Now That’s A Hollywood Wife!

23.02.201311.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

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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Nubian-Egyptian Past-Life Dream In Middle Kingdom Egypt – Local Travel Means

22.02.201310.10.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

The dream, the first that day, occurred in exquisite lucidity on Sunday, August 11, 1991 whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house.

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Set in another time, this was a most potent dream. I was very self-aware in this dream. I was with both Pandora and Isis. The dream was set in the northeast of Africa… in Egypt. This was millennia ago.

I never honestly did see the pyramids around – at least those at Giza. It was also not as densely populated an area of Egypt as let’s say, Lower Egypt and that aspect of the Nile Valley.

We were in a small village, perhaps, in Aleppo. I really did not know where it was but I do know that we were far west of river Nile itself. It was broad daylight and intensely hot.

*Clearly, Aleppo is in Syria. However, at the time of the dream and on awaking I couldn’t quite place the name. I knew that from the sound of it that the city was one whose name began with an A and was to the west of the River Nile in Upper Egypt. Alexandria came to mind whilst I recorded the dreams and I knew that that was incorrect as that is a coastal city in Lower Egypt.

Finally, as I wanted to move on with recording the extensive dream recollection, I settled on Aleppo. However, I do believe that the correct city would have been Abydos in Upper Egypt. Too, much of the dream occurred at the far-western outskirts of said city. END.

My sense of smell was most acute and allowed me to distinguish the array of odours about the busy village. This was, clearly, a dream connecting me to a past life experience.

Again, we were in the bazaar section of the town. It seemed like the busy market day – whichever day of the week that would have been back then.

Most people were dressed in long, yellowed-white, flowing cotton robes. The Sun was incredibly hot; amazingly, here the Sun was more brilliant than it is during this time epoch.

There was a large, wicker seat that was very strong and sturdy – it was like a sofa that one would lounge on in the shade of a veranda. I went and sat in it. It had an awninged hood over it, such that the sofa was high-backed and enclosed, to protect one from the sunlight and unrelenting heat.

The awninged wicker seat was covered in heavy dark rugs. They were the finest quality rugs that were, for the most part, dark browns and cranberry reds with lots of black in them. There was little or no white used.

The awning was made of incredibly thick fabric which perpetually kept the shaded areas cool. There were rather plush cushions to sit on which one could adjust to affect the desired backrest.

Whilst sitting on the right side of the covered seat, I was joined by Pandora to my immediate left and Isis to the far left. A man was giving us instructions. He was very loyal and displayed the kind of deference that suggested that I, at least, was someone very important.

The mid-aged dark-complected man of mixed race – Black and Arabic – was to the right before me and directed my attention to a large black rug, in the corner of the awninged wicker seat, which was to my immediate right.

It was so thick a rug that it almost looked like a briefcase – which was just as well because it certainly would have been out of place here. Nonetheless, the rug was structurally hard like a briefcase.

It seemed, in fact, like a little Louis Vuitton travelling case that one carried make-up or jewellery in. I couldn’t quite fathom what it was for or what was inside it.

Yet when he obligingly directed my attention to it, self-deprecatingly smiling, the object’s purpose began vaguely becoming familiar. It was as though I had been unconscious and had just come to so was vaguely getting my memory back. However, I still did not quite know what was what.

There were the usual sounds of animals around. Finally, he told us of the object’s purpose. He spoke in a distinctly African tongue, however, I perfectly understood him as if he were speaking in English. My sisters, as well, were aware of what he was saying. Pandora was fully acculturated to this civilisation.

She was actually more advanced in her knowledge, of the intricacies of this culture, than I was. It was like when being in Paris, in the waking state with her, and her having a real grasp of the culture and the language. More to the point, it is all in the subtleties of human nonverbal communication which I have noticed that she does have a special gift for.

To the right was a tether that connected it to the black-fabricked case that seemed like a miniature steam trunk. Though initially it looked like it, the tether was a long cable that was not rope. In places the tether was hollow.

There was a network of strings that went up the length of it that were attached in clusters though sometimes individually attached. All in all, they really did resemble umbilical cords.

He opened the black fabric; I immediately held my breath at the loud stench of what unmistakably was camel piss. It was quite pungent. However, it proved to be the skin of some inner organ of a camel.

It had the rank male stench of a billy goat but louder. The object was very large and spherical. It was taut like an animal hide that had been stretched before being made into a drum.

