The latest red carpet parade of the now Prince & Princess of Wales 3.0, (William & Catherine), Charles & Diana – The second Elizabethan Age’s original Prince and Princess of Wales, Charles & Camilla 2.0 – did not disappoint in its hissing drama. Naturally, the Fleet Street abattoirs did not surprise the sceptical in their quaint sophistry, to paint this gaudy Picasso portrait as though it were a sublime Gainsborough tableau.
As you are well aware, this hissing red carpet tango has been going on for years. Catherine can be seen brushing off William at the top of the stairs at the Royal Albert Hall as they stood with the senior royals for obligatory photo call at the premier of the James Bond film No Time To Die. Also, Catherine on joining the senior royals on the steps, could be seen cutting her eyes at William, with whom she had been earlier rowing on the red carpet. All throughout her seething animus, William kept pursing his lips as he enjoyed getting under Catherine’s skin as he is cockily assured in his relationship with Rose, Countess Rocksavage. William’s pursed lips betray the fact that though it is his wont to be loud and verbally abusive, he could not do so in public. This, of course, gives Catherine an advantage as she can grin, hiss and cuss him out at such times without him verbally assaulting her.
Again, in Boston, Catherine Makes to Hold Hands and Is Rebuffed by William.
Fast forward, post HLM Queen Elizabeth’s death and the now Prince and Princess of Wales, still at war, are in Boston. God only knows why? So lovely it was to see President Biden, meeting him on the Boston waterfront like one does a whore, then the President returned to Washington D. C. where he had been hosting French President Emmanuel Macron. Desperate to squash the truth, William again in the #WaroftheWaleses brushes off Catherine’s attempt at handholding. Now married near a dozen years, this handholding business they never engaged in. William in 2013 had an affair with a banker in the City and thereafter, they did not start handholding. Of course, with Harry and Meghan’s supernova on the royal scene, their handholding and genuine love for each other proved disruptive. Similarly, like a supernova 400 light years away, before you knew what next, the Black American woman was erased from the royal portraits as the #WaroftheWaleses turned outward and were united in cannibalising that “Yank,” that damn Black ‘bully’ American from their midst.
BAFTA Awards 2023 Red Carpet, Catherine Aggressively Replies, “Or What?”
Now fast forward to the recent BAFTA Awards, which rather extensively will be the subject of the next blog. Here’s when the hissing peaked in their usual style of continuing the #WaroftheWaleses. Catherine makes to hold hands and is again rebuffed by William. This, of course, came days after he had spent St. Valentine’s Day with Rose, Countess Rocksavage.
Just listen to that woman with female genitalia in the middle of her face, Camilla Tominey, engaging in more specious revisionism. Though there are none so blind as those who deliberately choose not to see, some of us are neither blind nor given to obsequiousness. Camilla Tominey is a known liar. Catherine tries to hold hands with William, he rebuffs as in Boston, she then immediately hits his bottom after he pulls away and conveniently waves to the little people. Betraying her energy body of 9, her being a warrior soul and one of her personal needs being power, Catherine immediately shot back, “Or What?” whilst grinning her fake-assed face off.
So then, let’s break down what is really going on here! Firstly, William and Catherine would never have gotten dressed together; therefore, on coming down when their car arrived, William would have been livid. Catherine deliberately wore black opera gloves to make a point. All Toffs know that one always wears matching opera gloves. Therefore, Catherine ought to have been wearing a black or smoky grey dress with black opera gloves. Had Catherine elected to wear white gloves with the white Alexander McQueen dress that she wore, she could not have made her point.
That’s right, Catherine was outing Peggalicious! As there is never just one hanger in any closet, Catherine in the #WaroftheWaleses upped her game. If William will not spend St. Valentine’s Day with her, she was going to take the war to the red carpet. Again, do not ever underestimate the resolve of a warrior soul when they choose to do battle; for all warriors, fighting is foreplay. Prince Henry, is also a fifth level mature soul Warrior like Catherine, and SPARE certainly does lay bare his warrior mettle through and through. Catherine and William’s rowing would be like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in their rivetingly combustible film, Mr. & Mrs. Smith.
As previously shared on this blog, (Pink Chair I & II) in October, 2021, https://dreampoetica.com/2021/10/24/pink-chair-i-ii/I have been into S&M and all its play. And it was my experience that all males who are into being pegged, also go in for being fisted. That’s right, Catherine was aggressively outing William’s game. Not only is he Peggalicious but he also loves getting good and fisted. For obvious reasons, one never wears long white latex or rubber gloves in fisting. Catherine has to know that she has to go all out, because the day the Prime Minister stands in Parliament and states, “It is with regret that Buckingham Palace announces that TRH Prince and Princess of Wales are to separate, it will be open season on her. Faster than lightning striking the CN Tower, the Fleet Street abattoirs will then turn on Catherine.
In the #WaroftheRoses, Catherine broke with tradition and wore a white dress to highlight the black opera gloves, which were a nod to long, black latex or rubber fisting gloves. Catherine is shrewd and one of the interesting observations that Meghan, Duchess of Sussex made in her Oprah interview, is that Catherine is a good person. By so doing, like equally shrewd Catherine, Meghan who never once mentioned his name, was alluding to what a anti-Black racist boor, William is, which his number 9 second position (mindset) attests and which has been validated in Prince Harry’s phenomenally successful SPARE, which I’ve now thrice read.
If you are going to wear a white dress to an important function, where the Prince of Wales is president of BAFTA, you do not wear black gloves with a white dress. It is always monochromatic from head to toe. Catherine did not give a damn about being royal next to mere Hollywood and the Oscars coming up this month; if she cared, she would have worn her hair up as she did at the premier of the James Bond film, No Time To Die, in September 2021 at the Royal Albert Hall. Of course, along with the opera gloves, weaving some pearls into her beautifully coiffed hair would have carried off the look and made it truly royal. As it is, Catherine came off as nothing more than coalmining fare, playing at being a royal.
12 Years A Fail
Frankly, 12 years on, it is time she changed her armour, starting with her hair; she would be better served with a close-cropped hairdo. A dozen years on, it is too much hair and too much of the damn boring same. In the #WaroftheWaleses, Catherine is literally fighting for her man, for her life and everything that entails. Unlike both Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, Catherine is void charisma and is embarrassingly inarticulate – unlike Meghan, she will fare miserably if William were to serve her with divorce; if that were the case, I rather suspect that she will walk away with the little bastard, Damien. Honest to god, is it any wonder William is off watering Rose’s garden. Some femme au foyer that, talk about 12 years a fail. How in the hell can this woman not cook? And, of course, the Fleet Street abattoirs just laughed it off but they are keeping score and will change colour and pounce on her faster than an octopus its prey!
At the end of the day, Catherine is a woman in deep pain and with all that rowing in public, there has got to be a lot of emotional and mental abuse from both sides behind closed doors. Regardless of anything else, I will always support a woman in an abusive relationship, especially in this dynamic. No matter what, like his father before him, William will not adversely suffer, if he were to dispose of Catherine by way of divorce or god forbid worse; that is the nature of the game. Her escalated ageing can be put down to the fact that Catherine is clearly a serious drinker and also is mightily stressed about the fact that like Diana, Princess of Wales, there are three persons in her marriage. Certainly, the Courtesan Queen will be of no solace to Catherine.
Falling Apart; Clearly Fairy Tales Are Not Real
Just look at Catherine, she stumbles and what proves a fitting metaphor of their relationship, William does not react. He is long over this woman, he just wants her gone from his life. It truly is a sad state of affairs. In the meantime, we await the coronation, which every entertainer and their shadow is shunning thanks to SPARE and their loyalties to the Sussexes. Let’s see if the Courtesan Queen’s grandkids are kited with coronets and tiaras on the day whilst the Sussexes’ son, Archie, on his fourth birthday remains not styled as a prince.
Something has definitely shifted in the #WaroftheWaleses. Since Catherine’s rude brushoff in 2019, William clearly enjoys the upper hand and can care less about her. He knows that the kingdom is aware of heir marital strife; he is also keenly aware that she will never win that PR war when it arrives. Especially so if he ends up with Rose, Countess Rocksavage, Catherine will be discarded to the Fleet Street abattoirs, much as Diana was, where they will truly flay her soul. At least Diana was charming, radiant, beautiful and beloved by most everyone.
Certainly, it will be a smooth transition moving into the role of Duchess of Cornwall. Plus que ça change, plus c’est… mais oui. Honest to god, I swear there is a strap-on imprint on Rose’s gown. Look at how much happier Peggalicious looks – that just-pegged glow is undeniable. Indeed, look at how much more regally Rose oozes the royal mystique. All things aside, the no-chinned ‘model’ scores only a few points less on the all-important toddler scare-ometer than the Courtesan Queen. Clearly not breeding material, House of Windsor sidepieces are therefore not chosen for their beauty.
The latest salvo of the House of Windsor is truly myopic. As Fleet Street gleefully reports, the #TampaxKing in a fit of rage, instigated by the #CourtesanQueen has evicted the Sussexes from Frogmore Cottage. Hooray for that! At 120 rooms, the Earl & Countess of Wessex’s Bagshot Park costs then £90,000 per annum. Similarly, the kinder-lover Yorkist paedophile pays on his 30 room pile, Royal Lodge a whopping £12,000 per annum. Now get this, after having paid back the costs of renovations, and installed a £5,000 copper bathtub, the Sussexes were having to pay £216,000 per annum for the 12 room Frogmore Cottage. What more proof does one need of the House of Windsor being a racist hellhole when the otiose Black wife, the ‘Yank’ has to cough up 2.4 times as much as the Wessexes to the Crown Estate and 18 times as much as the harboured Yorkist paedophile. Let’s hope that the Sussexes rip out that damn copper bathtub and have it shipped to Montecito. Thanks for desperately seeking to score brownie points with the island kingdom’s shitty racist boors but you’ve just saved the Sussexes loads of cheddar. In all of this, you can bet your bottom shilling that the warring Waleses, in particular the pegged & fisted Bourbon bastard, was behind the drive to have the Sussexes evicted. Oh thank you dumb and blinded by racially predatory obsession your gormliness. Good, now that you’ve gotten the Sussexes evicted just Keep Calm et Va Chier!
Puerto Rican Iris Chacon Performing in Venezuela
Get it Iris! So despite the #WaroftheWaleses, life keeps on boogieing right along with Prince Harry’s SPARE performing brilliantly. At this rate, I think for being banished to Ray Mill House, the Courtesan Queen will demand titles for her Parker-Bowles offspring, whilst still nothing for Archie and Lilibet. Seriously, who the fuck are these people? There is a point at which, you cannot expect intelligent people to buy this nonsense about unconscious bias. The royals are part of a racist institution; they know it and they themselves are as well and don’t give a damn that it is fairly obvious to all with eyes to see. Well, they damn sure got rid of the Black woman in their midst; however, does this mean that their volatile marriage will adapt and the #WaroftheWaleses just become another convenient institutional partnership, like Philip and Elizabeth with each taking lovers and having children with other lovers as was the case with recently departed Philip and Elizabeth? Who knows, who truly fucking cares?
Well, if you can’t flip pancakes and can do little more than gurn like a lost, famished fox, from September 2021 to February 2023, you had better be able to shake it like Iris Chacon. No matter how you cut it, sooner or later, task companions or not, there is a very strong likelihood that this marriage which is clearly in its late stages of viability, will likely end in separation, followed by divorce.
Wayne Shorter Quartet, 2012 Paris Salle Pleyel
Wayne Shorter – Saxophones
John Patitucci – Bass
Danilo Perez – Piano
Brian Blade – Drums
Wayne Shorter, 25.8.1933 [Rooster 7.6.4 = 8] <O> 2.3.2023 Sweet and blissful dreams ennobled Shaman. Your memory ever will be a blessing of the most inspired dreams.
More and more, the hideous burrowing larvae at this rotten artichoke’s core becomes exposed. Respect is earned and never a birthright. When incarnate anywhere in the physical universe, the most important asset to possess, is intellect. So you don’t like blacks, and who pray tell are you to the people for whom Jazz is culture, high art and everything?
So never mind Archie’s skin colour; what about his hair colour? All along the Sussexes have cleverly hidden from view Archie’s hair colour, indeed his true identity; he was photographed being returned home from preschool, wearing a large toque. Also, at Christmas 2019, he was photographed with his proud pa whilst on Vancouver Island, wearing a toque to coverup his flaming Spencer mop. He was filmed on Oprah Winfrey’s interview with his parents in a manner such that much of the colour was edited from the film, making it appear as if filmed in black and white.
Last Christmas’s card was an illustration where the colour was a smeared auburn. Archie was filmed in sepia holding ballons which yet again, left his identity ambiguous. Then after having dropped the race bomb on the Oprah Winfrey interview, Archie’s shock of red hair is finally revealed. Just as Meghan executed the most elegant display of controlled anger, during which time in her sit-down interview with Oprah Winfrey, she never once mentioned Prince William, she went one further and subtly taunted Prince William by having HSH Prince Alex Lubomirski reveal to the world Archie’s true ‘colour’.
Not only does Archie have the Spencer redhead gene – like his cousins George McCorquodale and Louis Spencer Viscount Althorp – but unlike William and his three offspring, Charlotte having the same hairline and forehead as her uncle King Felipe VI’s two daughters, Charlotte unlike Archie is not a redhead. Archie’s freckled mother, Meghan Duchess of Sussex, has the redhead gene as well as his father; and both Archie’s maternal grandparents are likely carriers of the redhead gene.
William being the obvious Bourbon lovechild that he is, only has the Spencer redhead gene; he did not inherit said gene from his father, King Juan Carlos of Spain – notice King Felipe VI and his offspring do not manifest the redhead gene. Sadly, William’s bullying, emasculating wife, Catherine, does not have the redhead gene to pass on. So in the end, Archie by being born, further revealed William for the Bourbon lovechild that he is.
Just look at all this staged tomfuckery, passing for good old-fashioned, wholesome family togetherness…. mon blasted cul!
There’s a “good person” alright.
Indeed, on recently watching the Oprah Interview during the holidays, I realised that by conspicuously never once mentioning William, Meghan thereby outed him. Elegantly, Meghan unmasked Catherine for the monster that she is by clearing up the lies of just who made who cried. Of course, it was Catherine, she of the 9 energy body with a task companion husband, William, who has a 9 attitude – toxic specimens to the core.
The tabloid medium vilification of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, speaks to William’s grudging, petty, malicious nature. At the time of William’s wedding April 29, 2011, the media spun the story that Sarah, Duchess of York was not invited to William’s marriage to Catherine because HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh did not speak to Sarah and did not want her present. Seven years later, HRH Prince Philip was still alive, yet Sarah, Duchess of York attended Harry’s marriage to Meghan because Harry wanted Sarah present; it was after all his wedding and not HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh’s. Of course, if now what we know of Andrew, Duke of York’s sexual proclivities and legal troubles were then rumoured, William damn well would have seen fit not to have Andrew attend his wedding in April, 2011.
It was William who told American, Dave Clark that he did not approve of him and would not be permitted to wed, HRH Princess Beatrice of York. Indeed, conveniently enough, as he wished not to be overshadowed at his wedding by Harry, Chelsey Davy was told to get lost. Indeed, she could attend the wedding, just not as the fiancée of Harry’s. This is how controlling and petty William is… indeed, how all 9s are. All true to his numerology and second number of 9, his mindset, William is snobbish, prejudiced, interfering and obstinate.
In another of William’s moves, there was Pippa Matthews at 2021’s Carol Service at Westminster Abbey; however, she was not accompanied by her spouse James Matthews. William would never want him there, since Matthews senior, David, is legally accused of sexual assault, involving a minor, in France. To say the least, it was also obvious that William has never suffered his wife’s brother-in-law, Spencer Matthews as he was flatly dismissed at Pippa’s wedding to Spencer’s brother Matthew in 2017.
Mrs. Kingston, Lord Frederick Windsor (9 & William confidant), Princess & Prince (9) Michael of Kent.
True to form, William has used an arsenal of fellow 9s to do his dirty work of sabotaging and bullying Meghan out of the picture. Little did the Bourbon dolt know against whom he was dealing. From Lady Colin Campbell, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Piers Morgan and Thomas Markle Sr., they all did his dirty work whilst he hid, like the wizard of Oz not too well, out of view. Without doubt, they have all been sanctioned by William, in his obsessive animus towards Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, as they are all possessed of 9 (save Princess Michael of Kent) as are he and Catherine.Everyone of these nines, like all nines, are the most blasted conceited boors imaginable. Quelle fuck-all joie indeed. Good god, who in their right mind but a toxic 9 energy body (just like Catherine) like Thomas Markle Sr. would be obsessed with sabotaging and slandering their own child? Remind me again when Doria Ragland was out vilifying her own blood. Everyone of these people, Thomas, Lady Colin – that blasted big-handed, dick-tucking, Trenchtown jaggabat, Piers Morgan, both princely Kent males et al, are merely manifestations of both William and Catherine’s well-guarded true nature in all their 9 toxicity.
Chief weapon in William’s arsenal is the listless, inarticulate, talentless, gurning, hyper-competitive ghoul, who will stop at nothing to try and outdo Meghan, especially since Meghan so elegantly outed her by stating that, she is a “good person” (ha), as in William most certainly the fuck is not. Stay tuned, like all racially predatory, obsessed-with-blacks white females, look for Catherine next year to release a Jazz album… Lawd Jesus! Of course, this little mad turn of hers, even more risible than Diana, Princess of Wales’s dance with Wayne Sleep, had been pre-taped because god only knows, there must have been 2 million and 9 takes to get the blithering off-key errors edited and enough gurning captured. This staged bit of madness only deftly illustrates how utterly small-time Catherine truly is, to say nothing of shit-disturbing, petty and sabotaging. So, Catherine, you lamely banged on a keyboard, well, so too my dear could Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee, Bubbles, who also gurned throughout.
HM The Queen tells off Prince William.
Of course, as the BBC currently is at war with William and Catherine, trust royal correspondent, Nicholas Witchell to take a swipe at William as HM The Queen does not let slip the opportunity to tell off William as they were gathered last year at Windsor Castle. This was a report by Mr. Witchell on Christmas Eve 2021, which included at the 01:19 mark an outtake from HM The Queen and family on the steps at Windsor Castle during Christmas 2020. At the time, last Christmas, this was not aired; however, if you are going to come out and act as though you are already sovereign, the BBC is swiftly going to put you in your place as damn well they ought to.
Naturally, the unflattering clip, which brazenly lays bare HM The Queen’s dismissive rage at that damn incompetent fool Bourbon dolt, was beautifully edited and immediately followed by a glowing review of the Sussexes’ Christmas card for 2021, which was released the day prior as was their card for 2020 also released on December 23. With 2 & 5 in William’s numerology, sooner or later infamy and dark secrets of a sexual nature will be whispered about; however, as with BBC’s interview with an implicated Prince Andrew, the BBC will not think twice to ruthlessly go after William.
That’s right William and Catherine, you may control the narrative vilification and slander of Meghan through the sleazy tabloids; however, you will never win in war against the BBC – they are real journalists, who will not think twice, just like HM The Queen to put you in your damn conceited place. Sooner or later, William’s body will be lowered through the floor at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle. Starting that day, history, which is callously unforgiving, will cease being sparing with the truth of just who this stubborn, controlling, pernicious, interfering and petty human, William, was.
