

This happened after I called on the pure white light to come and protect me.  I have never had that experience before.  It was rather nice.

I found the extra-human on his home world, somehow, just a bit too eager to have us come off on some diversionary excursion with him.  It had not been part of our itinerary.

Besides, who knows if his species or a fellow species were into enslaving Earthly humans?  Perhaps, they were even into eating Earthly humans or capturing them.

Who knows, perhaps, they kept Earthly humans for zoological studies?  For all you know, he merely wanted to simply sell us off to the local trafficker in Earthly human cargo.

No thanks, ‘Corky’ as in corkscrew-spined one.  END.

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Photo: Orion nebula.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah yes, she’s brought him with her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This had to do with the care of the child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Photo: Supermodel Iman.

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