The instrument had been designed to stay taut but it could also expand. Yet, it could never fully contract and collapse. For this reason, it had to be kept in the special black fabric.

There in its little incubator, if you like, it was able to organically breathe. When the instrument got exposed to the light – whether sunlight, moonlight or candlelight – it would operate.

The exposure to the light organically began the process whereby the instrument would breathe and expand. The hot air, trapped inside the instrument, would instantaneously get hotter when exposed to the light because it was a membrane that was thin like intestines.

It, somehow, was a mélange of intestines and hides to allow it best to breathe and expand. It was a patchwork of both and there were large discernible stitches, in places, throughout the surface of the sphere. In fact, it was not unlike a bellows system in that sense.

It would actually begin breathing like a perfectly living lung system. This was revolutionary engineering and it was all very familiar. I knew the intricacies of its design and makeup, if you like, the moment at which the loyal large-toothed aide had gestured to it and pried the fabric inviting me to start up the engines.

It was off-white, sooty, sandy ostrich-eggshell in colour. There was something about it that made me passingly think that just such egg shells – ostrich, if not part of the schemata, certainly were instrumental in the inspiration that led to the system’s design. It was a stained colour.

Also, there was a sense that there was some particular chemical mix taking place – either inside the sphere or below the seat of the sofa that led to the sphere – which gave the sense of combustion. In this case, the process was ignited by the exposure to the sunlight.

The awninged wicker seat began slowly lifting off the ground to which the man shook his head encouragingly smiling. I let out an excited squeal at the prospect of flight; also, I delighted in being refamiliarised with this technology.

People in the bazaar looked at us to see who we were but they were not stunned as though this were some extra-human (extraterrestrial) bit of technology that they had never before witnessed.

The covered wicker seat slowly rising was no more so cause for alarm than getting into a car, at a busy market and slowly beginning to drive, would be to anyone today. It was commonplace. It was no new invention.

They looked, however, because persons who owned these things were usually rich and the rich are always being gawked at.

Floating upwards, it beautifully levitated as if by will. The man’s face fell away warmly smiling up at us whilst, to the right, the sphere kept on expanding and emitting a noticeable heat. This made such utterly perfect sense.

*Exactly why would the people who built pyramids not have such a technology? Since it was all made with hides, fabrics, innards and woods, they would all easily disintegrate and leave no archaeological evidence that they ever existed.

Like a dream, technologically and historically, this levitating transport system was – with the passage of time – utterly ephemeral. Not having any physical evidence, to validate on awakening that one did in fact dream, does not however mean that one did not dream.

That someone should also not recall their dreams, on awakening, does not therefore make dreams any less valid or not possible for those of us for whom dreams are very valid and clearly validated. END.

We rose up off the ground, to between three and four feet, with our feet dangling off the awninged, wicker seat. Instinctively, I peripherally noticed that Pandora had gathered one of the throw rugs to her rear, placing it on her lap, to cover her exposed legs dangling over the awninged wicker seat’s edge.

I was blown away by the sheer magic of the experience. I squealed aloud,

“Yes! Of course…”

It had all come back to me. Pandora sweetly laughed and put her hand on mine, affectionately patting it, saying with her gesture,

“…yes, of course. Don’t you remember this?”

I was being refamiliarised with the past – a past life lived in Africa, in Egypt.

Everybody here, interestingly enough, was Black regardless of what Eurocentrism will never concede. After all, I have yet to have a past life dream in pre-Columbian Europe, in which the place was populated by the Chinese.

The Mongol hordes did not succeed in their expansionist campaign thus there are never dreams of a mostly Eurasian or Chinese stock, in eighteenth century France, when I have been there in time-accurate past life dreams.

I suppose that were the Mongol hordes to have ravaged Europe, finally, the rest of the world would have been overtaken by them as later Europeans would do. Thus propelled by their fears, of being vanquished by an advancing, Eastern warrior civilisation, this led to the European conquest of the so-called New World.

So had the Mongol hordes made it into Africa, then today with all the heavy kohl depictions of the Egyptian artefacts, then the Sinocentric reinvention of the past would have the Egyptians as having been Chinese or at least Asian. How could they not have been with all that almond-contoured heavy kohl on the eyes?

The man certainly was of Arabic extraction but the predominant race here was Black. The common people here had thick, leathery-looking black skin that was unmistakably Nubian – that blue-blackened tonality and with that soft plush-leather texture.