There was William sat such that he could have an unobstructed, hawkishly predatory view of Meghan so that later, back at Kensington Palace, he could lace into her about every blasted thing that she said and did as a mature scholar soul with a chief feature of stubbornness and an attitude of 9 can be expected to do. Naturally, it is precisely because of William’s volatile toxicity why Meghan made it perfectly clear to Harry that they were going to have to move to Frogmore Cottage rather than live next-door to the perpetually rowing Cambridges with their toxic 9 numerology.
If equally self-toxic Catherine can’t stand William, why indeed should the Sussexes have moved in next-door to them at Kensington Palace, let alone remain in the kingdom when HM The Queen does not have another 20 to 40 years on the throne.
Provoked, the BBC will not pussyfoot in a fight with William. Respect is earned and with no discernible intellect, you can bet your bottom dollar that the BBC will not be threatened by a bully to say not of a damn fool. Sycophants do not abound at the BBC. As royals happen to be human, the BBC is keenly aware that William too shall pass and as such is no threat to the fourth estate, of which the tabloid media are not members.
Blind with prejudice of a people, how can a fool ever be expected to perceive the beauty of all humanity. Go on, sit there openly ridiculing before the entire world and time itself a very people, you damn Bourbon fool; history is never kind to those who know nothing of truth. Jazz is the very essence of a people about whom you know nothing and can never be expected to perceive their humanity.
I share here the above dream, which was dreamt in July 1997 of Diana, Princess of Wales. It was the eve of my move from Vancouver to Montréal and a month before Diana’s tragic death. At the time of the dream, which was set on the astral plane, Diana was clearly resigned to her fate. Also, as is obvious from her concerns for William’s safety in the dream, as she was imminently about to pass, Diana was worried that anything should happen to her firstborn, William. Naturally, if Charles were not William’s father, there was a real danger that Diana’s firstborn could altogether be removed from the picture. The moment, mere weeks later, that I heard of Diana’s car crash, I knew that she would perish; I knew then the meaning of the above dream.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
What did I tell you? I done been sermonising up in here all these long months and then the coalminer’s kinder done let it all hang out. Getting hot under the collar in the kitchen indeed.
Now you know, with that one move, all god’s coloured queens done sprained their wrists, hyper-fanning themselves and blew their just-so fascinators clear off their weaved heads, on seeing the crypt-dwelling, muggled mouse-cum-rat roar back. Twas bound to happen; sooner or later, every rat will resort to cannibalism.
Did you not think it weird that Catherine went and sat her post-partum steely self between Lord Porchie’s minor meat-loving dolt and Camilla – the coolest older royal after The Princess Royal. As William would have had to get up to bear the rings, it is only natural that Catherine ought to have sat to HRH Prince Charles, Duke of Cornwall’s immediate right, rather than two to his left just beyond his wife, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall despite what protocol dictates.
Catherine is both a warrior soul and a 9 energy body to the core. What’s more, she is a fifth-level mature soul and as there is drama at the mature soul age, it is most pronounced when one is fifth-level mature as that level is synonymous with the fifth role in essence, the sage. Drama is the hallmark of sages, fifthness brings you drama. Finally, the little squeaking mouse had had enough of playing nice, metamorphosed, becoming a rabid rat who readily roared.
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Jo Elvin, Alexandra Shulman, Janet Street-Porter, Lady Colin Campbell, Piers Morgan & Stephanie Powers.
Whatever shall those silly, ninny-arsed fools do now as they have spent the past year, trying to make you and I see nacre where there was none, in what is clearly nothing but faux pearls from Target! No matter how the persons above slander Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in their bid to suddenly anoint Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as stylish, having found a voice that she never had to lose in the first place, to being future Queen consort et tout ça; it is all frigging lies, which were shattered with Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge dismissing HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge much as she did on the balcony at Buckingham Palace within mere hours of having been wedded on April 29, 2011.
Numbers do not lie and 9 energy-bodied women are all shrewd, rudely dismissive and crass when it comes to letting you know just where they stand; and for being human, there is no reason why Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge would act any differently.
These blasted clowns acting as though we have all been somnambulant these past 8 years. I don’t care if you want to rebrand her as being able to turn her piss into wine, she, as her numbers dictate and as she indisputably chose to lay bare during Mary Berry’s Christmas TV special, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas – which only came about because palace mandarins decided that since that American, Straight Outta Compton wrote the foreword to the Grenfell cookbook Togetherthen a cooking special for the TV masses it is – is no such thing.
True to her numbers, Catherine just had to let there be no doubt that she ain’t nothing but a damn river rat in true Edward Gorey fashion. And there were her revisionist enablers, thinking that this Christmas TV special, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas, will really show up the object of their vilifying campaign, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex as so passé. And boy did they ever show her up… Catherine that is!
That’s right Monty, that’ll be two sugars with my Countess Grey.
Regardless, Diana, Princess of Wales’ deeply lonely, all scholar souls ever are, emotionally stunted son, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, does not deserve to be bullied and disrespected. As has been painfully obvious, this will ever cause him to roam as every emasculating woman has caused her partner to do.
Like Vladimir Horowitz and Wanda Toscanini, who were also task companions, this pair of task companions must also get up to the most vicious nagging and rows imaginable. You can fool no one, most especially older souls than you!
With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s appearance at court, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge has got reason to live. Life is all competition for warriors; hell Catherine would compete with a damn fly but not before first plucking one of its wings off. That maniacal angst of Catherine’s is why the soul who was Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort, later HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York & Albany and now Meghan, Duchess of Sussex chose to have nothing to do with the fire-breathing, ape-bat shit psycho holding court at Kensington Palace; instead, Meghan et famille quite rightly so decamped at Windsor Castle’s Frogmore Cottage.
Look at the two older children; they are growing up in a household where there is clearly massive strain in their parents’ marriage. There is a lot of discord and rowing afoot and that is readily discernible in the two older children’s faces.
Wanda Toscanini & Vladimir Horowitz.
Horowitz, Vladimir 1/10/03 Kiev<O>5/11/89, NYC
Michael: This fragment was, in his immediate past life, a mid-cycle mature scholar in passion mode, with a goal of growth, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre.
Vladimir had a Mercury/Lunar body type.
Vladimir’s was a strong primary chief feature of arrogance and a weaker secondary of stubbornness.
This fragment was second-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity five, cadre two, greater cadre 14, pod/node 449.
He and the fragment who was Wanda Toscanini are task companions, both now discarnate. The fragment who was Wanda was a fifth level mature warrior.
Vladimir’s essence twin is a scholar and is incarnate on the physical plane, is female, age seven years. There are plans for them to complete the mother/son monad in Vladimir’s next incarnation, which will probably occur during the third decade of the next millennium.
So here was an artisan-cast scholar with a great deal of sage energy, most of which was expended in his personal life. This fragment’s relationship with his task companion was passionate, explosive and mutually satisfying.
This scholar’s demeanour in public contrasted greatly with his behaviour in his private life.
It is interesting to note that this fragment has had only one other life as a practicing musician and that was as an organist at the Chartres Cathedral in the early part of the nineteenth century.
However, this fragment has a long stage history, beginning in Greece during its Golden Age.
This fragment also built harpsichords during the latter part of the eighteenth century and actually built one for Leopold Mozart.
As a highland warrior in the latter part of the seventeenth century, this fragment distinguished himself both on the battlefield and in fashioning bagpipes.
He was an exemplary soldier in many lives and many guises.
However, the place where this fragment was most at home was on the stage or behind the scenes.
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Like Catherine & William, Vladimir & Wanda were also task companions and also the same mix of Scholar and Warrior souls. Both women were/are fifth-level mature warrior souls. I knew a classical musician in NYC in the 1980s and he knew the couple and said they were the most passionate, loud, argumentative and frankly abusive towards each other couple he had ever known. This is not uncommon territory for task companions; by its very nature, the relationship is about spurring the other into action. Warrior females in a relationship where they feel themselves not in control, will engage in bullying to assume power of some sort or power as they so deem it. Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s uncouth display, in public no less, during the Mary Berry Christmas TV special, BBC’sA Berry Royal Christmas, speaks to the great stress that William endures and that Catherine has exercised in her bid to gain control in a position which she clearly perceives as tenuous at best.
Recently, I got taken to task about my observation that TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge refuse to tour predominantly black Commonwealth countries. They have recently been to Pakistan and have also to date visited India. Along with that, they have visited Singapore and elsewhere. The argument was from my dinner partners that, perhaps, the Cambridges do not tour such countries because they are poorer et al. If only that were true. Nigeria is the third most populous Commonwealth nation after India and Pakistan and though Nigeria’s GDP is higher than that of Pakistan’s, the argument that they don’t do poorer Commonwealth nations do not hold up, when they have hopscotched over Nigeria and toured less populous Singapore whose GDP is also less than that of Nigeria’s. Again, I hang tough, their combined numerological 9s, are precisely why the Cambridges have to date chosen not to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation. That certainly does speak volumes about them and in particular William and his enabler in that regard, Catherine.
Demonise TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their family all they want, whilst portraying the Cambridges as the embodiment of wholesomeness and regal class. Be that as it may, the Cambridges have been fractious where the Sussexes never have been. No matter how the print medium race-bait the public into loathing the Sussexes, theirs comparably is a happy marriage and that at the end of the day, is why Catherine, rather than Meghan, seethes at having to be touched by her spouse. Catherine is a toxic 9 writ large and no amount of sugar-coating ya-ya from the DailyMail and its racist trolls will ever be able to gloss over the froideur Catherine exhibited at Mary Berry Christmas TV special, BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas, towards HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.
That is no mouse, it is a damn river rat! So you know, two rats will have a million offspring in a mere 18 months, most of which will be cannibalised to keep themselves fed and nourished. So very wise of the Sussexes to stay clear of that rabid, to say nothing of haunted, toxic and dense-energied lair where the Cambridges hold court, Kensington Palace.
A few weeks back as I pored through IG (Instagram) that day, I kept noticing that the latest viral storm involved the worlds of dance and the royals. As the story unfolded, I became increasingly ticked off. Here was everyone, mostly dancers across the globe, whom I religiously follow, feigning indignation at Lara Spencer’s bullying of HRH Prince George of Cambridge because he studies ballet at the age of six.
I soon sought out the clip in question and quietly awaited how the usual defenders of the royals would react. Firstly, I do not believe for a second that Ms Spencer’s intended to bully as its been alleged that she did. She was presenting a light entertaining piece about the royals, about whom the American audience at large know precious little. Indeed, had an American, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex not married HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex in May 2018, it is highly improbable that Good Morning America would have run the story about Prince George also taking ballet classes at his school in Battersea.
There was no malicious intent on Ms. Spencer’s part; however, she was being sexist and classist in trying to make the royals somewhat relatable to an American audience. It was an entertainment news item, in an American breakfast show when there is no time for getting too deep into any given subject and certainly not an entertainment story. Nonetheless, there was she being tarred and feathered with dancers partout, calling for her to be fired and demanding that she issue an apology toute de suite.
There is a damn good reason why dancers do not speak when onstage and that damn well ought to apply more often when offstage. Not once did the optics of their outrage at Ms. Spencer, occur to any of these solipsistic bunheads. Honest to god, here are they up in arms in defence of a royal whilst having remained perfectly mute as when onstage about the racially predatory abuse and bullying of another royal, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Of course, in having chosen to not hold their tongues as previously and consistently they have as the Duchess of Sussex has been abused, more speaks volumes about them than not.
For never once having said anything in protest of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s bullying and abuse at the hands of Piers Morgan, Lady Colin Campbell, Amanda Plattel, Janet Street-Porter shows the entrenched apathy the world over at racism towards blacks. All of the aforementioned have all fallen silent and written not a single article in defence of Prince George being bullied by that uncivilised American, Lara Spencer. Naturally, so huge was the backlash that Lara Spencer had to swiftly issue an apology. Again, at no time did any of the DailyMail gang of racially predatory Meghan-hating, race-baiting, click-baiting detractors show their cowardly faces.
How could they have? By far, they are the biggest bullies. Unlike Ms. Spencer, her remarks were a one-off, I do not believe she intended to report on the Cambridge’s children on a weekly basis and in a disparaging manner. American six-year-olds do not take ballet classes as part of their curriculum; that is why Ms. Spencer was going for a light, easy laugh. She was showing to the American audience how removed from their reality, the royals are.
Each day with Jeffrey Epstein’s all too convenient death – that was definitely not a suicide, the racially predatory ghouls in English print media have remained conspicuously silent. Truly if Lady Colin Campbell, Piers Morgan et al cared about the monarchy, why are they not up in arms and castigating HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York of having been a dark and bothersome thorn for the crown? Where is their outrage? Where are the multiple daily articles wherein Prince Andrew is taken to task for proving himself not fit to be counted a royal?
Don’t these idiots realise that in remaining in hiding and mum through the tsunami of Epstein’s resurgence and death, they come off as having been purely racist and malicious in their attacks on the Duchess of Sussex. The longer they remain silent and cease their attack articles on Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, reveal how purely malicious, personal and racist their coverage has been. They have now got zero credibility.
Naturally, as the braying against Prince Andrew grew louder and there were more daring calls for him to face justice, the loyal defenders of the RF sat back and said nothing. When finally the Lara Spencer controversy blew over, Piers Morgan re-emerged and went right back to feeding on TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex. The new attack word is hypocrite; naturally, the Sussexes are hypocrites for flying by private jet. After the fact, it would emerge that the Sussexes likely travelled to be at Elton John’s French estate, following the suicide of an energetic, charismatic colleague of Prince Harry’s on August 5, 2019.
In this exquisite clip, we get a prime example of the true hypocrisy; here is Piers Morgan caterwauling as per usual, defending his right to bully and prey on Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and like every racist boor, he is shrill in denying that it has anything to do with race. As the future Countess of Sandwich, Julie Montagu, Viscountess Hinchingbrooke and fellow American alludes, the reason for the Sussexes travelling by private jets may be down to serious and valid threats that they may be subjected to, owing to Meghan being black. Naturally, straight away as he race-baits and gleefully so, Piers states that it has nothing to do race; he refuses to concede that much of the hatred towards the Sussexes could be rooted in racism and that there couldn’t possibly be death threats aplenty against the Sussexes.
Julie Montagu, Viscountess Hinchingbrooke.
Rather, the tone deaf racist boor counters by stating that Diana was infinitely more famous than Meghan is; granted but he fails to realise that Diana was white and would have receive not a single death threat for being white. The fact that Meghan is black and the first black to marry a senior royal are grounds enough for violent racists to be boldly making death threats against the Sussexes.
This is to what Julie Montagu was referring, instead, in a defence of his right to maintain his shrill racially predatory attack campaign, Piers Morgan shrilly states more nonsense. Piers even becomes incandescent with rage at Julie Montagu’s suggestion that Meghan will do things in an American way. Naturally, Piers protests and, in essence, says that Britons will not be overrun by Americans. The past month has revealed the real hypocrisy of the English print medium, just as with the Lara Spencer scandal, which they could not criticise as it reflected their own bullying, Piers Morgan et al fell silent with the avalanche of details that have surfaced with Jeffrey Epstein’s death; murder, suicide… you decide.
The glaring refusal of Piers Morgan and the rest of DM’s gaggle of shrill racists to so much as once mention Prince Andrew, has rather unwittingly cast a very harsh light on that other source of royal scandal, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Of course, this was never their intention – they aren’t that intellectually sophisticated. Rather than pounce on the Andrew angle, if they are so keen on hurling mud at royals, they remained mum. This has only given rise to questions of what exactly has been going on in the Cambridges’ marriage. There was William shaking arse with his bottom boy, Thomas van Straubenzee in Verbier whilst also playing the field and hooking up on the dance floor with a woman who definitely was not Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.
This is the same Prince William who earlier in 2019 met with the editorial board at the DailyMail, Like the scarf incident at Christmas 2018, more and more this is not about Wallis Simpson and King Edward VIII; however, it most definitely is matter of history repeating itself within the British royal family by way of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ jealousy and the very real threat that he saw Diana, Princess of Wales posing early in their marriage. For Charles, Diana was a complete enigma. Not only did he not love her but how could the public be so obsessed with her? How is it that he who was born to be king, be eclipsed by someone who was not even a blood princess?
This dynamic is now repeating a generation later as desperate to rein Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge met with the DailyMail’s editorial board. For William, just like Charles, he is threatened by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s star power. Meghan shines brighter than both Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and himself, the future Prince of Wales. Naturally, all along, HRH Prince Henry was dismissed as being second fiddle; William was deferred to and it was expected by William that Harry would know his role and keep his place.
Yet, there she is, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex with more glamour and star power than both Cambridges combined. It is in the nature of scholar souls to engage in dirty pool and set about to ruin someone by doing so in the background. History repeats itself in that, like his father before him, William has been blindsided and thrown by the public’s reaction to someone not a blood royal. It isn’t just that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is black, rather, William has been groomed from birth to expect everyone to be less revered than himself in the dynastic hierarchy. That assumption, as are all assumptions, is untenable. For all kinds of reasons, Meghan is far more popular than either William or Catherine – to say nothing of both combined.
Misha Nonoo-Hess & Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.
William for being a scholar soul and with his astrological, numerological and overleaves chosen would never choose a wife who could prove more popular than himself, Shrewdly persevering, Catherine a warrior’s warrior would never go in for being showy as is an artisan or sage’s wont. Artisans are simply far too complex for mere scholars to fathom. The fact that artisans input on five channels where kings, warrior and scholars merely input on a single channel, would lead to unease on the part of a scholar who has been groomed from birth to be deferred to and groomed to be most popular. That Meghan, has been one of the most shrewd and accomplished women in English history – she is the reincarnated Margaret Beaufort matriarch of the Tudor dynasty – is all the more reason why one cannot expect her to turn up playing wallflower here and now.
For Meghan, William is as interesting as a mastered rubric’s cube; he is flat, one-dimensional and bland. The fact that Meghan’s task companion is a warrior and that she, Meghan, is married to a warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, her father-in-law HRH Prince Charles Prince of Wales and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, her sister-in-law are also warrior souls, gives her an edge in understanding and knowing just what to expect from the Cambridges. It is no coincidence that Charles’ second wife would turn out to be a scholar, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall and as such, someone who would not prove the egotistical challenge that Diana, Princess of Wales proved for being an artisan with star power.
Indeed, like father like son as William a scholar would marry a warrior soul, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge who also happens to be his task companion. Meghan and her forthrightness and singleness of purpose, with her healthy star power has proven a threat for William. Meghan has also proven a jolt of energy for the Cambridges; they have finally had to get off their arses and stop playing house and do something that is more than simply turning up, grinning, shaking hands then bolting. This is what the revival of the King’s Cup Regatta as a means of fundraising for some of their charities represents. Meghan has shown with her ventures, the Together cookbook and Smart Works fashion collection that like the Prince Charles’ Prince’s Trust, she is all about raising money. She gets it – the monarchy is a business.
No amount of meetings with the DailyMail‘s editorial board is going to change the fact that Meghan’s star power is rooted in history. How this has manifested itself here, is her expert command of stagecraft. She is commanding of an audience in a manner that neither William nor Catherine is. All this recent rubbish on the part of the DailyMail talking about Catherine has found her voice… all of 8 years on; indeed, it is a voice that she has been forced to suddenly find with little mastery simply because the very real threat and presence of Meghan behoves the Cambridges to do more than breed. As compared to the Sussexes, the Cambridges are rather bone idle, truth be told. Just as Charles was threatened by Diana’s greater popularity, so too is William threatened by Meghan’s greater worldliness, star power and commanding stage presence.
This is precisely why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s stellar stage command at the 2018 British Fashion Awards has been scrubbed from the internet. At the end of the day, the very shrewd Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex – which artisan soul is not both shrewd and complex – is confident of one fact: intellect is the most powerful asset to possess when incarnate. Meghan is better educated than both Cambridges and she is vastly more worldly and articulate and displays greater intellect and emotional intelligence than Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge hands down. Charles does not call Meghan Tungsten for no reason…. besides just as Charles is rather shrewdly aware, William, though not inconsequential, is nonetheless stupid.
No matter how William colludes, conspires and sabotages from behind the scenes, it is as futile as trying to sabotage and undo the work that Margaret Beaufort did back there in time… impossible. For both Charles and William both Diana and Meghan would prove both enigmatic and difficult. Both men for being warrior and scholar souls respectively input solely on one channel. Both Diana and Meghan for being artisan souls input on five channels. We artisans are the most complex creatures, who are not readily understood and are usually dismissed as unstable, too wilful, undisciplined, crazy, lunatic, artsy-fartsy et al. Where artisans and sages are at home in the arts or looking like the contestants on Rupaul’s Drag Race, warrior and scholars are anything but, unless of course they are a scholar or warrior with sage or artisan task companion and with lots of sage or artisan influences in their casting.
Where Charles differs from William is that his task companion is a priest which means that he, like all priests, would be given to serving a higher ideal which in Charles’ case has to to do with stewardship of the environment and not just the realm to which he is destined to govern. Again, I cannot strongly enough state how much scholars are given to being shit-disturbers, fault-finding and given to being stubborn and categorising everyone and everything into its own neat little box/list as deemed by scholar arrogance to be correct. In William, this is even more pronounced as his being born to be king, has heightened this innate scholar arrogance; furthermore, his attitude of 9 in its negative manifestation leaves him being prejudicial to all that is other and not like oneself.
(HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex at the wedding of Michael Hess and Misha Nonoo. What I love about this photograph is the more than passing resemblance between Henry and Roman Abramovitch. About a dozen years ago, I had the most lucid dream of both men deep in conversation and I was struck then how much they looked alike; this is the first photo that captures this similitude in the look of their eyes. I think that they are, perhaps, connected at the level of soul either entity mates or cadre mates.)
The long and short of it all is that William met with the editorial board of the DailyMail in his campaign to demonise and eliminate the affront that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex represents to his prejudicial scholarly sensibilities. Still, he has yet to go tour a predominantly black Commonwealth Nation; unlike his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who through Sentebale has kept in touch with his black roots in his immediate past life. Regardless of how much he and Catherine, run around making speeches all of a sudden, they can never eclipse the cool sophistication of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s commanding stagecraft.
Apart from being task companions, William and Catherine are a formidable force to reckon with… and it is all in the numbers. Catherine is born 9.1.82 = 9.1.3 = 4. William is born 21.6.82 = 3.9.2 = 5. For any pairing to smoothly, harmoniously work, one must have at least two numbers in common. The Cambridges have 9 and 3 in common. I have spoken in the past of how debilitating William’s attitude of 9 leaves him hamstrung by prejudice, which clearly leaves him ill at ease or disfavouring blacks – hence the meeting with the DailyMail’s editorial board. In Catherine’s case, the 9 is in the energy body. 9s are perfectionists who readily dismiss and banish anyone and everyone who comes near them who by their personal standers do not measure up and are deemed imperfect in some way.
Again, Warriors (Catherine/Henry & Charles also Philip) are the dominant partner in any relationship. For that reason, Catherine is rather threatened by Meghan’s forthrightness, American boldness, most of all, she is grossly threatened by Meghan’s commanding stage presence and the fact that Meghan, like every performer before her who is an artisan soul sets the tone and captures one’s attention like no warrior ever can, would prove disquieting for Catherine; in Meghan, Catherine is made readily aware that she is imperfect in some way. Diana was the quintessential artisan soul with star power, she was also like another artisan of commanding star power in the 20th century, Marilyn Monroe. Diana’s body type was Lunar/Mercury – she was luminous, empathetic, fluid, changeable, unpredictable. With Marilyn Monroe, there was also Lunar energy; however, that artisan soul was Venus/Lunar… you could not get more bewitchingly famous than that. In other words, she was gorgeously voluptuous – as we well know – but could cast a spell on anyone… and did.
Also, an artisan, Meghan incidentally, is the same soul age as was Marilyn Monroe. Meghan, however, has a Venus/Solar body type. No surprise then that the very powerful Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort would reincarnate with a body type that has the most spiritually senior royal, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales referring to her as Tungsten. Not only is she winningly appealing but Meghan’s body type of Venus/Solar suggests someone who is inordinately ambitious and also fully in control and is more shrewd than Diana ever was. Both William and Catherine are deeply intimidated by Meghan. Catherine’s body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus. That saturnine energy only accentuates that 9 energy in her makeup. She is steely, guarded and like every warrior who ever lived fiercely competitive. She is the dominant partner in that marriage – I should think that this does cause William a great deal of stress. William, of course, is a lot like his mum, he is Lunar/Mars/Saturn. At the end of the day, like Diana, he is not always ‘there’ and is not someone whom one would ever think of as an intellect… spacey is more to the point; this is why he cluelessly sat with his back to the horses on entering the 1902 state landau on his wedding day outside Westminster Abbey.
No matter how the Cambridges are threatened by Meghan and engage in a campaign to rein her in and sabotage her star power, as the Kingdom Choir sang so jubilantly, Meghan’s light will ever shine uneclipsed regardless of what prejudicial William and tightwad, faultfinding Catherine think or do. It is really risible watching them try and rebrand Catherine as a public speaker. Catherine can never walk onto any stage anywhere and have the audience be wowed and react so beautifully as the heavily artisan and sage-souled audience at the 2018 British Fashion Awards did to her surprise appearance. Meghan proved her mettle in giving the world the greatest bit of theatre as she walked up the west steps at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle on her wedding day, walking up the aisle like no royal bride ever had; she was declaring loudly and clearly, “I’m back!” as at the core of her being, the soul which previously had been Margaret Beaufort, entered the chapel alone beneath the stain glass windows at the west door with a tribute to her son in that past life, HM King Henry VII, then walked whilst escorted by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, across the tomb of HM King Henry VIII whom she mentored and for whom, she Meghan, then Margaret Beaufort was his greatest mentor.
Meghan with every speech eclipses and exposes the flawed campaign of the Cambridges to try and make her a laughing stock, banished and inconsequential. For crying out loud, Meghan is an artisan, not a self-restraining warrior nor a dull blithering scholar who was openly dismissed whilst on the balcony on his wedding day by his new wife. Catherine for 8 years never once thought to start speaking publicly, yet, all of a sudden, there she is, comparably making an arse of herself. She has been a deeply self-absorbed controlling element in her husband’s life, given to smoking, dieting all in hopes of being praying mantis and boyishly androgynous, the way a good public school-groomed husbands like those cherished proclivities sustained.
Numerologically, the Cambridges are better suited elsewhere on the Timeline than here. They are both not remotely adept at living in a world where being media savvy is mandatory. Saturnine, smug and colonial in their sensibilities, it is hard to fathom how they have managed to do little to nothing until the arrival of Meghan on the scene to cause them to suddenly become eager to engage and undertake royal engagements as well as raising funds for charities. Since 2011, they went to Hollywood, wowed no one and have not been invited back since.
Truly, all that Catherine in her whimpering speeches can do is address childhood issues rather than commanding the respect and attention of adults as with Meghan at the 2018 British Fashion Awards which have been conveniently scrubbed from the internet as it is puts into relief the commanding force which Meghan represents. Artisans, like Meghan, Marilyn Monroe, Diana, Princess of Wales and countless others bring the magic by merely being, especially so when on stage… this is an innate gift that neither Catherine nor William possess in the slightest.
For sporty Catherine to be suddenly thrust out there to be making speeches only further highlights how desperately the Cambridges are threatened by the appearance of Meghan in their midst. Just listen to this god-awful boldfaced sophistry! She has not found any voice anywhere.
You cannot find what you never had to lose in the first place. She is a mousy little thing who looks like a chain-smoking, eating disorder mess which would be in keeping with the 9 numerology obsession with perfection. This You Magazine insert in the Mail on Sunday is the result of the Cambridges meeting with the editorial board of the DailyMail.
It changes nothing because as earlier in the week proved as TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex demonstrated when presenting four-month old Archie Mountbatten-Windsor to Archbishop emeritus, Desmond Tutu and the eagerly awaiting world, the Cambridges by comparison are like week-old lettuce… limp. Just look at that exquisitely shaped African skull on Archie… it readily conjures images of family gatherings where every black aunt, cousin and mother want to gently, lovingly massage the uniquely large skull with its rear extension, their long melanin-rich fingers massaging love and pride deep into the very DNA of yet another handsome son of Africa.
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Archie is such a beautiful, well-aware, engaged youngster. Indeed, in spades, he demonstrated at all of four months that he is indeed an older soul as his mum, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex stated whilst visiting with the Tutus. Truth be told, Archie is the oldest soul senior royal. He is the same age as HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales – both 7th level Mature souls; however, Archie is a priest soul and more cardinally cast than warrior soul, Charles.
One thing that the Sussexes tour of Africa has proven, is that though the campaign waged by the British media, especially so the DailyMail has been damning, it changes nothing. There hatred does not encompass how the world perceives the Sussexes; they are lovely couple, truly in love and parents to the most awesomely spiritually evolved child, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor.
*I should point out, however, that I have not done the overleaves for prince Louis of Cambridge or his sister princess Charlotte of Cambridge. Thus, of the senior royals channelled at this stage, Archie is the oldest soul, though, he may well not be based on the other senior royals whose overleaves I have not done. END.
As the dreams of Merlin after his passing betray, our relationship endured beyond dimensions. This enduring love allowed my growth to continue. This love allowed me to become immensely enriched for having known Merlin. This dream betrays the continued spiritual growth that I experienced. This growth was much enhanced for having known and loved Merlin, before meeting him, during our seven-year relationship and after his passing.
The dream occurred, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and my third house. At the time of this dream, I was visiting Pandora in Paris. On this trip to Paris, I would meet the delightful Louka Duplessis. Clearly, the dream touched on past life experiences in France but, more importantly, it reflected my spiritual maturation during the course of this lifetime. The dream chronicles my ascension to new plateaux spiritually as mirrored in the dreamtime.
The dream in question also occurred in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day. Too, it was the second of four dreams that day.
I was staying in this old building. It was a normal six-storeyed, Parisian pied-à-terre. The windows across the way were naked of any drapes. The window, from which I looked, allowed me a view into the third storey windows across the street. There was no fencing between the properties and both buildings were fairly close. It was an old building and it was situated in the rear of the property. I was two storeys higher up whilst looking down at this guy. He was mesomorphic, developed and swarthy. He was definitely of North African descent.
This man was head of the household guard of the limestone mansion. This mansion was not unlike the one I passed by, last night – that is, in that dream experience, wherein Tina Turner performed her heart out, on the mansion’s veranda. It was, however, not that palatial home – in that dream, the residence was a bungalow which this certainly wasn’t. This building though was many storeys tall. I instinctively knew that I was the owner but, somehow, my life was now in danger. He, for being part of the household guard, was fiercely loyal. He saw to it that I was kept securely insulated. I was kept secured in the abandoned building, in the rear, since no one would be expected to go looking for me there.
The building that I was in was old and missing all of its window panes. He sat there, on the third storey, on a red velvet chaise longue. On his immediate right sat a woman. Seemingly, she was a daughter of one of the maids. The household staff here was quite large. He was lounging back, on the backrest, stroking her long brunette mane. I could tell from his rhythmic stroking of her head that he was aroused and that she was more than likely giving him a blowjob. I couldn’t, however, make out his cock from my perspective. He was, at the very least, exposing himself to her and wanted her to give him head. She, however, was being very cautious.
Obviously, he was easily made impatient by her inaction. From his energies, I could tell that he would likely soon overpower her and force her to go down on him. Frankly, I did not approve of him abusing a woman thus. However, it was a situation that she had little control over although it was clear that she did not want to do it. Since it was my house, I wanted to go there and intercede on her behalf. In any event, I really did not like being held up in this confining space.
To have been caught up in this sort of situation, it proved truly stifling of my energies. More than that, I wanted to kick some arse because he was abusing his powers by manipulating his subordinate. I did not approve of this at all and, more importantly, I also didn’t want anyone in my employ to be abused thus. So I managed to make my way back down into the palatial digs.
Entering at the ground level, as I progressed, the main foyer was fairly empty. Here there were lots of large columns that were wooden and in the Gothic style. The ceiling here was wooden with flying buttresses. This was a very high-ceilinged affair that was easily two storeys. The floor was tiled with black-and-white marble with each tile being some two-and-one-half feet square. It was very beautiful here with a very shiny polish to the floor. As I walked, I wore riding boots and had a very strong, demonstrative stride. At times, as I did not want to be heard making my approach, I was being very slight.
Instinctively, I knew where to be forceful in stride but I also knew where to be otherwise slight. All of this was about announcing my presence to certain persons therein. I then began mounting the very dark-wooded, high-glossed, polished staircase to the landings. I was impressed with just how clean the household staff kept the place. There was much loving care put into their jobs. I was warmed by this and knew that it reflected their respect for me. Clearly, I was a good steward in their lives – one who cared about their well-being. Each storey of the large staircase had a square landing which looked out to the landings below. Though I had not taken the time to look up, as it was very brightly illumined, there just may have been a skylight overhead the staircase. When I did look up, on one of the landings, I saw a woman a couple of storeys up. She was older and wore a greyish smock.
Her head she kept tied in a turban with white, heavy-looking fabric. On seeing me, she rushed back away from the landing. Straight away, I went stealthily speeding up the stairs without as much as a sound. When I got to her landing, I slipped into this back room that was one to which I knew she would have retreated. This was the chambermaids’ quarters. Very wide-eyed and full of fear she let me know, right off the bat, that she did not know anything. Clearly, she was trying to cover for the fact that the house guard had been overpowering the woman. She did not want to get involved. More to the point, she did not want him avenging himself of her.
The young woman may even have been her daughter yet she was not prepared to risk her security. Hissing, I interrogated her but she was so overcome with fear that she avoided becoming caught up in the politics of it all. She understandably felt obliged to do as I said yet she was sexually acculturated, to be subservient to men, such that she simply couldn’t bring herself to defy any man. Even a corrupt one whom she knew was not my superior, she simply could not cross. The attacker was a feared and forceful man – sadistic. Seeing that he was part of the palace’s security, he could easily have her killed and made it look like an accident. She knew this only too well.
This very shrewd woman had no misgivings as to just what lengths male ambition would go to assure its self-preservation, most especially, at the expense of the opposite sex. Indeed, she too had once been a young woman. She had clearly had to learn some hard lessons about the hearts, rather the lack thereof, of men a long time ago. She was, if nothing else, shrewdly pragmatic. He was to be feared. She was not in the world to provoke or affect change. I assured her that she would be protected then sent her to her quarters. I then took my leave of her. We spoke exclusively in French.
She was clearly multiple-generational peasant stock and from northwestern France which I deduced from her accent. A very self-deprecating individual and one possessed of pronounced humility. From there, I went rushing back out onto the stairs. As I approached she had been tipping off others, in a hushed voice, to the fact that I was returned to the house. Just as I was beginning to come down the stairs, the North African captain of house’s guard came out. He stood on the landing, one flight above me, very impatiently asking who the devil I was.
He demanded to know who this intruder – meaning me – was. I was frankly humoured by his bravura, so smiled at him, and thought to play along. Whilst standing there very regally, I thought to call him by his name thereby calling him on his temerity. Instantaneously, he flashed this unusually large, black weapon which seemed part rifle, part spear. The top of the spear was all gold-leafed as a bayonet would be speared. It was not unlike the top of the wrought iron fencing that girdled the property which I would notice afterwards when leaving the property. Still very casually, I mockingly tossed my hands in the air and begged for his mercy.
“Fine, if you want to treat me as an intruder, go right ahead. I’m not an intruder…” I said, not liking the flow of this exchange.
When he suddenly began shooting at me, I was certainly surprised. The shots explosively came, a volley of five rounds, at me. When they were discharged they came at me with quite an incredible force. It was as though, at will, I was able to slow down the bullets. I saw the bullets’ progression in slow-motion. Each shot appeared as if streaks of red light coasting through the air. Starting out on target, directly towards me they came. I managed, my mind totally focussed, to will them to avert making contact with me. Every one of them ended up veering off to the right.
He barked a grunt of displeasure on seeing that the bullets had not made his intended mark. He drew the gun again to try once more. I knew that this man was quite a good marksman yet he never did catch me. Making like I really was an intruder, after he had finished his second attack, I began bolting down the steps. I manically scurried, down to the ground floor, all the whilst he kept on firing after me as I fled. Even with my back turned, I was able to maintain my mental focus and escaped being shot by him. Still focussed, I continued directing the bullets away from me. The thing about the bullets was how incredibly powerful they were. As they sped by, like the high-speed trains here in Europe do, each bullet created the same gravitational drag.
*This led me to the conclusion that when one is struck by sniper fire, it is a very impactful occurrence. As a matter of fact, the soul itself simply gets suddenly knocked out of being focussed in the body. It is clearly a jarring experience. The soul, at such times, is instantaneously slapped back to the astral plane in mere femtoseconds. END.
On rushing down to the ground floor, I took cover under the canopy of the second storey’s landing. When the bullets would strike the ground floor’s marble tiles, they zinged and sounded much like swords noisily clashing against stone during battle. It did cause me to wonder if the weapon’s ammunition were not, as it were, tiny spears. Rapidly travelling, the tiny spear-like bullets created a fiery streak of light whilst tearing through space. The friction of the bullets’ speed was what would have ignited space’s explosive oxygen. The bullets were experienced in exquisite close-up, gnawing away at the fabric of space, as if some fiery eagle lancing through the air to make the kill.
From under the cover of the landing, I ran across the foyer over to this large secretaire. The secretaire did not have any gold leaf detailing on it but it was very large and beautifully designed. Jumping onto it, I went there to be out of range of his gunfire. He did, however, keep on shooting at me. Naturally, I continued defending myself by deflecting every shot he directed my way. Pretty soon the shots were ricocheting. Some shots did serious damage to the secretaire. Not wanting to completely destroy it, I leapt off the secretaire. In a streak of unbridled energy, I went bolting outside through the large heavy doors. As I made it through the doors, I could hear him coming down the stairs after me.
By this point, he was being joined by other house guards whom he had called to his aid. Obviously, he had inspired the other guards to turn against me. This was truly an upsetting surprise for me. I ran into the most beautiful garden imaginable. Not unlike the other garden, before the sprawling bungalow that I had dreamt of the night earlier where Tina Turner sang, was this one. However, this garden was considerably more extensive. Like a house afire, I went running down the garden path. Following the path that led from the front doors, I ran screaming my lungs out. As I worked off all that angst, it was part fear… it was part celebratory war cry.