This dream of a past incarnation was set, further back in time, long before the influx of the Aryan peoples into dynastic Egypt. Long, too, before the influx of Middle Eastern peoples was this dream of a past life. I should think that definitely it was set before the middle of the Old Kingdom Period.

However, frankly, I really don’t think that I had been incarnating at so early a date. It is possible that I may have incarnated in the latter part of the intrigue-filled, New Kingdom Period. Even then, I would have been a relative newcomer reincarnationally.

It definitely was neither in the epicentre nor was it in Lower Egypt. It was not as cosmopolitan an area, as say immediately west of the Nile and to the South, definitely. It hadn’t yet become the desertified area that it would become in later years – millennia.

Interestingly, desertification had not matured to the extent that we now know.

Later, as we ascended high enough making it out above the sandy plains, I could see the pyramids but there were date trees and palm trees. The living quarters were very old and well lived-in.

We began moving forward whilst slowly negotiating the crowded bazaar. There were people in a very narrow alleyway that was off the main site of the bazaar. Pandora, who was so much more savvy at all this, called out to the unsuspecting locals getting them to move.

The locals turned around, giggled and gave us right-of-way. The alleyway was a series of landings that were stone-stepped which, in fact, were quite worn from centuries of use. This was a very ancient city. Everything was very white or sand-coloured – limestone.

There was a noticeable veneer of fine sand, on most of the buildings, deposited by windstorms. This fine veneer of sand made the upper parts of the buildings glisten in the sunlight.

High up the sinuses, there was a ripe smell of dryness from the desert. There was a sense of the many spice aromas. Of course, there was a perpetual haze of smoke from the methane fumes of guano-fuelled fires going everywhere.

This was a town of about two thousand people. There was a lot of smoke in this part of town perhaps because we were in the bazaar. However, I should think that there must have been a high incidence of respiratory illnesses from all that thick stifling smoke.

Not too familiarised, I wasn’t properly working the pulley system. So at one point, as we came to the cobblestone steps though the transport levitated we had to use our feet to get purchase and push down and clear the steps.

Pandora, true to her no-nonsense heart, smacked me on the back of the hand and leaned across to the controls saying,

“No, no. Use this. You’re supposed to be using this one.”

I was not properly working the pulley system; I had totally forgotten about it and so had stopped using it. Following her directives, I pulled on certain strings and the transport readily levitated higher.

Each string, attached to the main cabling tether, was connected to a small duct on the sphere. Pulling on a particular string caused the corresponding duct to open and it, in turn, was related to a particular lever beneath the sofa that allowed it to dip, turn, rise or go forward – all the possible combinations of movement desirable.

This system of transportation was developed because they did not believe in the abuse of animals, such as camels, oxen, asses, et cetera, as beasts of burden. After all, this was a culture whose religion at its core was animist – intrinsically African.

Besides, it should be obvious that this degree of engineering ingenuity would have existed then because they did build the pyramids.

It also makes it very feasible to speculate that modes of levitation, such as this used in the passenger transportation, were used and probably developed to ferry building materials on-high during the mammoth engineering endeavour of erecting the pyramids.

This was so very simple an engineering feat that it made such utter sense. After all, engineering breakthroughs don’t happen because one is posited in a deemed modern age.

At all times, there will be mature to old souls incarnating on the planet. At any given time, it will be the ingenious ideas of such visionary souls to come up with whatever engineering marvel is needed at that time. These engineering breakthroughs can then be applied in the culture to make things that much more practical, functional and operationally efficient.

Thus an old soul like Leonardo da Vinciº appeared when he did, and not now, because it was about his personal, spiritual, evolutionary perspective. Indeed, it is not the group perspective that produces the visionary breakthroughs.

As for Leonardo da Vinci, he was naturally a sceptic which is the one attitude that leads to all originality of thought, breakthroughs and inventions… it is the attitude of the visionary.

So that it’s not about social evolution, along a progressional linear timeline, rather older souls stepping to the fore in their time to invent and eventualise those visionary breakthroughs.

This is why Pharaoh Ramses II^º was the great architect and visionary that he was. It was not because he represented the ultimate expression of Egyptian civilisation’s evolution, rather, he was an older soul who had the vision.

Being well-placed at birth, to affect the massive cultural and architectural changes and advances required, served Pharaoh Ramses II for being an older soul and visionary.