In one leap, I bolted through the front gates. Yet again, it proved another very large, high, wrought iron, gold-leafed, spear-tipped fence. All that I could think of was that I had to get the devil lost and as soon as possible. Still running, fast as all hell, I had managed through the narrow streets to get myself onto a near-deserted off-street. This road seemed to border the abandoned building. It was another building which was in back of the mansion. Here it was definitely as if Paris but a few centuries earlier. It was as if the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s reign because the second empire architecture was not yet a ubiquitous fixture.
These were buildings that had a stone ground floor with the upper ones made of wood. Few of them, if any, had very little to no second empire signatures. It was the most minimalist empire detailing and as such it was not very widespread. The style here predominantly was Roman, rather than not, with some neo-classical signatures. Some of the roofs, in their prelude to the second empire sensibility, were more so like barn roofs than not – mansard-roofed they were. Whilst running down the off-street, I happened on a crowd of persons who were walking. All of them were dressed as if of another age. This was garb from an earlier time in Europe. Drab-coloured, heavy fabrics predominated here.
On forging ahead, I managed my way into the thick of them. They were a group of guys who were walking in the night-time streets. It was an indeterminate time of night. It could easily have been a full Moon or even coming on to dawn. As it was simultaneously dark, it was hard to discern. As a result, it was also not too bright. A strange light it was, which I think was also silvery-sooty, for being so choked with wood-burning fires partout. There was the sense also that there was heavy cloud cover that dappled the full force of the full Moon.
As I hid in amongst the throng, I noticed that there were also Black men present. They seemed to be headed off to go drinking at a bar. These men were, however, not a rowdy crowd. Neither were they singing nor, for that matter, were they being obstreperous. Some of them were telling tall tales and getting us in good spirits. It was an immediate warm group of energies. No sooner than had I joined them that the house guard, along with his henchmen, appeared at our rear. He began yelling at us, in a hostile tone, telling us to stop and give up.
We were stunned. At least, I was surprised that they had managed to find me. Next, they were indiscriminately shooting at us. Of course, I was the object of their hunt. Right away, I began ducking behind some of the larger-bodied guys in the group. One of the Black men turned on me on realising, that for being an outsider, that they were clearly trying to get me. He and some of the others in the group, who had their own guns, immediately began to shoot at me. Again, I began dodging the bullets and was able to run away.
I acrobatically tumbled, leapt and soared through the air, sometimes rolling on the ground, in hopes of escaping their fury and gunfire. This time – for fleeing so rapidly – I was able to easily dodge the bullets without having to focus my will on diverting their trajectory. However, there was one point, when he had shot at me that I had been of the opinion that he had shot me. He had shot at my legs catching me in both knees. Self-preservation demanded that I not look down at my knees. Had I done so, on seeing that I was wounded, I would have been paralysed to take further action.
All I wanted to do was to secure my escape from this tumultuous place with its volatile emotionality. For that reason, I kept on going and ran from the narrow-streeted place. Here in the street confrontation, as they streaked by at great speeds, I did notice that some of the bullets created a blue light. This occurred as the bullets gnawed into the fabric of space. Here, too, they were very powerful and created a sense of drag as they noisily zinged past me. Their sound was like that of some giant beast of prey, noisily rocketing in, before the kill.
Along the block, I caught wind of a crack between buildings. Straight away, I darted through the crevice. By shifting sideways, I had managed my way into the crevice thus. From this vantage point, I discovered that there was much fighting going down between both sides. The fighting unrelentingly kept up without me being directly affected. Meanwhile, I managed to inch my way further inwards and away from the street. Here the little crevice-like lane led back into a courtyard area. Pleased that I had made it to the courtyard, out of harm’s way, I took the time to enjoy the cool damp air of the enclosed space.
Clearly, no one ever made it into this courtyard. Winded, I needed to recharge my energies. Whilst there alone, I noticed that it was suddenly getting considerably brighter out. Intrigued, I began venturing from the courtyard to investigate the cause of the light change. Unmistakably, there towered from on-high a shaft of intense blue-white light. It went from the ground, in the distance, and extended up into the darkened night sky. This light was off to the left, as I looked on, and across the street from where the street battle was going down.
This manifestation was quite intense. It proved a constant bleed of energy. Simultaneously, one readily discerned that the flow of energy was moving in both directions. It was all very intense with a great deal of power to it – a power which you could feel. The quivering, almost liquid, undulating light gave off a tingling sound. This sound matched its non-static, shifting appearance. It was a cool sound like a whistling wintry wind. This light manifestation was rather intense.
Soon, I noticed that there was a column of white light which looked decidedly umbilical. It much reminded me of the umbilical light being which I saw descending from the sky, in that dream of Thursday July 7, 1988. Back then, in the dreams of July 7, 1988, it appeared as if a cetacean-like creature. However, it turned out to be a manifestation of some aspect of self, some aspect of the soul, which proved to be Merlin’s soul totem. Right away, I knew the significance of this dream. This dream was clearly all about one’s totemic symbology. Off in the distance, I could hear the tinny sound of persons speaking.
One particular woman was remarking that this was happening as a result of persons having recently been shot and died. In other words, this was a manifestation of their ascension to the next plane. She speculated that this was likely their spirits taking flight away from this age and time. Frankly, I got the sense that she did not know what she was talking about. Since I was in hiding, I knew that I couldn’t seek her out to correct her perception of what was truly taking place. I was really excited and strongly resonated with the nature of the experience.
Instinctively, I fully understood the whole process – both the imagery and meaning of the whole experience. Here however, I knew that I couldn’t call out to the light, as I had to the light on July 7, 1988. For obvious reasons, I stood there resonating with the light. I was being overwhelmingly energised by the light. With the greatest yearning, the greatest compassion, I began reaching out to the knowing light force. The umbilical cord of light next began snaking its way up, the column of blue light, like so many of the columns of smoke that rose up from the chimneys all about.
However, this was definitely not smoke at all. It was a nimbus-like, smoke-like, umbilical-like being of light. It was so very knowing, gentle, familiar and intimate in is sublime, graceful beauty. It was an umbilical cord of light that snaked up into the bosom of the shaft of blue-white light. When the cord of light got up into the massive clouded sky it began circling around, like some giant spiral galaxy viewed head on, up above in the night sky. On reaching the sky, the look of it as it circled was as if it were an illumined sea in the sky. Here, of course, the major source of light would have been submerged and just beyond the aqueous surface of the sea on high.
This, too, exactly mirrored what had happened on July 7, 1988. In both cases, it was as though the sea was now where the sky should have been. It was revolutionary. Just as in the earlier experience, four years before, there was no sea visible at the conventional terrestrial site of the sea. I was just inside the tiny lane, which was off a street, which was higher than anywhere else around. This gave me a really good view of what was going on in the distance. To again experience this magical occurrence, I again felt greatly inspired. This was definitely set a few centuries back in France.
If not set during late pre-revolutionary Paris, then the tumultuous times of the revolution and early Napoleonic times. If not Paris, it was definitely one of the larger cities but it was definitely in France. The light was so pure, so immensely intense indeed, it was breathtakingly beautiful. What’s more, the light on making contact with the sky simply billowed outwards and became a greater explosion of light. As it rippled outwards, the giant spiral galaxy of light would then spawn smaller spiralling encircling galaxies of light. No music ever created or experienced, could ever evoke the beauty of experience that this light did. It was quite simply looking into the bosom of the soul.
They soon became circles within circles that were fast-moving independent of each other. Whilst there were others which moved counter clockwise, some spiralled in a clockwise fashion. All this movement occurred in the greatest display of slow-motioned grace. This was power on an order that was mind-altering. It was as though my mind were being expanded into new uncharted realms of spirit and intellect. As four years earlier, the parallel experience had left me, I felt just as greatly inspired. Within each spiralling galaxy of light, there were sparks of light that reflected every colour of the rainbow.
In that sense, they were as if circling rainbows of light. Lights they were that created a form of music with their tingling sound. Inspired great music of the soul it was too. Whilst looking into them, I saw colours that have never been experienced on this side of the dreamtime before. It was so revolutionary to think that there could be colours beyond the known spectrum, yet, there they were. Even more interesting was the fact that these lights flickered in and out of existence. Each manifestation caused a resonant quiver at the solar plexus which itself had rippled outwards, in waves of ecstasy, to and from my very soul itself.
Thus these spirals were pulsating light at what, though seemingly random, was a rather orderly progression. With every flicker, my entire body was being inundated with the most intense stimulation of light, sound, emotion and awareness. Most of all, I was being inundated with love. Standing there, it was as though I were having the most thrilling flying dream experience whilst remaining perfectly motionless. My skin, as it were, had become peeled away. This heightened sensitivity allowed my every nerve ending to hungrily drink of the purity and intensity of the experience. This was so elevated an experience that it can never be adequately articulated by mere words.
It was so profound and so sublime that it was sheer simplicity. It would be like trying to describe a rose ad nauseam. A rose is manifested inspiration for it is creativity at its most sublime. For that reason, a rose is experiential and is totally beyond the realm of description. The rose is creative manifestation, as such, only one’s correspondent state of beingness allows one to experience its inspiring beauty. Beyond that, the rose simply is yet another symbol in the pantheon of acculturated signs. For every one of those symbols one has an automatic response. The symbol of the rose or anything, nine of ten times, causes one to never genuinely experience anything. The experience of the spiralling light, which only mushroomed outwards, grew more and more intense.
Its vibrational frequency kept on rising and pushing into octaves that previously I could not have fathomed. With this expansion, the blackened, aqueous night sky only grew more and more intensely and predominantly white-lighted. It was as though, as it slowly churned into greater actuality, it was hurricane season with some massively powerful storm cloud gathering strength. Where the umbilical cord of light broke through the surface, of the aqueous light surface on high, it became increasingly intense. So intense, in fact, that soon there was a break in the continuum of the medium there.
Now the light became even more intense than already it had been. The poor container of my relatively tiny body seemed unable to sustain so potent an experience for much longer. Soon, the light’s intensity waned as it had instantaneously mushroomed outwards forming a perfect circle. Within this supra-circle were the infinitely mushrooming circles of light wherein each was teeming with an array of pulsating spectra of lights. This was music on the order of the cosmic. This was truly music of the soul. Now the expanded supra-circle began flickering like some giant lightning storm.
There within its aqueous-looking light confines, the counter rotating circles began exploding in the most symmetrical and geometric shapes imaginable. Here, there were some geometric entities that are unknown to waking state thought which have as yet been discovered. In that sense, it was as if one were experiencing pure mathematics. Even though the whole thing looked like water, however, it was definitely light. Moreover, with the explosion of geometric shapes, it now looked like crystals that were made of pure light. They were light crystals which were spherical and simultaneously musical. They moved in amongst themselves without ever crashing into each other. This was pure creativity at its highest order. The whole thing was a very molecular organic process.
In the centre, the aqueous-looking lights on high then bled open. It became as if a giant crystalline rose of light, in an aqueous sky, which kept on breaking open its infinite petals. By this point, my body was quivering throughout. Too, as I stood there lucidly dreaming, I silently laughed whilst losing tears. The whole magical unfoldment was so immensely humbling. Finally, instead of revealing its seed pistons the petals parted revealing this incredible planetary entity. It was more brilliant than Luna. Try – if you will – to fathom the accumulative intensity of Luna since four plus billion years ago, it first shone full, and every full Moon since.
However, it was no mere planet. It was so brilliant that it was not even a star. It was far more powerful and brighter than any star could ever be. Even though it was so intense it was not so harsh a light, as a star’s, such that one couldn’t look at it. This body was easily seven times as large as Luna. Too, this immense orb was more potently luminous than Luna. The surface of it was as if aqueous as it constantly shifted and changed form. More than that, in its collective kaleidoscopic beauty, all this stellar planetary body proved to be was a face. It was quite simply a glimpse into the face of one’s soul.
Swept away, I yogically stretched my arms into its very bosom and let out a thrilled cry of joy. This was an air pocket of inspiration like no other I had ever coasted. I did just then begin hearing similar cries from persons who were in the buildings in the neighbourhood. There were no persons in the abandoned buildings, which bled into the tiny courtyard, to my rear where I had been earlier. There were several voices, all female, all of them naturally speaking French. They were marvelling at the sight but, frankly, they did not get the picture.
For them it was an apocalyptic event that no doubt presaged the end of the world or the second coming… paradigms which like the symbology of the rose they had been acculturated to believe – their loss, I realised. As for me, I was really connecting with the experience. I totally knew what it was all about. Again, their lack of awareness only reflected their not having achieved this reflective state of creative beingness which would have truly allowed them to experience the rose of the experience.
Rather, for them, it was an experience outside of themselves. Just as in that dream of experiencing a planetary totem, back in July 1983, I instinctively knew what it was. Here it was to the east and not yet reached its zenith. This was such an incredible experience. At this point, my body started resonantly vibrating. Before I had been trembling, as though grounded by the force of some booming bass which impacted everything in its wake, now though I rattled throughout. This was such a fuck-all glorious experience.
As it had also been so long since I had experienced that kind of uplifting connection, with the soul element within, I was very much so moved. I was humbled. The whole revelation only lasted briefly… mere seconds. To have been longer in duration would, finally, have been too overwhelming. Nonetheless, I had gotten it. I had made the connection and was greatly inspired for having had the uplifting experience. The other townsfolk hadn’t gotten the essence of what it was; this finally was a moot point. Quite simply, this stellar, illumined, aqueous anthropomorphic face did not exist either inside or outside of space, time or dimensional experientiality.
It was, quite simply, a glimpse of the soul. Whose soul, mine or Merlin’s, smiled back at me? It was not here relevant. I had matured into the experience for having met and known Merlin. So to that end, it was the face of both his and my Soul. This was the most rapturous state of being that I had experienced in a long, long time. There and then, I knew that my life had matured onto a higher octave for not just having had the experience but for having assimilated it – gotten it. Just when it seemed that my mind was going to irreparably nova, the crystalline light of spiralling spheres began shifting.
They ended their contraction and began expanding, collapsing over the magnetic orb, to which the umbilical cord of light had ascended. Their movement was orderly, graceful and utterly organic. It was like looking at a fast-action film of a crystalline rose bloom over a massive expanse of time. This, however, was as if being cinematically experienced in slow-motion and in reverse – very spectacular.
*God I am so glad that I have never done drugs. END.
When the supra-circle had finally collapsed, to cover the self-illumined, face-like, planetary being-like entity beyond the veil of glowing lights, the orb it now hid then novaed in an explosion of intense white light. What then shot through me can only be described as enlightenment. Quite simply, my cellular integrity was vibrationally sped up to momentarily become light itself. When the orb’s light had imploded to nothingness, I was left instantaneously feeling very drained. Even here in the dreamtime, I was aware of having a numbing headache.
By the time that I came back, through the crevice-like lane, all the gun fighting had finished. They were all gone, as a matter of fact. On looking down, I discovered that there was nothing now wrong with my knees. Just as I had suspected earlier, I had been wearing boots but they did not cover my knees. Coming out into the street, I hurried along the sides of the buildings going back to the wonderful, palatial residence. Going back towards the grounds, this time I saw another building there which was one on the side of the property. Looking down the block, I saw four or five cars and all of them were red.
Sure enough, just as I suspected, Magnus Colsen’s car was one of them. As I came closer, his car was beginning to move but only slightly. I went and said hello to him. Inside, there were lots of boxes crammed everywhere as though he was moving. It would seem that he was moving out of his family home, to get a place of his own, for the first time. Unusually enough here, he was spectacled – so perhaps he is a Scholar soul. Whilst we warmly spoke, the lens over his left eye automatically moved upwards in a sweeping arc. Revealed, his left eye was intensely blue and warm. They were much bluer than, in the waking state, they actually are.
Magnus let me know that he had to be on his way and began driving off. However, he did suggestively add that he would be back later to get some more things. We parted, saying so long and he took off. With that I turned around, never returning to the grounds of the palatial residence.
*This dream was totemic for me. I knew instinctively that it signalled the mark of me beginning to manifest at my true soul age. Of course, during the time of my Saturn Return and Merlin’s illness, my transit from young-souled consciousness and egocentrism was affected. During the time of Merlin’s illness and transition, there were those rather momentous and totemic dreams. I had a very strong sense of Merlin’s vibration during the experience. However, I never thought of him as being physically close-by nor had I anticipated seeing him in person. Now four years later, pushing closer to my true soul age, I was crossing the seas of consciousness. I was manifesting as a seventh level mature soul.
We are incarnate for two chief reasons, to empower ourselves and thereby spiritually grow. Of course, this can only be successfully achieved by choosing to conquer fear through love by choosing to love rather than fear. This momentous dream had positively nothing whatsoever to do with anything so disempowering as experiencing God or any such tribal bullshit. I was come face–to-face with my soul state and the energies and power which being part of an entity and itself part of a cadre represent. There were times that I had an awareness of Joop van der Pelster who, of course, is a cadre mate. Of the more than one hundred and fifty Michael Overleaves that I have had channelled, through both Mathilde Duchenne and Kritika Bhatt, he has proven to be the oldest-souled at fifth level old.
I do know that I definitely do feel a sense of limitlessness when in his company. Truth be told, the sweetest most pleasurable sex that I have ever had was not with Merlin but with Joop van der Pelster. With Merlin there was passion and intimacy that was unsurpassed. However only with Joop van der Pelster would one, after lovemaking, feel so exquisitely fulfilled that there was a fatigue that was of the most pleasurable order. Every time that we have been intimate, afterwards I have felt as though that all I would have to do is simply continue the smile by closing my lids and letting go. For doing so, I would become instantaneously an astral plane habitué – yet again.
It is shamanic what Joop van der Pelster affects as a lover. This is something which is also achieved between us during phone sex. This is why he remains the only person with whom I ever have phone sex. It is an aspect of our relationship that has lasted, for the some thirty-five-plus years that we have known each other. Joop van der Pelster and Merlin never met nor did they ever once speak on the phone. What Joop doesn’t realise is how incredibly uncannily his voice, when we are having phone sex, is exactly like Merlin’s. It has always been that way even when Merlin was incarnate and knew of my phone sex relationship with Joop.
It is as if we get into a groove whereby he channels Merlin and affects, what can only truly be called, long distance intimacy. It is the most pleasurable form of lovemaking imaginable. I have lived a richly beauteous life and, when it is concluded, I and a choice few will celebratorily dine on the astral plane. I suspect that then, we will experience moments of quiet rapture. What we will be celebrating is having lived life with the greatest panache and the sophistication befitting the brotherhood of the truly sly shamans that we are. We are, every last one of us, truly magus.
These dreams – and these twenty-five volumes of dreams – would not exist had I never met and loved both Joop van der Pelster and Merlin. They have affected in me the expansion of spirit and consciousness which is reflected in the nature of the dream experiences that I have lived. Of course, Joop van der Pelster was in a previous life the Flemish painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck.
Now then, before this afterthought meanders on longer than the dream itself…
As I slipped into sleep, on Friday, July 9, 1993, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house – though not the least bit focussed on Merlin prior to sleep – the dream shaman would manifest and weave the most sublime magic yet. As will become fast evident, the first three dreams that day were about process. I was during those dreams, divesting myself of the baggage that affects one’s waking consciousness/persona. These are waking state survival mechanisms which would be disposed of, in each successive dream, so that I could be elevated enough in spirit to have moved on to the truly noble experiences of the later dreams.