Why should we be considered the apex in engineering achievement, indeed? Mercantilism has little, after all, to do with efficiency or serving a higher good.

So as long as existing cartels continue abusing resources, why should this be considered the apex of engineering achievement when visionary ideas rarely see the light of day because of the threat they pose to most such large monopolies – petroleum being a prime example.

In effect, these early Egyptians were harnessing the existing energies for making life more viable – from an engineering viewpoint – with regard to having large centres of population.

How could it not have been solar energy? The light that the spheres needed to be exposed to, to begin operating, were: the Sun, the Moon and fire – at whose zenith the Egyptian pantheon was ruled by Ra, the Sun.

Indeed, it was technology that pragmatically applied higher principles in everyday life. In a latter day translation, this use of Ra\Sun\Light was the Judeo-Christian notion of God in man, God in nature.

The sphere, the link of Ra to man, was being applied in everyday life and thereby elevated the quality of their lives. It is inevitable that such large centres of population would produce bursts of engineering innovations to address and release some of the tensions of population density.

One other reason for this transport being used, and why camels and mules would not have been used owing to Egyptian cosmology being both African and animist, is readily validated in the surviving hieroglyphics which do not show Egyptians indulging in riding camels or mules et al.

Animals were much too revered and respected, for their spiritual totemic importance, for them to have been ridden – abused. Hence, there was the need for a practical invention like the sofa-like, awninged, wicker seat transport.

The strings allowed you to release excess hot air from the sphere, so that one could descend or drop to a lower altitude. It was a way of manoeuvring that allowed you to get to the desired speed, height or locale.

The central tether was umbilical but multisided and thus you could actually steer the transport by the degree of rotation employed. It was a five-sided cable that when turned in a clockwise direction, in my right hand, the awninged, wicker seat transport turned to the left.

Pandora had given one of her wan looks – at my finally beginning, as it were, to see the light. When we came out, into this square away from the bazaar, we had to then go through a narrow street.

Getting to the entrance of the narrow alley-like street, I had manoeuvred the levitating, awninged, wicker seat transport into the air so that we comfortably passed easily feet above the locals’ heads.

Nobody here was surprised or upset at the sight of us because it was such a commonplace occurrence. The levitating, awninged, wicker seat transports were, long ago, incorporated into the weave of what was deemed natural.

What proved really interesting was, on getting out into the square area, I realised that there were more people in the same transports. Some were in motion much faster than we were. Others still, were at much higher altitudes than us. Too, there were some who were down on the ground of the square.

The thick black fabric, which covered the sphere, allowed it to sweat creating a lubricating body of moisture. Once the awninged, wicker seat transports were in motion, causing the sphere to become heated up, the excess moisture would come out and trickle down one or two of the strings.

This water was actually quite purified and was therefore fit for consumption. Thus it was possible for one to go for long distances, over the desert area, and to also be assured of a source of fresh drinking water.

Further, it could simply be allowed to drain out and trickle to fall from the airborne awninged, wicker seat transports whilst away from peopled areas. This excess water could also, of course, be used to feed animals if desired.

This was a very, very advanced engineering feat. For me, it was a very, very advanced dream. Certainly, it was an archaeological dream – serving as it did, to cast light on aspects of human history which were more advanced that one has been led to believe possible.

This was a mode of transportation which was quite viable, ecological and purely practical. Naturally, for a civilisation based on Sun worship by way of Ra, why wouldn’t all the engineering advances of that age be based on solar technology?

Sure enough, there were massive paddies of camel dung in another pouch to the rear right corner of the sofa. These were obviously used to burn the slow-burning fires that were used at nighttime to create the fire, and as such light, to fuel the sphere’s apparatus.

The flame’s light would actually be drawn up through the tether system and into the sphere to give the necessary light ballast to its engine system. The flame’s light simultaneously provided illumination for occupants whilst in the awninged, wicker seat transport at nighttime.

Indeed, could this not be the fabled magic carpet of ancient times from that region of the world?

When we got through the arroyo of the tall-buildinged alleyway, where there were lots of people out and about with awnings to cool the place from the unrelenting Sun, there was lots of bartering going down.

The people were so lively and African; lots of laughter and spirited arguing over the barter of goods. Of course, there was the ubiquitous sound of music that was distinctly African in its drum-based, syncopated percussiveness.

This was a trading town, not a major centre but a point between destinations, where one stayed the night and a marketplace was set up. It was obvious that, in that lifetime, I had not had much interaction or awareness of this level of society due to my elevated station in life.

Pandora on the other hand, who was quite adept in the culture, had been to outposts like this before; she was my guide really. Isis was there as not much more than an initiate to all this splendour.

In fact, Isis’s total silence in this dream would suggest that she was merely a tourist to this time frame because it was long before she had ever first begun incarnating. She was, in that sense, a dream tourist.

I was not a dream tourist although I am convinced that the time, at which this dream was set, was perhaps one-and-one-half possibly two millennia before I had first begun incarnating. So although I had had incarnations in the late era, of the Middle Kingdom period, I could be said to be a dream tourist of sorts.

If this dream did, however, occur after the influx of non-Black peoples into the Nile Valley then this outpost town was clearly in the southern border regions of Upper Egypt. In that region there was little, if any, immigration of non-Blacks occurring. Thus, it is possible that this technology did exist during the late era of the Middle Kingdom period.

It may have been used mostly by desert peoples at that point in time. This transport, perhaps, may have been so commonplace at that point in time that it was not incorporated in the depictions of life.

When we went out onto the square, the winds were noticeably stronger whilst we were exposed to the great expanse of land and sands. There was a great updraught that immediately took us aloft even higher.

I became concerned and began pulling at the strings in a bid to have us descend. Pandora was able to stay my fears by smacking me on the hand and telling me to relax. It was perfectly okay she assured me.

I can’t relay enough how very intense and involved a dream this was. The smell of the desert was more intense, once we were airborne and had left the stew of methane fumes, spices, animals and people. Additionally, there was no longer the stench of human feces marginally piquing the sinuses.

I was able to feel the sunlight on my skin. I remember how much cooler, too, the air was the higher we rose. Even though the awninged, wicker seat transport was open in the front, the design of its seat caused one to slump back into the seat.

Too, the awninged wicker seat naturally tilted a little backwards on liftoff such that you never felt like you were sitting on the edge of a great height. There was no sense of vertigo.

Besides which, in spite of the fact that there was no barrier across the front of the seat, the heavy rugs placed on the lap that covered the legs did have a restraining effect.

*This dream was, in essence, a splice of a life lived very long ago… millennia ago, in fact. I was being refamiliarised. Whilst dreaming, I realised that my cautiousness had to do with my lucidly alert, dreamer self, attached to my waking personality, who had to be illumined as to the intricacies of what was common knowledge to a life of mine which was lived very long ago.

I was, in this dream, in the dream body which relates to my waking state experience in this life. Uncharacteristically, I was not in the dream body of who I was in that life lived at that time.

This dream was more displacing than that dream had, on January 1, 1989, in which I entered my former body in a past life in England. In that dream I was female, a fiery redhead with quite the temper – impatient.

Experiencing that time in the body of that past incarnation, lived in England, meant that there was less to become refamiliarised with as in this dream. In the English past-life dream, I was merely my present consciousness having to experience her totality.

Although it was more work to pull off on some levels, it was still easier than in this Egyptian dream, I was a dream tourist to the time.

For not experiencing that epoch in Egypt simultaneously from my dreamer self/waking self’s present perspective and that time’s life’s body, I was less savvy and acculturated to the time as was Pandora. END.

As I sat there in the awninged wicker seat, I thought then that the same person who represented a past incarnation of my soul’s could have had a dream in which they visited me here in my time frame. Like me in theirs, they would be wowed by the transportation technologies existing in this time frame.

As I was having of his/her time, I thought of how fantastical it would seem to my former self experiencing my world in just such a dream. They would be with me in a car and, for all intents and purposes, this technological marvel would be powered by psychic energy.

After all, there would be no discernible sphere or a sense of the combustion necessary to propel the vehicle. I was blown away to think of how excited one would be to have to describe, on awakening to contemporaries, the revolutionary advances in transportation in this fantastical time when visited in the dreamtime.

I was certain that the car would be seen as a mode of transport that was solely powered by will. After all, one did not have to do much – one was free to converse, be at ease.

It would, I am sure, seem just as magical and just as unfamiliar as was the awninged, wicker seat transport initially for me.

A truly wonderful dream experience this was.

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Photo: Pyramids at Giza.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: Extra-human

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Nubian-Egyptian Past-Life Dream In Middle Kingdom Egypt – Local Travel Means