Whilst yet another stood beside me, I was looking into a full-length mirror. At the time, I was with Sjaak van der Velde – friend, current lover and Manhattan cabaret singer. As I stood there, in the near-darkened bathroom getting cleansed, I keenly looked at my face. On looking down, I noticed that my entire body was nude; it was completely depilated. This, of course, presented a big challenge because I am so vain – big hair and all. I was mildly horrified that my gorgeous pencil-thin moustache was no more.
To say the least, as intended, the moustache and big hair do nothing but scream vain solipsism. As I try warping self to stay with the ageist, lookist gang, vanity ends up making things that much more superficial. I spent a great deal of time really scrutinising the lack of facial hair. After assessing things, I finally came to like the naked look of my exposed upper lip. ‘What the hell,’ I thought. I began laughing aloud by grinning down my self-consciousness and vanity. Soon, I grew to like my smile a lot. It was truly wonderful.
Then who should appear in the mirror to my left, though never next to me in the dreamtime, but Len Morse. He, too, had recently shaved his moustache in the waking state. I was surprised to see him. I guess that there is some soul connection that we share which was clearly being alluded to. He has been present in a few dreams of late. He was warmly looking out at me as if to say, “Oh really now? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be self-conscious of…”
Frankly, I rather liked the nudeness of my face and head minus the moustache and big hair. The whole thing was a true revelation. I genuinely looked handsome because I wasn’t trying to run from or hide behind anything. It was truly uplifting. What was so empowering about the revelation, too, was the fact that the moment at which I became relaxed with myself – unconditionally accepting myself – my eyes awakened more completely. It was as though they had never shone so brilliantly, indeed, shone so beautifully before – absolutely revolutionary!
All this maya only caused me to hysterically laugh enjoying the absurdity of trying to get caught up and lost in lookism. ‘Who frigging cares?’ That was the essence of the wisdom being disseminated here by my higher self. This new perspective was truly a rare and treasured gift. It was quite the uplifting experience and one not soon forgotten.
Next, in the second dream, I was outdoors in the daytime. I was in this heavily trafficked, overpopulated metropolis. It did feel as though I was at Seventh Avenue and 23rd Street. Whilst, crossing 23rd Street, I was on the west side of Seventh Avenue going north in Manhattan. I wore a knapsack which was much like the one in the waking state. Close to my chest, my arms were crossed and folded. They clutched a book that I was currently reading. As I passed a young, White couple, they made socially aggressive, racist remarks about me.
‘I don’t want this kind of energy, at all, in the dream state,’ I thought impatiently deflecting their ignorance. When I got to the other side of the road, I felt unresolved about the whole thing. So, with that, I turned to look after them. They veered off, on seeing me eyeing them but I knew that they had wanted to cross Seventh Avenue – on the north side of 23rd Street. They headed off going east, to the right, on the north side of 23rd Street.
Impatiently I purposefully and heavily strode on my heels, back towards them, soon overtaking them. On catching up to them, I walked alongside. The woman was closer to me and him closer to the traffic. He was considerably taller than her. They were a very waking-state-focussed, hard-edged, racially aggressive, pinched couple. Big-boned and Yuppified – they were the epitome of North American, aggressive, merchant class greed. In a rapid-fire, ballistic staccato, I began aggressively repaying their racist bile bit for bit. I repaid their aggressive verbal abuse bit for bit.
They were stunned by my response. As with the codified behaviours of the racist paradigms in the waking state, which keep racially preyed on Blacks fearful of defending themselves against such actions, I was not expected to retaliate. I had no intentions of sublimating any aspect of self, either here or elsewhere, to suffer anyone and their bullshit. Yet what could they have done?
They simply turned glacial and remained petrified acting as though one were, all of a sudden, not there. I had no intentions of having them dump this kind of psychic garbage onto me. I slapped the racial animus back in their direction and was able to divest myself of such negative energies. Perhaps, though likely not, my response gave them pause for thought.
The third dream then found me going down into the belly of the underground. I proceeded to take, what would prove, an extensive series of train rides. I had been down in this particular sprawling subway station. There were no pillars in between the tracks. The station was not unlike London’s Liverpool Station and though similarly dimensioned, however, it was completely below-ground. Whilst waiting for the train to arrive, I had gone and stood close to one of the ends of the platform. Raising my leg, I had placed my right foot on an orange-coloured railing whilst waiting. Close by were two White women standing and speaking.
Long, flowing, drop-waisted dresses, that were light summer fare, they both wore. For being close to them, they fell silent and projected that cool steely edge that was informed by their racist perceptions. This was not the kind of energy that I wanted to be around. I strongly resented having this hideous grey light, of waking state racially-tinged maya, flooding and destabilising the Chi of the dreamtime. Since this was not my scene, I chose to tune out their invasive, racially predatory, psychic aggression altogether. Pretty soon, they came to realise how utterly ridiculous what they were doing was.
Immediately, they stopped their bullshit and resumed being human. The WST (waking state transference), in which they indulged, towards me evaporated. The air became noticeably clear… less dense-energied. Soon thereafter, the train rolled into the station and we boarded together. Unusually large, most impressively, there was also a dizzying amount of persons on board this train. It took the longest while, for us to get on board, as throngs flooded out from the train at our station. Even when finally we boarded, the bloody thing was still overgrown with humanity.
I eventually arrived at this particular stop where, again, it was densely populated. Wherever you looked, it was lushly overgrown here with incredibly large arboreal giants.
Not surprisingly, in this the fourth dream, it was impressively landscaped here. There was a dizzying array of flora and most of them were not readily familiar. I was up on a winding road that rose up a high hilltop. Along the way, I encountered an old Black woman. Goodness was she ever ancient. Hers was a face that was on the plus side of ten millennia. To match every lifetime-filled millennium that she had outlived, boy did she have a lot of life and personality. This was clearly her astral body, which I was encountering, whoever this well-travelled, marvellous old soul was. This sprawling metropolis was distinctly French.
This place did remind me of being at Montmartre when looking down into Paris. This metropolis, however, was several times larger than Paris. So many eons older than Paris, was this metropolis, it even seemed vastly older than the old woman. Her lovely dark-complected body, reminding me so of some West Indian women’s, she was so readily familiar. This metropolis was easily twenty millennia older than Paris. A truly august-souled metropolis this was.
The woman, along the road on the side of the hill, much reminded me of Clarice Jack who lived in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. Of course, Clarice lived next-door to the church that Harella built. She was a big-boned, large-bosomed, full-figured lively gal. She was turning about, busying herself, doing some landscaping repairs along the side of the road. On approaching her, I asked how to get to a concert hall. I had been en route to some destination which, presently, I could scarcely recall.
“Oh no, no, no, my dear… You have to go all de way back down into town. It’s not at Palais Royale, in fact. Don’t even think of there. You have to go and get some other trains, to get you someplace else…” Her tongue darted back and forth, over her ever-moist lips, as her lively rapid-fire French gave directions.
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She had pointed, off in the distance, to what seemed like Grand Palais. It, too, had a companion like Petit Palais in Paris. Here, however, these stately buildings were easily four times more colossal than their waking state counterparts. To anything in the waking state, the scale of architecture here was beyond compare. Gargantuan doesn’t, even remotely, convey the towering scales of the proportions here. Everything here was grown over. The metropolis, centred in this fantastic locale, was layered with each rise and fall of the civilisation readily discernible. In that sense, this metropolis was much like Rome is.
Everywhere, there were visible signs of crumbling architectural masterpieces. Still, other long-abandoned structures became the outer shell for more recent revivals of themselves. The latest additions, to an old ruin, could have occurred four millennia later and still have been easily a dozen millennia old – truly ancient. There were so many different strata of architectural styles layered one atop the other. This truly was a living museum of architectural giants. It was impressive, to say the least. One felt so utterly nouveau, for being of waking state Earth, as none of Earth’s civilisations can architecturally boast any such richness of character.
Great epochs of civilisations grew on top, through, about and around themselves in this impressive astral plane metropolis. This place was quite beautifully landscaped. Everywhere there were mound-like hills, like the one that I was on, which were forested areas of lush growth. They looked like some of the better-gardened neighbourhoods of Naples.
Next, the fifth dream had me taking my leave of her. I went down the hill, into the metropolis, where I entered one of the city’s many termini. This one much reminded of Gare d’Austerlitz in Paris. Here, too, this terminus was easily seven times more colossal. I began my marvellous adventure by taking a number of trains. There would be a few transfers at other, just as massive, termini along the journey. Here, at all times, I travelled with a silent astral guide who remained just to my rear. He seemed to be younger and was definitely White.
There was a staggering amount of people in transit here. People here were also very quiet. The majority of communication was telepathically engaged. There were so many tracks all of which were being used by trains. This was clearly a metropolis on a planet whose population easily soared beyond 17 billion (I meant to say 70 billion). With lots of transfer points converging all at the same terminus, this particular station was a major hub. This travel that I was doing, the vehicular transports I was using, merely proved secondary to what was really at play here.
I was going through different planes, travelling through different dimensions, and realities. I was in transit – for the ease of waking consciousness, much of this has been perceptually transliterated as being modes of travel comparable to waking state paradigms. The trains were capable of transporting one, to various locales, at protected faster-than-usual speeds. However, the travel was definitely destined. We travelled along a set, guided course. It was, if you like, a willed form of travel. It was not as though one were aimlessly wandering about a wilderness or city.
For being buried below-ground, it suggested that this was travel that was deeply rooted in the domains of the soul itself. There was a definite route, a purposeful intent, and a clear objective for undertaking the journey. Although for much of the time, especially when I was on the terraced hilltop with the old Black woman, I couldn’t quite recall why I was trying to make a definite rendezvous. All that I knew was that I simply had to get there. As it were, I had a destined appointment. For following along certain experientially mapped out routes, one could interdimensionally travel whilst on board these trains.
Whilst I was on one of the trains, when in transit, I sensed that I was not alone. Looking around, in search of someone’s familiar energetic signature, there on this utterly crowded train I found Merlin! I was so blown away. So that the dream wouldn’t be aborted, by my whiting out and prematurely awakening, I had to contain myself. I can’t say here how utterly arresting it was to have seen him.
Not since he had walked into the salon, in that dream on Saturday, July 25, 1992, had Merlin’s beauty so moved me. Merlin here was as real and as focussed as ever he was, the seven years that I had known him, on the other side of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality. I was so thrilled. I became overwhelmed with genuine happiness. I simply couldn’t believe that this was happening. I was acutely aware that I was dreaming. Oh my goodness – this was enlightenment and then some. Seeing him was akin, to having been away and upon my return opening the door, to have Whoopi come rushing towards me – her familiar pigeon-toed sweetness being the most treasured gift in my life at present.
One glimpse and you fall in love all over again. Seeing him, I felt all the quiet rapture that I felt – on Friday, October 1, 1982 – when he ambled into my life. On slipping in through the glass-paned door of a Hell’s Kitchen walkup, Merlin began weaving the most sustained, sublimed magic. Merlin, to look at him, was such an encapsulation of health and inner beauty. Goodness, I was completely blown away. Merlin wore a light, gauze-fabricked shirt that was very much so from the Indian Subcontinent. Caramel-coloured and ancient-looking, it was reminiscent of many of the ones he so favoured – ones which were perpetually sillaged with patchouli’s grounding signature.
The shirt was covered throughout with tiny rosebuds and other petals – exquisite. This was so Merlin in every refreshing detail. A long-sleeved shirt that was buttoned at the wrists, he wore, but with a bit of ballooning just aft the wrists. So thin and loose a fabric was it that it seemed diaphanous. Merlin was the picture of health, so much so that, his skin actually glowed near-imperceptibly. The light was the faint glow, which was the subtle undulating glow, of his aura.
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This was much the effect that one would observe, if photographing someone, through a soft-focussed lens. Yet it was more than that, there was a definite hum to his aura’s vibration. There was so much flesh and vitality to his face and the rest of his still-rakish body that I was left overjoyed at the sight of him. His mane was beautifully coiffed in a long, leonine, gentle fall. Interestingly, it was not at all grey or greying. For that matter, Merlin’s hair was not greying as it was at the time of his passing.
Additionally, Merlin’s beard was not white. He looked like a much healthier version of himself, as he was at age thirty-five, when we met. It was so fuck-all fabulous to have seen him. It was great to have experienced him. Seated there, languorously looking into the forever of his familiar eyes, my spirit simply danced for joy. I vibrationally zinged at a higher frequency, on seeing him, to have experienced him yet again. To have drunk of his familiar spirit was that longed for elixir that my wandering soul so quenched.
Merlin silently looked over, validating that he recognised me, with the most intimate of smiles. A smile it was by which, for too long now, I had not been warmed. We communed, though our communication was telepathic, at the level of spirit. Our communication was not only mentally accomplished but it was emotionally complex and thorough. We immediately connected, more to the point, we did intimately connect. There was no getting around the fact of this having been why I had felt so compelled to quest, to journey, in search of this concert.
On finally having a rendez-vous with Merlin, what stellar music of souls this was. I knew, there and then, why I had been in transit making all these connections and travelling at such great speeds. I was in an astral plane metropolis, one which clearly served as a resting and inspirational space, for souls in transit – quite wonderful indeed. There I sat, on the fast-moving train, flying without moving. How utterly rapturous a living dream postcard this dream was – especially after our last profound encounter, a year ago. Sure, there had been other dream encounters during that interval.
This, however, was a dream of high order. This was a dream which existed at the same heights of spirit as that, on Saturday, July 25, 1992. Merlin’s eyes were so large, clear and focussed. Merlin here was so serene. He was transcendent. It blew my mind just to look at him. For resonating with him, I felt myself quivering with rapture. To feel the quiet purr of his spirit so close, and so familiar a spirit, was more than even I could have hoped for during pre-sleep meditations.
There was no getting around the fact that Merlin was now considerably more elevated than, when we last kissed in that dream, on Saturday, July 25, 1992. Merlin was now more in control. He had greater mastered his astral body since then. Back then, he wore a cloak that had a cowl. Merlin looked every bit the magus that he was. It was just like the cowled cloak that he had worn in our initial dream encounter, July 1978, four years before finally meeting on the physical plane.
Merlin here was so much more elevated than ever he had been in life or since his passing. Now, he was casually dressed but still looked every bit the magus. Indeed, Merlin here was the dream magus ascended. This dream was so very healing for my spirit. Then, on Saturday, July 25, 1992, Merlin was tying up loose – as he was experienced in that sublime dream. In that dream, Merlin thanked me for having served him nobly and in a healing capacity.
Thanks to his life task, Merlin had awakened the magus within me as I served him during his illness. This shared task of ours enabled me to become more spiritually focussed. As a result, as mentor to me, Merlin initiated my accelerated spiritual growth. In this dream, Merlin was simply saying hello. No postcard, across the seas of time and dimensions, could have been more beautiful a gift received. I could not believe that I was seeing Merlin. He did not, after having set out and sent me that one momentous dream on Saturday, July 25, 1992, have to send me yet another momentous dream. Yet here he was, by express transit no less, sending me a most magus, evolved and uplifting dream postcard.
Thank goodness my mind was fully aligned with spirit and the soul, as validated by my Venus-Uranus conjunction, enabling me to assimilate the potency and depth of this most sublime of gifts from Merlin. At that moment, when I found Merlin, the train was speedily travelling above-ground. The glow of his aura was further highlighted by the swells of sunlight, whose crests broke and oceanically flooded into the train, from the sunny outdoors. The merry sunlight added to the intensity of the encounter’s sensuality. I was so captivated by Merlin’s sublime beauty that I had not caught the conductor’s announcement.
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A little dark-haired boy then announced that we would have to change trains. The boy had stepped up to a round circle, in the middle of the aisle, before the doors. In a vertical shaft of light, there the young, male astral guide stood perfectly still. He then announced to us the different transfer points – all of which he telepathically did.
Next, the sixth dream found all three of us – Merlin, the youthful astral guide and me – seated on a bunk in a rustic, near-dark, high-ceilinged bedroom. There were marvellous, dark wooden beams, high overhead in the ceiling, which created that familiar astral plane look. Whilst seated on the edge of the bunk, our legs dangled over the side. Merlin was on my immediate right as we visited side-by-side. His energies were so very warm and familiar. The house was unmistakably large, like everything else in this dimension. Incidentally, the ceilings here were vaulted. There was no mistaking that this dream was set on the astral plane.
*The key signature of the astral plane is its phenomenal architecture. The astral plane seems to serve as incubator and one from which great thinkers and movers, from time to time, come along and manifest their impressions thereof into the waking state. These great thinkers being architects such as: Antoni Gaudí, Frank Lloyd Wright and others. In these dreams, set on the astral plane, architecture is marked by the rustic, the aged, the organic – the fully concretised and usually in proportions that are not of this world. Everything seems much larger and more solid than even in the waking state.
There is nothing ephemeral about the architecture of the astral plane. The most impressive thing, about architecture on the astral plane, is the staggering amount of details that are worked into these true works of art. Structured and sound, one always immediately feels secure, is architecture on the astral plane. END.
The young, astral guide was on my left, silently holding the large book of photographs, as Merlin guided me through its pages. One series of photographs was of a guy who was water-skiing. The guy reminded me, as a matter of fact, of Maddox Pool. We looked at the photos which were taken, from the perspective of someone, at the rear of the boat to which he was tethered whilst skiing.
In one of the photos he had taken away his right hand, from the grip, to energetically grin and wave. The photos in the book were not static. They were holographic yet, somehow, they never extended beyond the page. They were three-dimensional but you were not looking at a film. Instead, you were looking down into a three-dimensional holographic image which was within the borders of each photo. It was in these shots that the waterskiing young man looked so much like Maddox.
He was dark-haired and the picture of health. The water was crystalline and eye-scorching blue. He was about twenty-two to twenty-three years of age – exactly the same age that I was when Merlin and I met in New York City. Merlin telepathically explained to me, as we looked at the photographs, that this photo was representative of himself after his first bout of pneumocystis with full-blown AIDS. Merlin told me that this was the nature of the work that he was presently doing.
Astral plane habitués, such as Merlin, after they had done work on themselves could elect to assist persons still incarnate and moving through the illness. The crisis of AIDS was so impactful, on humanity at this point, that those who were discarnate had to direct a great deal of energy planetside to those incarnates who were moving through the experience. When persons went from being advanced with HIV, all the way to being sick with full-blown AIDS, then they on the astral plane would work with them after their first bout of major illness.
Merlin explained that they were seen to have a resurgence of vitality because of the energy work, being directed to the incarnate full-blown persons, by astral plane habitués in his position. This is precisely as had been the case with Merlin, in the spring, summer and early autumn of 1988, after his first bout of pneumocystis – all of which abruptly atrophied when he was betrayed by that stupid drunken woman, Morag O’Hoare.
Merlin also intimated that the energy work came not only from persons such as him, between lives on the astral plane, as well as from souls above and beyond the astral plane. This was energy that they were sharing, with afflicted physical plane habitués, which they could then use to sustain their lives for a year or two or even a decade plus. Merlin further shared that they could indefinitely live on, to the full course of their lives, if they so chose.
Though they were fully capable of surviving long-term with the virus, which allegedly led to AIDS, people planetside had not yet made the realisation that they did not have to atrophy and die because they had tested positive for the HIV virus or for going full-blown with AIDS. This ability, of afflicted incarnates, to live on had to do with willpower. Choice was the issue in this situation. They must have wanted to remain incarnate.
They must have wanted to live and to accomplish certain tasks. The nature of the support system, that one surrounded oneself with, was crucial to being able to become long-term survivors. Persons really did not have to pass on so soon, Merlin intimated, after discovering that they were HIV positive or full-blown with AIDS. Humanity presently had such stultifying fear of death that afflicted persons ended up, literally, terrifying themselves to death. It did not help much that there were so many stigmas associated with AIDS. At present humanity, for the most part, did not yet realise that death was merely but a refocussing of one’s energies.
“Death…” said Merlin “…was no big deal. Come on, look at me. I’m here, aren’t I? How different am I?” he intoned in a quiet whisper rather than telepathically. ‘Can’t argue that one,’ I thought.
Merlin was as human and as real as, he had ever been every day of our being together, during our glorious seven-year relationship. Even though I could see him, and indeed touch him, he was so much more evolved and frankly better off for being in that dimension of purified vibration. This was definitely not the normal domains of the dreamtime. From the regular confines of the dreamtime, I had travelled – to this conduit space within the astral plane – to be able to experience Merlin from his regions of the astral plane which are exclusively inhabited by the discarnate.
We met in a dimension wherein persons, both discarnate and incarnate, could meet and interact. It was quite solid here and rarefied too. To be able to have experienced Merlin left me so immensely happy. Merlin further explained that people tended to die so soon, after having become full-blown with AIDS, because the spectre of dying became a vortex of fears – enervating energies – that literally depleted their reserves of willpower and caused them to die sooner rather than later.
By becoming so obsessed, with fear of death and the stigma of dying of AIDS, those subjects simply became victims of their own fears. Merlin said that they had to turn that vortex into a white hole rather than an imploding, enervating, gnawing black hole of fear. Such a vortex proved a vacuum that sucked the very life out of the afflicted and caused them to die what was clearly a premature death. Once transmuted, this vortex could be used to assist one to go on to live a very productive life.
This energy could simply be used to fuel oneself and serve as a conduit to channel pure, life-sustaining energies from discarnate souls, such as him, on the astral plane. This would ultimately enable one to stay focussed, in the afflicted life, for considerably longer. The thing to remember was that the mind did not have to become afflicted with fears because the body had become impaired by disease. All over the world, Merlin assured me, the afflicted could choose to triumph over fear of imminent death and it was being done with increasing success.
This vortex of transformed fears could, according to Merlin, become a catalyst for undertaking a great deal of spiritual work. The amount of growth that could be pulled off for becoming thus focussed, Merlin assured me, was no light matter. As Merlin imparted this wisdom, I was being illumined to this revolutionary approach to life and death which heretofore, I had not before thought of the paradigm in this manner. It, however, made perfect sense.
What was really impressive, about all this, was having Merlin return now as a teacher. He was so wise and magus. I felt absolutely proud of him. He was a guide to me, sharing of the wisdom that he has gained in his trans-dimensional sojourn thus far, as the realised dream magus who had long set out ahead of his much-loved adept and companion magus. I can’t say enough how very pleased that I was to have seen him. I was so moved by Merlin. It was simply profound.
I was so incredibly happy to see Merlin. The windows to the large hall, in which we visited, were all closed. This caused the place to be dimly and intimately lit. Here, it was very womb-like and nurturing.
After that intimate visit together, followed by journeying on some more, we arrived at this the seventh dream. On returning to the large terminus, we had to take yet another series of trains. We arrived after much high-speed travel at another terminus. This one was far larger than any before which I had visited. Here, the terminus was above-ground and wide-open at both ends. Multiple tracks were everywhere and veered off in all directions. After we got on board the train, as before he had, the little dark-haired boy who served as astral guide came up and stood in the centre of the aisle.
Here, there were many people with kids and several persons were travelling with a ton of baggage. They were carting around all this baggage which they really did not need. This baggage merely served to weigh them down and impeded their forward advancement. They did not yet realise that they did not need it. Neither Merlin nor I had any baggage. Similarly, the young astral guide had no baggage. Somehow, because of the travelling requirements here, I couldn’t ride in the same car as Merlin. Instead I rode one car behind him on the same train.
On pulling up into the large station, there was a PA notice that indicated that the train we were on would not go any further. We would apparently have to transfer at the next station on disembarking. The announcer said that one would be able to find one’s appropriate ride by following the colour-coded lines on the platform. When I got off onto the platform, I began running ahead to the front of the platform in search of Merlin. Not for anything did I want to lose him now.
A couple had impeded my progress as they wobbled along with a ridiculous amount of baggage. The luggage was so much dream symbolism – inasmuch as there is such a thing. These persons represented newcomers to the astral plane. More importantly, they represented persons who had recently died and returned to the astral plane but who also happened to be fairly young-souled. They were dead yet not already fully aware. Just as they were spiritually blind, when incarnate, they now progressed. They were now hobbling about, carting around all this baggage, as if they could truly ‘take it’ with them.
With them was all this Maya, the baggage of their perceptions and the worldviews, which had held them hostage whilst incarnate. Here they were, on the astral plane, arrivés habitués carting around mindsets that were totally redundant. What I found unique here was that no one interfered with anyone. No one came to their aid telling them that it was not necessary for them to be carting around all this baggage. Furthermore, they were repressed such that they appeared these Boteroesque persons – bloated in the style of Fernando Botero sculptures.
Their little merchant class worldviews had had them well-preserved, and puffed up, with pompous self-aggrandising notions of their greatness. They did look truly South American in that pretentious sense. They looked not unlike some of the parvenu-looking subjects of Fernando Botero’s paintings and sculptures. They were truly lost souls both here and when previously incarnate.
I, on the other hand, was nimbly walking whilst bounding down the platform. I had hoped to reconnect with Merlin whom I knew had also gotten off at the same stop. Here, too, in this station all the railings were orange and sturdy-looking. Rushing ahead of the Boteroesque couple, who vibrationally felt as if made of the heaviest metals in the universe, I noticed something truly spectacular.
High up in the walls of this terminus the wall would simply open up, much as a camera lens’s aperture would, then from the gaping hole would stream out a train at full speeds. The train was, as it were, intersecting dimensions. This fantastical train was, along with several others that I had noticed, simply splicing through our pocket of the astral plane en route to heaven-only-knows-where. At the far side of the terminus another aperture-like portal would gapingly open to accommodate the approaching airborne train.
Soon after, the train would be lost into the black void which moments earlier had opened up. Those trains, like the others, were massive and looked as though the stateliest trains from the late nineteenth-to-early twentieth centuries. More than that, they barrelled through the air without travelling on any overhead tracks. What’s more, they progressed as if along well-mapped out routes.
Some were higher than others. Others intersected our little cul-de-sac of the astral plane, in a diagonal manner, cutting perfectly across the immense width of the terminus. These trains, just like all the others, seemed so imposing for being as massive and as multi-carriaged as they were. Despite the fantastical spectre of these trains, the matter of Merlin’s whereabouts was of paramount concern. On noticing the initial train, I peripherally recalled that there had been a similar such train piercing through the earlier terminus. However, its outréness had remained peripheral or not readily assimilated.
Just as described over the PA system, there was a series of colour-coded lines on the platform. These colour-coded lines indicated where one had to venture, in order to make the appropriate connections, back to one’s final destination. As could be expected, the trains were all very massive. What’s more, they were distinctively leaden and stylistically looked as if straight out of the 1930s. They were very art deco trains indeed.
One of the trains was silver and black. It was a tone of black that was truly austere. The silver was used for most of the detailing. Its silverwork was so opulent that, by comparison, it made Erté’s deco sensibilities seem bland. Somehow, I knew that it was the one that I was expected to take. In all, there were two trains that I was supposed to have transferred to. This black and silver train was energetically the densest-feeling one of all the trains that I had seen.
This, I think, was the case because it travelled between this locale and the density of the physical plane – the waking state. Nonetheless, all that I could think of was Merlin. I did not want to lose contact with him. As ever, he had done in the waking state, I had initially seen him leaving the train then gone energetically bounding down the platform. With so many people everywhere, and for having been impeded by the Boteroesque couple, I had lost sight of him. My mind busily raced as I thought of the horror of possibly having to lose him here.
I did not want our encounter to end just like that. Besides, we were supposed to have gone off somewhere. I came down off the platform, desperate to find him again, by using a narrow flight of stone stairs. From there, I crossed the tracks ahead of the austere-looking train that I was supposed to have taken. No sooner than had I crossed its track that I saw, off in the far end of the terminus, an unusual-looking train.
It was stationed beneath a sunlight-flooded awning. It was a most unique mode of transportation. A series of long horizontal slabs, hovering off the ground, they lined one after the other. They were, basically, the floors of boxcars that had no wheels, no sidings and no roofs to them. They were, if you like, just a series of hovering rectangular slabs à la magic carpets. The awning, beneath which it was stationed, gave a sense of how truly massive this hangar-like terminus was. It was then, too, that I saw Merlin.
I had recognised him by the brown tweed cap that he always wore in the waking state. To look at his body, he was the sexiest human imaginable. Merlin still could work his magic on me. Merlin wore a faded pair of blue bell-bottomed cotton slacks. A pair of well-worn, doe-skinned shoes was familiarly upturned at the toes.
He was so true to form – realistic. This was so very Merlin and so like the Merlin, whom I had known so very intimately, but for the fact that he was not smoking a ganja joint. Also unlike the sublime dream encounter, on Saturday, July 25, 1992, he was not wearing his gold-rimmed round glasses. Naturally, he did not need those things anymore. It was so very good to see Merlin. Here, he was my astral guru – indeed, the transcendent dream magus had returned to impart his magical wisdom.
Merlin was so phenomenally alive and real. I was moved beyond belief to see him. So excited was I, to have found him again, that I went rushing up to greet him where he hung out on one of the slabs. Thrilled and delighted, I let out an excited squeal. Soon enough, I grew immediately self-conscious of the fact that no one here verbally communicated. In one graceful balletic leap, I went rushing up onto the platform broadly grinning. My love for him welled up from the very bosom of my soul. As soon as I got there, I realised that everyone else was seated in these circular groupings.
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They sat in lotus position and faced inwards towards each other. Merlin was part of a circle of men, seven deeply meditative men, all of whom looked just as transcendent and centred as did he. They seemed to be so deeply engaged, at the level of spirit, as if a part of a coven of magi who were engaged in group energy work. Their silence was impactful – there was so much being said and done in its weighty stillness.
Merlin’s eyes were so brilliant and clear yet there was a fecund agedness to them. The clarity came from the intense focus of his energies, where he presently is, in his transition through the discarnate progression. They were older-souled eyes; there was no way to get around that fact. I realised, there and then, that I wasn’t supposed to have been there at all. So pleased was I to be with him, too eager to telepathically communicate, I began chatting aloud. It was a way to wrestle his full attention as there was no way that I could have competed with the union of spirits and minds that they shared.
They were simply too deeply telepathic, “Look Merlin, why can’t you come on this train with me? I don’t want to be here on this one. When we start moving, it’s only going to aggravate my allergies which are acute right now in the waking state. It’ll be too much wind, too much exposure to pollen. It’s just going to affect my allergies too much. There’ll be too much wind blowing in my face. Look, I really don’t know if I want to do this. Why can’t we go on the other one?”
The moment at which I paused, after having posed my questions, Merlin seized control of the dynamic. Very firmly, he entered my mind and said, “Be still. Be quiet. Don’t rush. Don’t you understand? I don’t care to go there. I don’t care what you want… what you desire. I’m going to stay on this one. Besides, it’s what I have to do. I’m going this way…”
When he intoned that last phrase, from the inflection and weight he telepathically used, I realised that there was no way that I could leave this place but on board that austere-looking silver and black deco train. Merlin implied, by his intonation, that the conventional old train was the one that I had to use to safely ferry me back to the waking state. Clearly, he couldn’t take that train because it was too mechanical.
It represented the past and the density, when incarnate, of his former physically ensouled state. He was now in a dimension of existence which was vibrationally infinitely less dense. Even the mode of transportation, for his dimension, was more advanced. There was no denying that these levitating slabs were being kept aloft by their focussed, united wills – Merlin and his kindred spirits’.
To have entered their midst, the air and the Chi were intensely purified. On entering the vibrational sphere of their midst, I instantaneously felt lighter in my body. Their seating formations only intensified their energies and focussed their thoughts and wills. It is safe to say that in these formations, they became a unit. They were a shared consciousness of sorts. They did though each still possess a will of their own. This was clearly the case with Merlin who was able, independent of his circle mates, to exert his own will when asking me not to be an intrusive presence.
He was never hostile but he simply asked that I not be so inconsiderate of their need for privacy. Meanwhile, the six others patiently waited for him. You cannot imagine how mentally powerful these seven men were – individually and as a shared consciousness. They patiently waited for me to either calm down or simply take my leave of them. What was really intriguing, in all of this, was the fact that they did not have a preference whether I should stay or leave. That choice was exclusively up to me.
It was truly insightful – they simply had no emotional engagement and were totally objective. This was so much like the Merlin I had always known. It was so good to see him that I really did not want to leave. There was no way that I would pass up on this most rare of treasures found. On calming my nerves, I directly looked Merlin in the eye and said, “Okay, I accept… I accept…. I accept. I realise that I was being so selfish. Do forgive me. I know how selfish I can get at times.”
Yet there sat Merlin supremely long-suffering and patient. I would not, nor could I, deny myself the elixir of those eyes. Impishly, I added, “Okay, please, let me come some of the way with you, at least. I don’t know. I don’t care…” For breaking protocol and wanting to leave this place by going in his direction, I was more or less quieting my own fears. I would gladly have given up the ghost, as it were, just to go on journeying with him.
As his eyes warmly smiled into me, a discernible smile drifted across his large, lucidly focussed face. I was thrilled. He telepathically suggested that I take a seat, which I did, just outside of the circle. Two of them shifted their positions signalling that I join the circle rather than not. The moment that I entered the circle of beings, which included Merlin, the procession of levitating greyish slabs began moving. They had been hovering, just above a groove that sat, between two knolls. These rolling mounds were covered by the most verdant cropped grass that zinged with a whisper of misty dew.
Instantaneously, we were moving at faster-than-sound through to faster-than-light speeds. It was immensely thrilling an experience for me. Merlin sat with his back always to the front of the procession of slabs. In that sense, he was in a powerful position. We were seated towards the end of the third or fourth platform. Each platform-like slab contained several clusters of seven asexual-looking men – even Merlin looked asexual.
Even more interesting, along the lines of the Michael Teachings, was that there were six or seven clusters of six to eight individuals in the tight circular formations. Here everyone was in lotus position. There were never any doubts in my mind that Merlin and every last one of these discarnate individuals were the ones whose focussed wills were directing the travel of this light trip. This was so right up Merlin’s alley – unabashed magic.
Each levitating slab measured roughly ten feet across by close to fifty feet at least. They were linear and, though wafer-thin, had the most softly plush comfortable surface. They were just as soft as if we were seated on satin throw cushions. The speeds with which we travelled were phenomenal. I did not experience any discomfiture for moving at such great speeds. There was simply a whizzing blur of everything, outside the confines of our progressing procession of levitating slabs.
We travelled some four feet off the ground as we jetted away from the hub terminus. The winds never affected us, nor did my body experience the increased G-forces, for travelling at such great speeds. The landscape sped past, even more rapidly than when on board the trains. Of course, when on board the trains, we were then in an enclosed environment. Yet here, as there, we were not at all affected by the winds. As a matter of fact, this proved an infinitely smoother ride than when travelling on the conventional trains.
There weren’t any of the chattering minds, for one, as experienced when on the conventional trains. So deeply internalised was this place that there was nothing but Zen order. No wonder Merlin so loved Johann Sebastian Bach’s artistry because it was so wonderfully suited to the ambience of this place.
*It was as though, this place was the grove to which he gravitated between lives. It gave him the sense of serenity, of order and of peace, which was so readily discerned to the core of his being. At such times, Merlin would become lost – grow intimate and private with his very spirit – for listening to Glenn Gould’s mastery of J.S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Merlin’s intellect, at such times, would become expansive. Each time, his spirit and intellect were sensed, he would be spatially experienced. Quite simply, for experiencing him at such times, there is no other way to articulate how one would feel. END.
All around us were wonderful, rolling green plains situated in a vast expansive vista. Everything was so thrillingly filled with life. For travelling at such intense speeds, we were left in a heightened state of sensitivity – or at least I definitely was. Perhaps, this was par for the course with Merlin and his kindred spirits. I, on the other hand, found this so new and exciting for my dreamer self. Everything zinged with more abundant negative ions, at concentrations that were more pronounced, than in the waking state.
This dimension was a harmonious mélange of pure thought and pure emotion. It was so invigorating and completely centring. Pure emotion, minus the trappings of ego, it gave the sense of Merlin and his kindred spirits’ transcendent nature. There was an audible drone discerned here, to our splicing progress through space, which seemed as if their combined breaths held in a sustained meditative hum. Truly serene a spiritually uplifting experience this was. How transcendent they each were, too.
This sound was so intense and pure that it can best be described as being audible light. The sensations and emotions I experienced were so thrilling that I couldn’t believe such intensity of joy could be experienced whilst incarnate. At that moment, the experience was heightened when Merlin and I both directly looked into each other’s eyes. In that moment of connectivity, mere words could never do justice to what I experienced. We were truly intimate soul-to-soul.
Looking off to his right, impregnating me with this most beauteous gift, Merlin oceanically poured his very soul into me. This was the most sublime postcard yet, that he had sent across the seas of time, from his journey up ahead. I couldn’t ever have imagined that any gift could be so profound, beautiful and cherished. Looking to the left, I had done so as he had telepathically entered my mind, saying a warm and intimately familiar hello.
Slipping into my moist, expanded intellect, I felt the familiar purr of Merlin’s soul as he edged closer and squinged up next to me soul-to-soul. How many nights had we gotten this close when he was incarnate… Yet none of that – physical intimacy – could have compared to the exquisite ticklish touch of his soul deep within me. This was such a massiveness of spirit that I experienced. I couldn’t believe that I was feeling the intensity of sensations and insights as I was experiencing. This was such a massive experience that to look at Merlin the giddy ecstasy that I felt caused me to whiteout.
This had been fostered, too, by the enriching stimuli that bombarded my totality as the levitating slabs sped on. The feel of experiencing nature, as we so rapidly sped by, only made the vibrations of everything that much more pronounced. As I moved without moving, my body quivered throughout. Looking to my left into the most intimate pair of eyes that I have known thus far in this lifetime, I thrillingly flew whilst seated there in lotus position. Merlin’s eyes being the pair that has been more intimate than any other… This moment of Zen bliss caused me to quickly draw on a sharp breath.
As though I were nodding off, my body had bobbed a tad. With that I lucidly awoke – my body quivered as I remained in bed on my back looking up into and beyond the off-white ceiling. Merlin alas quite cleverly had hypnotised me, back into wakefulness, with one sensual look.
By far, those dreams were among the most truly uplifting dreams of this incarnation. There is not a year that passes since then that I don’t recall these dreams with the greatest fondness and humility. So, alas, dream your dreams of wonder – for having been so richly inspired by mine. Sweet dreams, you!
On this the eve of what would have proven Merlin’s 72nd birthday, I share these rather totemic dreams. This November 18, 2019 marks the 30th anniversary of Merlin’s passing of full-blown AIDS, on a cold November Saturday morning when icy snowflakes aimlessly drifted across the city streets. Whilst at dinner recently, a dear friend asked if I am never saddened at the loss of Merlin and if I ever do miss him. Of course, as I write this blog, I am warmed by the fact that on December 2, 2006 – almost 13 years ago, Merlin was reincarnated in a canalled northern European city. Merlin is now female and the third of three children – two older brothers.
What’s more, Merlin reborn has eyes that would now be even more phenomenal than when last I gazed besotted and rhapsodic into those large, soulful hazel eyes. Whereas Merlin was on his sixth life as a seventh level mature scholar soul, now reincarnated and female that soul is now living its first incarnation as a first level old scholar. These next dreams were dreamt in May, 1989 when Merlin was then still incarnate and at that point, he daily listened to the audiocassette recording of my dreams. This he did because they fascinated him; more than that, he did so because ever the director, he was keen to give insight and direction.
“Come on, Arvin, you have to be more descriptive. I have no idea if the car was blue, green, for that matter a convertible and was it a tan or white leather interior?”
Certainly, it can never be underestimated the pivotal role that Merlin played in the depth and thoroughness of the audiocassette recorded dreams. He was ever a loving but tough taskmaster and happy am I to have had his loving input and direction. After having listened to the recorded dream being now shared herein, Merlin came to dinner at our 20 Amelia Street home and declared, “Well, let’s not get too caught up in trying to interpret and figure out the symbolism of those dreams.” After, he winked, we softly kissed; his lips as ever warm and full as internally an unrelenting disease determinedly consumed his body… but never alas his spirit.
These were potent, lucid astral plane dreams. To say that they were totemic would be understating fact. The dreams were a glimpse beyond the veil as Merlin shamanically wound down another incarnation and got ready to put to rest another life. Ever focussed on my spiritual maturation, I am immensely proud to have survived so long after Merlin’s passing. Had anyone wagered that I would be still in the game 30 years later, I would have said, “You are reading the wrong tea leaves.”
Well, here I am still shaking arse and the Rathore to the core. These totemic dreams were dreamt on Monday, May 22, 1989, audiocassette recorded on tape IX of the 250 audiocassette recording of my dreams and yet to be found in Volume one the 25 Volume dream opus. Too, at the time, the Moon then transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house – wherein my natal Moon is posited. Truly few are they who are brave enough to drink from the chalice that is life.
Your support and choice to be focussed herein are both humbling and a source of inordinate pride. I am immensely grateful. Sweet dreams and as ever do remember, death is just a shift in focus; one is merely focussed at a different frequency. Besides, as one rather beguiling astral plane habituée put it, “Trust me, death is not wasted on the living.”
Dreams serve as the most expedient conduit for sustaining the bonds and communion of souls between persons who are no longer focussed in the physical plane but refocussed on the astral plane between lives as astral plane habitués whilst resting, reviewing and weaving the tapestry of future incarnations. So, drink and live in the moment. Take a deep breath, open your eyes within – don’t be afraid – and there within the silken folds of self is the massive beauty which is spirit.. go on explore and discover the true you. I love you more.
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The first dream found me posited on a hilltop looking down into a valley which then rose up into a lower hill. From the vantage of the mountains in Sandy Point, St. Kitts or Nevis, the view was of being down towards the ocean. Topographically, it seemed more like St. Kitts – however, this was definitely set in Nevis. I looked out and what did I see but a house on this hill; it was a very huge and lovely house.
Down from the sky, before the house on the rolling plains, fell a column of white light that shimmered. The manifesting light had the power of a tornado and it was a force that moved… it undulated. Truth be told, this was a liquefied white light – not unlike a waterspout. As compared to the left and right sides of the shaft, it was as though the centre of the light was faded. The centre of the column of light seemed invisible but it wasn’t. As a matter of fact, it was sort of greyish-coloured.
*A very fleeting dream this was but it was one that was potent. The sky overhead was ominously dark as though the cloud cover was simply to mask something else. There was no getting around the fact that the light was used as some sort of transport or conveyance. The light was being used for the relay of energies between the house’s occupants, if there were any, and whatever was beyond the clouds.
The dream seemed to have abruptly collapsed because I had happened on the scene. There was no one else about. Too, it was the only house on the landscape. I felt as though I had been ejected, from the dream, for having been there and witnessed what I wasn’t supposed to have been privy to. The dream collapsed around me; I was deprived any further knowledge of what was going on. In light of the dream that would follow, it became fairly obvious that the light column was channelling.
Eventually, the astra-human soul quality of Merlin’s would quite potently manifest. Of course, just as in the dream of Thursday, July 7, 1988VI, again, there was a lone house on the landscape. As will become evident, in later moments of the dreams, Merlin’s soul quality would manifest. END.
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The next dream immediately found me in bed with Merlin. He got up and he looked very old. Looking very tired and old, he turned around to me then went out into the hallway. He turned around and asked me, “When are you going to start moving on because I’d like to die by the end of this year? When are you going to go back to school? I’m really tired of this; I’m tired of this illness… I just want to move on.”
He was terribly impatient. Indeed, Merlin here was very forceful. That was when he began shapeshifting; Merlin underwent a metamorphosis before my eyes. He became, as he spoke, more impatient. I watched spellbound as his physiology morphed into the very astral-looking faun – though elfin-looking, he was taller than his known humanoid self; Merlin became the archetypal Chiron. I started crying sounding real childlike and said, “No… no! Please, please don’t!”
His face then became part of the pink walls, thus his transformed face was flesh-toned. Here his face looked faunlike; his eyes were on the sides. He had the face of a faun and I only ever saw the right eye. The eye was black-within-black. The eye looked down at me because the head – which was the only thing visible when mounted – was up on the wall. Shapeshifted, Merlin’s was a very hard-looking eye.
Merlin’s eye rapaciously looked right into the soul. An ancient eye it was. I caressed the softness of the fur-like skin and pleaded with him and said, “Please, I can’t live without you. I couldn’t go on. Please don’t lose your strength and get ill,” I pleaded with the shapeshifted Merlin and cried. I was aware of being here in bed asleep whilst dreaming and that my body was going through the motions of crying and being pained. Merlin did not hear me, although, I thought that as I slept that I was talking aloud in my sleep.
*This was an intensely upsetting dream because it dramatised how Merlin wished to be allowed to move on. He no longer cared to be focussed in the life. Though it was obvious that he could have soldiered on for months more, he simply lost the desire to go on being focussed. Clearly, this was owing to the bilious discord created by Tytanikka and Oleg’s betrayal.
Though he never physiologically resembled the classic centaur, Merlin’s face not only further morphed becoming like a fawn’s, more accurately, his head and face did have the eventual shape of a young bison’s – very Taurean, strong and potent.
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On preparing for the video to celebrate the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth back in 2017, I decided then to head off to the costumer, Malabar on McCaul Street where artist and lover George Hawken lived in the late 80s to early 90s. Inspired by the first dream of Merlin had 41 years ago in July 1978, I decided to get a cowl as a tribute to the cowl Merlin wore in the inaugural dream encounter with him, four years before having met on Friday, October 1, 1982 in New York City. So, there was I at Mount Pleasant Cemetery on Saturday, July 15, 2017 in my cowl and the panama hat purchased at Versailles to escape the heat. I thought it fitting as Merlin always loved wearing panama hats.
My trusty friend, J.J. who happens to be an artisan entity mate whom I have known in 20 past lives –- which is a high incidence of contact -– was the director. Initially, I had hoped to throw a white party on the lawn to the southwest of the chapel at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and have a drone film the event where a gathering of friends would raise a glass to Merlin on the anniversary of his ennobled birth. Merlin always threw a white party each year for his birthday at his parents’ stunning backyard in north Toronto’s Servington Crescent.
The plan was not approved by the cemetery and thus, one had to improvise. I got my panama hat and my cowl and together, we proceeded with a dozen long-stem white roses to visit Merlin’s resting place. I had a pretty good idea what I was after. With the matching white cowl, I wanted to evoke the magic of meeting Merlin in that initial dream which is shared in volume one of the dream memoirs, which is already published: Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey.
Get your copy! Thanks as ever for your support!
In the hardcover edition of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs, the initial dream encounter with Merlin is shared. The dream begins on page 110 in the hardcover edition. I wanted the same sense of wonderment and magic that I felt for having met Merlin in that first dream four years prior to having met reflected in the video. In that dream, Merlin’s appearance was preceded by a white totemic creature which seemed, in its astral plane outréness, to be part Russian wolfhound, part alpaca, part dog.
So, moving to the lawn, having descended the steps of the chapel, I began walking across the open lawn towards the statuesque lion-festooned mausoleum with the five remaining white long-stem white roses. Seven roses, of course, were left at Merlin’s grave -– one rose for each of our seven glorious years together. As I stepped onto the lawn, it seemed magical… timeless even. Slowly, confidently as I approached the filmmaker at the other end of the lawn, I thought of Merlin and that initial dream.
Just then, I very distinctly thought of Merlin greeting me by purring, “Hello Lambs.” As if right on cue, from off stage left, an adult deer came from behind the bushes and tombstones that line the far edges of the open lawn. Never before had I seen a deer at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Indeed, the good burghers of Forest Hill who clearly regularly jogged in the park-like setting stopped and were overheard remarking that they had never seen a deer in the cemetery before. All that I could do was tear up and continue walking as the deer then bolted and ran from stage left to right as I continued my stride uninterrupted –- unfazed by the appearance of an adult deer on the grounds of the cemetery. What is more astounding, is that J.J. at the time was filming my walk; at the last minute, I decided against a run-through as I was concerned about the natural light possibly changing if we were to rehearse the shot.
Unbeknownst to me, the deer after having made it to stage right, then returned to the centre of the lawn and stood there perfectly still whilst observing my progression across the lawn. J.J. who was astounded by the occurrence remarked that he had just witnessed a miracle. There is no doubt in my mind as I tried to recapture the magic of that initial dream encounter that there was a subtle validation of that dream from the magical shaman himself on the other side by having had Merlin’s spirit step in as director emeritus and had the deer enter the shot as validation and a token of his appreciation of the love that we shared and my steadfast loyalty to him. After crossing the lawn and turning to watch the deer stand there, looking down the lawn at me, I felt such utter peacefulness and abandonment of spirit — just as when alone and intimate in the dark with Merlin.
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Yes, I believe in magic as did Merlin and as though an appreciation of having stridently done everything to fulfil his mandate to me, Merlin’s astral body conjure up the same magic here and now as he had in July 1978 –- four years before slipping inside a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up and readily winning me over with his sexy elfin charm, magic and sex that proved the most grounding shamanic passion… every time. Standing there, I was reminded, too, of that dream in 1989 before Merlin passed wherein he shape-shifted and became a fawn-like creature who morphed and became one with the wall in our Cabbagetown home.
All the music chosen for this 13-minute video is music that Merlin loved whilst incarnate and to which he returned time and again -– whether at Joe Morton’s tiny Upper West Side apartment in autumn of 1983, Toronto’s 20 Amelia Street in tony Cabbagetown. From Glenn Gould’s mastery of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations, to Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight and Dionne Warwick singing That’s What Friends Are For –- in that segment of the video, I included friends whom Merlin valued: Kareem Benezra, myself, Wayne Robson and his oldest and most loyal friend, the ever-gracious, Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.
Of course, for Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely, I exclusively included photos of Merlin and his very handsome and gracious father, David Ben-Daniel. Whereas I favoured Sir Paul McCartney’s Hey Jude, Merlin ever loved George Harrison and especially My Sweet Lord. Of course, one Saturday, whilst staying at actor, Joe Morton’s Manhattan apartment, when Merlin and I secretly committed to being together, we slow-danced to Supertramp and Roger Hodgson’s unmatched magical vocals on Supertramp’s Breakfast In America.
Additionally, Jeffrey Osborne’s On the Wings of Love which was one of Merlin’s favourite ballads is also included. Merlin loved Black male soul singers: Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jeffrey Osborne –- most especially –- George Benson, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Donny Hathaway, Barry White. Most of all, I am especially proud of the video that J.J. and I have created; I think that it masterfully captures the depth of my love and fealty to the most fabulously magical shaman encountered on this incarnation’s spiritual odyssey.
Naturally, before having left for Mount Pleasant Cemetery, I had flooded my apartment with the music that appears in the video. Perhaps, unwittingly by so doing, I was invoking Merlin’s spirit, which later joined us when he played ultimate director and pulled off the most magical bit of stage direction –- an adult deer in the middle of a cemetery in the heart of mid-town Toronto. Lastly, I played the sublimely soulful Shirley Horn’s interpretation of, Here’s to Life! Whilst raising a glass of coconut water, I had forgotten to pick up some champagne the evening prior and it was too early in the morning to find champagne anywhere –- the lighting was way too good. Besides who knows if that magical deer would have been anywhere about.
Here’s to life… most of all, here’s to Merlin… here’s to dream shamans everywhere!
Merlin’s mandate to me ever remains:
“Please my darling, I want you to write about our lives together. I promise you, however possible, I am going to send you dreams to include in the story of our love… our lives together.”
Everything about this show was simply masterful… from the music, Ennio Morricone’s score to The Mission with the show being closed to Aretha Franklin singing Natural Woman. So much colour, so much verve and attack; the structure and that ruffled purple gown at the end. Bravissimo!
Go on cool kats, you know what to do, push down, plié, push off and start flying your merry little hearts out… cause life is a dream and you damn well can…. I love you more. Thanks for the ongoing support…
As I work 7 days a week, I was debating whether or not to attend the Twelfth Glenn Gould Prize Gala at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. That morning en route home from some errands, I discovered that someone had jumped from a neighbourhood condo. I got in and realised that there was no more feet-dragging; to hell with being dog-tired. I got on the phone and called up Lucian Mann-Chomedy and said, “My darling, we are going to the Jessye Norman Gala!” As ever, always positive, Lucian chimed in, “Oh my, oh yes, how lovely. Well, I’ll be both honoured and delighted.” Indeed, life is for living!
Merlin and I met Friday, October 1, 1982 in a Hell’s Kitchen Walk-up, the following Monday evening, on his return to Toronto, Merlin called up crying. The man whom he had spent so much of our first evening together speaking of, had died; Glenn Gould had died. For the seven years that we were together, Merlin listened to Glenn Gould’s interpretation of J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations at least thrice weekly. Indeed, the first gift I purchased Merlin, was a recently released recording of the Goldberg Variations at Christmas 1982: I think that it is safe to say that that gift sealed the deal, I was a keeper for sure.
As I had waited until the last minute to get seats, I was sat in Ring 4 rather than the usual Ring 3. This, alas, was my view of the stage and of course, the butterflies are from the set for Atom Egoyan’s masterful staging of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte, which the moment I saw the set, I began chuckling to Lucian on recall of Tracy Dahl’s unsurpassed performance as Despina.
As I was too busy trying to throw something together for Instagram, I was heard gasping when it was announced that the head of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Jury this twelfth prize was none other than the actor, Viggo Mortensen, who then walked out onto stage. He, indeed, who in a few days time will be attending the Governors Ball where he may or may not be holding an Oscar.
Out onto the stage arrived the Twelfth Prize Laureate, Jessye Norman. Truly, it was a shock to the very core to see Madame being ushered out in a wheelchair. Suddenly, I was reminded of the events of earlier which caused me to rush home and purchase two tickets for the event. That aside, there was no greater joy than drinking of her soul’s inspiring beauty.
This beautiful gala was so filled with touchstones for me, none more so than the moment that bass baritone, Ryan Speedo Green was in full song. When he sang, “Aprite un po’ quegli occhi” from Wolfgang A. Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro.
Yes, indeed, this marvellous aria’s orchestration included a harpsichord. Straight away, I was teary-eyed as memories of the truly eccentric and delightful Milan Newcombe readily surfaced; Milan will ever remain a lover like no other.
During the intermission, I ran into two old friends not seen in at least 1.5 decades; we spoke of nothing but our surprise at Ms. Norman’s entrance. Life really does march full speed ahead.
After the intermission, it was the announcement of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Progidy Prize with the recipient being none other than, Cécile McLorin-Salvant, the most fabulous Jazz singer on the planet. Is this not an evening to remember during Black History Month indeed.
This stunningly unforgettable gala was closed out by the final recitalist being the divinely gifted soprano and Glenn Gould Foundation Prize juror, Sondra Radvanovsky in full song, singing Verdi.
The gala concluded with Ms. Norman returning to the stage and singing a duet with Cécile McLorin-Salvant. This was a moving, emotionally intense evening and my life was greatly enriched for having chosen to attend. The gala was nothing short of magical.
As a tribute to this marvellous evening in the theatre, I will include herein two dreams, which were originally audio-cassette-recorded in the 1990s. Before each deam, one of Glenn Gould, the other Jessye Norman, I will include each individual’s Michael Overleaves.
Gould, Glenn Herbert 25/9/32 – 4/10/82, Toronto
This fragment was a sixth level mature artisan in the repression mode, with a goal of growth, an idealist in the moving part of intellectual centre. He had a Mercury/Saturn body type.
Glenn’s primary chief feature was self-destruction with a secondary of arrogance.
Glenn was third-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity four, cadre five, greater cadre 17, pod/node 819.
This fragment has an artisan essence twin who was alive during Glenn’s life but there were no plans to meet. This fragment is still incarnate on the physical plane.
The fragment who was Glenn has a scholar task companion, who was in a previous life, Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach. They were not incarnate at the same time.
However, the fragment who was Glenn was exerting considerable influence on Carl Philip Emmanuel.
These two fragments had many lives together, once as luthiers, three times as court musicians, nine times as brothers of the cloth, twice as brothers in the flesh, as well as completing several important life monads, including student/mentor and master/slave.
In the immediate past life, the fragment who was Glenn had as his three primary needs: security, communion and exchange. Only the first of these was ever even partially satisfied.
So here we had a warrior-cast artisan who had seriously conflicting overleaves and a primary chief feature of self-destruction. He had a goal of growth but a repression mode which would not allow him to flourish.
He had a need for communion, but was sexually ambivalent and socially inept. Undeniably, he had great talent but took no pleasure from performing in public.
This fragment has a great deal of scholar energy that was used in the immediate past life to enable Glenn Herbert to painstakingly examine and interpret the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.
He was very interested in form and structure for all of his adult life. This fragment was, unfortunately, the victim of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, also for all of his adult life, which worsened considerably during his third and fourth decades.
This fragment did not, as popular wisdom teaches, retire from public life because of any strong beliefs in the recording industry. Glenn Herbert retired from public life because he could no longer bear to be in crowds, even if he was distanced by a proscenium.
Needless to say, this fragment did not complete work on his fourth internal monad.
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Astral Plane Glenn Gould Recital!
Nothing is more uplifting than finding oneself at a great musical performance on the astral plane. This dream was about being richly inspired and by Glenn Herbert Gould, no less; it was truly marvellous an adventure for the spirit.
The dream occurred, on Tuesday, October 6, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house.
I am in France where I leisurely browsed through a store; perhaps, it was somewhere in Paris. It seemed here like at nighttime. Whilst in one corner of the store, I noticed that there were all these big slabs of cheese in packaged containers.
There was a woman coordinating the display of the cheeses. Sometimes the cheese was being grated and other times not. There and then, I decided that I was going to buy one slab of the cheese that was packaged in a rectangular box.
The cheese was about an inch thick and about eight inches long. The cardboard box that it was in was white and almost like the size of a box of Cream of Wheat.
Surprisingly, the box was rather heavy. Though not unlike cheddar, it was a dark cheese. The smell of this cheese was really hard – quite the bite to it.
It had seemingly been opened for too long as parts of it was growing hardened and turning colour. I knew straight off the bat that I wanted to have some to take home with me.
So, off I went to purchase the slab that I liked. Everyone here was, of course, speaking French which I quite so understood and liked. Interestingly, I too was speaking very competently in French.
It was obvious that I was not too heavily accented as the others were pleasant-enough with me.
The second dream had me leaving the store; I then found myself hovering in the air. Whilst in flight, I went into a building which had a green – oxidised-copper – roof. It was part of a long set of buildings that had very, very tall stone chimneys.
These were chimneys that were not unlike the ones at the Palais du Louvre. As a matter of fact, the building was similar to the Canadian Parliament buildings though it was not those buildings.
This complex was considerably longer. These were a series of complex buildings. Here, I was easily thirty storeys up whilst in flight. I looked down at the complex which at maximum could not have been more than five storeys tall.
After having contemplatively observed the complex for awhile, I began very slowly gliding down through the air. I intently studied a procession of persons, way below, who were bailing out of very large buses; they were, as a matter of fact, tour buses.
This was all happening in a courtyard-like area and away from the bustle of the street. I next noticed some men who appeared; they seemed, in their long, flowing white robes, to be priests.
They were not Arabic or Muslims in caftans; rather, they were definitely Whites. The buildings here were long on the order of Palais Richelieu in Paris. When I finally alighted, we had to go through this incredible entrance.
This led into a wonderful sandstone building; it was very modern with a neo-classical design. On the order of being imposing, the door to this place was massive. They seemed to be the doors to a temple.
To get to the entrance, there were many steps which one had to climb. On entering, off to the right, there was a passage that one could take.
An aisle led along another passage; it seemed illumined by a skylight. The priestly men had all entered before me. They preceded a procession of adherents who had come to partake of some ritual.
I had gone to explore, off to the left, because it was the wing of the building that had reminded me of the Palais du Louvre. Going there, I wandered about being fascinated by the place.
Some women were posing for artists in this particular wing. They wore modern garb but were very exceptionally beautiful. What was most intriguing about their look was that it was exactly as they would have appeared on the finished canvases.
They were very nubile young women; they had to hold their poses for interminably long periods. Here several kids kept on going through the place; they were seemingly art students.
They were all very North American, middle class with their loud, snobbish bourgeois affectations. Right away, it was obvious that all the muses were still virgins.
Theirs was an innocence that could never be affected. They were all teenage girls whose bodies were very voluptuous and full. These were not skinny people at all.
There was one point at which one girl was holding different poses. Each girl would be painted by from three-to-five artists, at a time. Thus every pose would be captured from different perspectives.
At one point, they told her to take a break; they then reverted back to an earlier pose. This was so that they could return to that work and put some more work into finishing it up.
When she changed the pose, she had also turned some 180 degrees. This particular model, whom I was studying, wore socks with Oriental-looking sandals.
Inside her socks she kept little items of hers. Whilst she was making the transition, she simply reached up her foot and pulled up her right leg to reach down into the socks.
Hers was a pair of blue-coloured socks – pale blue. To just above the ankles was the extent to which the socks rose. Looking at her, she took out something from about her ankle which looked like a wafer.
Not the least bit self-conscious, she ate it at once; it seemed like a chocolate wafer which she favoured. She seemingly needed it to get an energy boost so that she could stay focussed on the tedious work that she did.
After having found it all very interesting, I moved on sufficiently knowledgeable of the goings on here. Walking along a corridor, I ended up going into a room where everyone was very strange.
A guy there was a lot like Galen Shim – my very beautiful, Hong Kong-born, Eurasian friend. He reclined on a bed with his head close to the door. When I came in, I noticed that he was naked. When giving him a massage, I began by oiling his body.
It was quite fragrant oil. Rubbing down his body, I began working on his toes and feet. Afterwards, I got up to leave but he very silently began coming with me.
So out we went and joined the procession of persons; among them this time were several kids. Mostly, they were teenagers – amongst whom I did not want to be.
Galen or the guy who seemed like him, here the guy was not wearing glasses as before nor would Galen for that matter, and I kept walking through the place. Pretty soon, after we had left the noisy kids, we started hearing the most beautiful music.
This was one of the rare times that I found the music of the pipe organ to be beautiful. Within the complex, we happened on this wonderful cathedral inside which were most of the people from the procession.
On entering the structure, it seemed more like a concert hall. We soon learnt that the hall was specifically built so that only Johannes Sebastian Bach’s music could be played there.
Never before had I heard classical music sound so beautiful. We stood there transfixed whilst listening together. Who then should I notice way at the front of the hall, at the pipe organ that sat high on the dais-like stage, but Glenn Gould. I could see his right profile as if in close-up.
My god, this was rapture and then some. He was playing with such rapt abandon that I steadied myself and whispered more to myself than to Galen,
“My god, what an incredible dream to be having…”
There seemed to be a skylight on the side of the high-ceilinged nave. Instead of there being stained glass windows, windows for that matter, there was only intense light raining down through what seemed to be a skylight system.
The centre of the halved skylight was a wonderful neoclassical, oxidised, copper-looking, greenish flying buttress. Here the look, though modern, was more in the style of Islamic mosques or even Moorish architecture rather than the classic Gothic signatures.
A series of the most intricate and complex circles intertwined, like some riotous jungle vine, in the cathedral-like, concert hall’s stonework. Breathtakingly beautiful it was. I stood there, just inside the entrance to the hall, on the left of the wide aisle.
This was a very wide-bodied structure. As you progressed down the aisle, there were different levels where one could go up and sit. These were either on the right or left. The central aisle was covered by the most beautifully designed red carpet.
This place was considerably wider than Notre Dame Cathedral. Unlike the Parisian Gothic structure, it was not a darkened affair. Here it was very intensely bright out. The light coming in on the right and left side of the flying buttress-like, central girder fell through a slightly frosted glass.
The light was an intense – almost aquatic – blue. Interestingly, there were no beams or columns, supporting the unusual central, flying buttress-like beam. For looking at the light, one became slightly languorous. I felt paralysed with pleasure; there before me, down the massive hall, sat Glenn Gould.
He wore the most thick-fabricked garb; it seemed from an earlier age. All the men in the white gowns were up at the front. They were all transfixed – as well they should have been.
Though I love Johannes Sebastian Bach, at the time, I had some reservations as I am not especially fond of pipe organs. I suppose that it is because it has always had too many religious associations during my childhood.
The persons attending the concert were there simply to recharge their batteries. They seemed, all of them, as if not quite in their bodies for being so transfixed – they were otherwise-engaged.
Eerily, I had a sense that these were all persons who were between lives as is Glenn Gould. They were in a form of processing, a form of deep meditation on the order of sleep, as they prepared for the next incarnation.
This fugue was the most complex music imaginable. Indeed, the music seemed designed for those between lives. The fugue was composed for astral plane habitués who, sans bodies, could best endure the music’s intensity.
Getting a sense that I really shouldn’t be there, plus the fact that I finally couldn’t get into the pipe organ, I started taking my leave of the place.
Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, and I then went out front. There we waited for the specific tour buses to show up and take us away. Whilst I waited with Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, I was joined by Pandora.
It seemed that most of the people who were here were very young-souled. They seemed to be on a pilgrimage, like visiting the original Gohonzon in Japan or going on the Hajj, at Mecca.
As the pipe organ played, I could hear in the tone of the place a faint whisper from the men in white robes. Their thoughts, it turned out, could be telepathically heard. Even earlier, when I had been hovering in flight high above the complex, I knew that this was more so a political institution rather than not.
This was a structure which was just as colossal as the temple at Karnak and considerably older. This place was mind-bogglingly complex and massive. The temple was posited directly in the centre of it all.
Just like La Chapelle in Paris is comparably dwarfed, by its surroundings, so too the massive concert hall-like temple was dwarfed by the complex. This architectural marvel was simply soul-inspiring.
Whilst all the buses were waiting, I took to one of the buses with Pandora. I had gotten impatient waiting to be assigned to one. We spoke in French because everyone else here did the same.
This was not unlike a Parisian bus – the seats all faced each other. Seated close to the front, we were on the left side of the aisle behind the driver.
As though getting close to Saint-Sulpice Métro, I got up and said goodbye to Pandora. I wanted to get off there then walk back to her rue de Grenelle apartment.
Pandora planned to go out then come home later so had asked me to wait for her at her place. Here it seemed as if nighttime coming on to dawn.
Speaking guardedly in French, I made sure that I was speaking properly and not just fumbling partout. Really, I rather enjoyed this experience of being together with Pandora.
I was very serene enjoying the very beautiful experience. Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, had silently slipped from my side when Pandora came and joined me.
*Of course, it would turn out that the person in question was Louka Duplessis and not Galen. I would meet Louka, who accompanied me in this dream, the day following this dream.
Just prior to meeting for the first time, it is not uncommon for me to dream of persons.
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Norman, Jessye 15/9/45, Georgia
Jessye is a first level old priest in the passion mode, with a goal of rejection – functioning for the most part in the positive pole of discrimination, a spiritualist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.
She has a Jupiter/Saturn body type.
Jessye’s primary chief feature is arrogance, with a secondary of stubbornness.
This fragment was third-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. She is a member of entity five, cadre six, greater cadre 33, pod/node 212.
She has a discarnate priest essence twin whom she did know earlier in this life but this fragment died in Vietnam. She has a warrior task companion and they have worked together and continue to do so occasionally.
Her three primary needs are: freedom, expression and power.
The warrior energy gives Jessye tremendous organisational powers and her stubbornness has enabled her to stick in there when the going got very rough many times.
Jessye is a warrior-cast priest who has been a spiritual rebel in this life. This is, by the way, not the first time this fragment has sung professionally. This fragment was a well-known castrato in seventeenth century Italy and performed many times before the crowned heads of Europe.
Jessye has great need to serve her concept of the higher ideal and has done so admirably by combining the folk music of her people with her operatic repertoire.
She performs well, as do most entity five fragments. This fragment has always enjoyed her work. Singing has been an extension of her inner spirituality. It is, in fact, a form of meditation for her.
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Now that’s a Hollywood wife!
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 nighttime. 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.
*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.
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As ever my dear sweet ennobled friends, I am ever grateful for your continued support. Please do spread the word, far and wide about this happening dream joint on the cosmic wide web. Always remember to push off and start flying… I love you more.
Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate. In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.
Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s. She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate. Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of. The energy between us was always simpatico. I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.
A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city. At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.
What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992. There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra. Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…
*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals. Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness. I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light. It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience.
At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning. All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space. Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded. Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.
Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience. This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken. END.
Dream one. I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here. Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space. I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me. It was most upsetting.
I could not quite figure out what was going on. It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment. By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment. Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake.
However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact. Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right. Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself. The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes.
This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor. Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor. This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex. I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death.
There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see. Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated. I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body. I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body.
At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up. Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body. Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body. Struggling, I pushed against my own body.
It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body. My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed. I simply could not get up. Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.”
It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him. “No, Arvin. I have simply got to get up. I will not suffer this.”
With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed. Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space. Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death. I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were.
Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body. When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there. There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head. This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.
It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed. What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body. It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground.
Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion. Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen. The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body. I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept.
Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment. Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen. It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room. Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge.
Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort. Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food. She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me. I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris.
However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages. It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state. Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking. Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing.
But then she turned and looking into my face said, from under furrowed brows. “Buh chile ah wha rang wid ounu face. Chile yu muss tekk kare ah yur face an ting no man.” At that, she drew closer, putting her hand over my face.
Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…” I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state.
*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state. There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits. Ick! I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache.
Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown. Charmant. This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin. END.
Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face. I was stunned by how realistic it all was. Jan was so protectively nurturing of me. Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances.
She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her. Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it. Thoroughly enjoyed her energy. Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen.
This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes. They were much like the tubes in the old radios. A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery. Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me.
Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.”
“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?”
“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.” Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed. Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system. So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came.
Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space. Very interesting. Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later. She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble.
i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house. Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora. It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before. More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state.
They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway. An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans. I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place. They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has.
A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame. I had been on it before. Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out. I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand.
We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits. The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques. Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space. We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space.
There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use. We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor. Some were even on the wooden bed frame. A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood.
Jan kicked away the shard with her right big toe. When I told her to be careful she boisterously chimed, “Me na kno say ma? Me knoe man, me knoe say ah so de sinting go. Yu ha fe wartch yur self too chile.”
Jan was so refreshingly good to be around. Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit. At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.”
She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.” As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon. I effortlessly moved through them as before.
Dream two. In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight. Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition. In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere. I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever.
The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next. What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door. In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction. It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls.
It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots. With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies. I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio. It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around.
Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper. Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is. Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated. White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red.
Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were. She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit. Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant. Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit.
A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s. Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall. Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style. Functional and comfortable, her criteria.
Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles. On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment. Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.” We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face.
On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek. He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me. Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word. Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller.
He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me. Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual. Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him. There was an obvious, loving bond between us.
This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state. But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul. It was very electric between us. So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating.
I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say. My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready. Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too. Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem.
“And a total embarrassment for this family. I just do not know how we can put up with this. Look, what am I doing here anyway?” Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!
“I’ll have none of this. I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am. I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.” With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were.
“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!” Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this. You own nothing here, nor are you running anything. You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment.
“That’s all you ever do. So shut the fuck up!” I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in. Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted
Dream three. Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there. This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°. Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next. Again, much was different here.
Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time. When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there. Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state. There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief. This was so stunningly incredible. Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body. This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore.
This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane. After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane. This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh. Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators.
We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off. It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism. Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm. Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom.
This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence. These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art. The art of pure creative expressionism. They then announced, “Okay, okay, okay.
“Here comes the other guys.” This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players. One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours. There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side.
The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white. She had apparently had a double mastectomy. Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent. Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear.
She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness. Her body was truly bizarre. It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike. When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned.
Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body. More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden. This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty. As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies.
There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu. It was hard to tell which sex the individual was. What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked. This is what had caused her such distress.
For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her. She was lost in her beliefs. The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences. Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body.
They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body. If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s. The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container. This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word.
Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus. Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies. They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule. They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte.
At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah. There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground. Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare. Not everyone was naked however.
Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman. On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left. Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat. The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates.
“Hi, how are you? You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win. You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing. Look, I’m really happy for you.”
She energetically thanked me. Kathy wore a brown large blouse. Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way. She was so refreshingly real and normal.
Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented. Good for her. The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration. Some were tight buds, buds breaking open.
Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime. Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left. A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod. There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime.
Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them. Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes. Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband. Energetically, she had him come up and join us.
He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus. He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition. The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach. At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah.
I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime. She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense. I was not upset by it, accepting her choice. Alas, it was not the end of the world.
Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy. He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies. He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach. They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around.
It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps. The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality. It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom. This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums.
Perfect teeth, on the four year old. His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead. He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes. God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods.
Spectacular! He was happy and a precocious, charmer. As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me. Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful.
“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his. He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter. It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me. What do you think?”
It was very direct and very connected. With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon. This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda. Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed.
Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life. Good for him. Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me. She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be.
There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground. Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house. The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree. It had been singed on one side, during the fire.
Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful. Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St. Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong. Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts. It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did.
Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink. It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place. Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road. As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street.
At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora. I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy. He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight. As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious.
As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites.
*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency. It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to. Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags. Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness.
Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it. Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority. Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior. A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect.
Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man. Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way. Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger. It came with a pair of briefs attached inside.
She instructed the young boy. She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win. She was her usual feisty self. Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits.
It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to. This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism. This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state. Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora.
“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.” Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other. Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left. Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes.
You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us. Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided. However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy. He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have.
Finally, we did not care for his arrogance. Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont. Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property. I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.
Dream four. Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all. Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground. Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings. Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact.
It was all very garish a sight. As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere. Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed. The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures.
In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground. Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there. My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well. Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign.
So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare. Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road. It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads. The road did incline downwards as we went along it.
This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood. It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden. Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily. But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned.
I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them. Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live. Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale. Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived.
We were able to peer inside the apartment. It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out. It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream. It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels.
No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space. A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids. Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids. We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime.
To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer. Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other. We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there. Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building.
Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park. There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road. The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did. We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by.
We’d originally turned right to get onto this street. We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park. When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park. There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back.
Here, it was very mellow. Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots. Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons. A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family.
She had two daughters and a son. One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model. She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version. She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out.
They were in our way but not obtrusively so. We continued along and happened on these very young-souled Americans. We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled. It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them.
Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm. As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff. Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her. She wore a white silk blouse.
When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me. A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided. The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun. So too was mine, for that matter.
As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection. It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours. Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us. Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders.
The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away. Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance. Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing. Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements.
Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels. She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away. Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in. Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more.
Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.
Dream five. We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons. We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship. It was a new version of it. It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world.
This was all very scary for us, as we read on. It spoke about after the history of things. Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense. So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings.
Here there were poems and historical accounts of events. There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication. The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise. It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel.
The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed. At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel. Twice in a row, I thought. Talk about lightning striking twice.
This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha. This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus. The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast. This was a very densely populous Asian city.
There were also a ton of whites here, as well. They also had very thick Australian accents. I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book. But almost everyone on the bus was.
These people were very young-souled and frenetic. Pandora and I were the only blacks here. Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts. He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book.
Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent. He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion. These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus. It just was not right.
I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right. Stop it!” The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin.
It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia. The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians. They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people. Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus.
When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand. An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s. He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne. They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating.
The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food. They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed. This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally. They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists.
One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents. I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit. Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!”
At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them. When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus. Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board. The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes.
He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans. On his thigh was the tattooed flag. The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks. He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt.
This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness. Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he. Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out. The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible.
He carried a baby of about six months old. Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him. At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan. They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter.
The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up. During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done. The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit. The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up.
And boy did the infant ever go on a binge. Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods. For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food. Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus.
Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down. My main target was the bespectacled zealot. Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you? Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!
“Get out!” Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight. Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour. I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from.
Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence. They were completely stunned by my energy. They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong. After all I was black, not an Australian.
Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness. Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience. Was going to have none of this shit. Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus.
Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too. They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board. You simply had to bail out, toute de suite. We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora.
I went outside in search of her, going up the road. Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it. The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not. Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus.
This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train. So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness. Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case. I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.
Dream six. I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees. There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all. She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her. She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone.
Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on. She was being accommodatingly amiable. I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank. As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off.
He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.” At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling. I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus. Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere.
It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most. Possibly not even young-souled as yet. I had always thought myself a much older soul than that. After all, look at the degree to which I dream.
On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled. For one, the dreaming suggested as much. Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve. Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face.
The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window. An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses. Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench.
*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ. The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar. It was clearly the Jewish calendar. However this was clearly a reference to Christ.
Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included. This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case. This was a king soul on his last life. As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.
All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex. Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast. How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples.
Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.
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To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise! Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.
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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul. 