Givenchy & Valentino

Givenchy (Clare Waight Keller) Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020.  

Monochromatic, feathers, and all that silver… to say nothing for the headpieces.  

_____________________________________________

Valentino (Pierpaolo Piccioli) Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020.  

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… 

 

____________________________________________________________________

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

Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill

Rudolf Nureyev

These next dreams occurred on my birthday; yes, I am leonine to the core.  It was my first birthday whilst living in Vancouver, British Columbia.  At the time, I was returned to the city after having been off with Frederick Hinneault, my two-spirit lover du jour who introduced me to the wonderful, spiritually evolved world of powwows and more. 

I met Frederick as a result of the dream on summer solstice, 1994, some weeks earlier.  That dream, of course, is shared herein on March 3, 2013.  It was an uplifting dream and one which fittingly introduced me to Frederick. 

More than that, of the six dreams the one of interest is of an astral plane encounter with dancer, Rudolf Nureyev at his Louvre apartments.  This, of course, was dreamt after his passing. 

The dreams were dreamt with focussed abandon on Tuesday – same day of the week as at my birth – August 2, 1994.  At the time, the Moon was transiting Gemini and correspondingly my first house. 

Joop happens to be my oldest friend and the only friend/lover with whom I have never had a fight or falling out which is no small feat when it comes to my thoroughly engaged passion mode which can be intensely overwhelming – what with this being my third life at seventh level mature and the fact that I am a combustible mix of warrior and priest indefatigable zeal… sixth position in third cadence, third greater cadence of entity six and cadre one of greater cadre 7, pod 414… of course, being a sceptic means that I will very callously – thanks in part to my Venus-Uranus conjunction – tell you to go fuck yourself in two nanoseconds – used to be with a cool and cutting look in my 20s; now, I just do so with inordinate impatience or charmed vituperativeness depending on my moody artisan prerogative.  

Obviously, I am reposting these dreams now as a tribute to Lee Radziwill-Ross who recently passed.  Hers was, at least from afar, a truly aristocratic, iconic American life.  

Lee2

*At midnight, I took to the pyramid where I meditated for quite some time or at least had intended to.  The phone rang at quarter past as Joop van der Pelster called to wish me happy birthday.

We shared a really lovely moment of great intimacy.  I would then decline returning to the pyramid.  Instead, I took to the bed and continued meditating.

Lying on my back, with lids closed, I felt after some time rather opened up and expansive.  Then my inner vision became focussed and things began unfolding; so, here then is what I experienced.

Again, for the record, I had not done any drugs prior to this experience as I do not do drugs.  Period.

I saw a large container coming, through the air, towards me.  Turning around, it shifted and then opened up to reveal a large tunnel that was yellow-red hot-looking.

Contained in the rust-coloured container, it was a flame of light.  The only way that I can describe the container’s unfoldment is by drawing an analogy to the protective lens panels on the Hubble space telescope opening up to focus on a point in space.

There was something inside the container which had a round aperture.  Growing cautious, I had thought that it was possibly a snake.

However, I then felt myself being quieted into being less hasty to project.  My voice to self, during this interval, was almost like Merlin’s at those times – when he would say or do exactly the same thing and encourage me to be open to potentials.

Thoughts of the container being there to suck away my life-force were, of course, premature.  There was no way to get around the fact that this large container had a magnetic quality to it; it was almost, if you will, a giant vacuum.

I did not have a sense that it was sending me light energies.  Instead of protesting anything, I decided to bleed all the bile within into the container.  The container really did look like a gaping hole.

The mouth kept on shifting; yet, on the inside of the container’s mouth, the light was brilliantly red.  Then I saw some stray wafer thin waves of energy leaving my body.

As though made of solidified carbon dioxide, they slowly radiated outwards.  They left my aura and headed into the same opened up container.  I was pleased to see it and, as it were, decided to go with the flow.

I then focussed on letting all spent energies, which were not of the highest nature, be allowed to become disengaged with my corporeal being and waste away – truly spent.

I thought of all the bile that has collected in my body, from so many clung-to painful life experiences.  Mostly, this had to do with neutralising the shrapnel that had been psychically projected onto me for being here, in this archly hostile place – this racist black hole work environment here in phenomenally beautiful Vancouver.

I wanted all my fears of ill health and lack of certainty to be dissolved; I wanted it discarded into this large container.  This was great meditative and healing work.

The presence – the force of the container was massive.  It was as if a black hole had warped space and bled its way through to being close to Sol.  Thus, it allowed for this energetic work to take place.

This experience endured, for quite some time, without me once falling asleep… unusually enough.  When it was done, I managed to crack my back and got as many vertebrae realigned as when being adjusted by my chiropractor.

This was effortless and really productive.  So relaxed was I that I had even been able to crack my neck.  I felt truly yogic, relaxed and all expansive.  After having manipulated my vertebrae, I returned to meditation and did some deep-breathing exercises.

When my inner vision resumed, everything was completely different.  Now I was instantaneously flooded with a deluge of intense white light.  A container had approach and, on opening up, produced the flood of white light.

This light was so intense, its beauty so uplifting, as to make it almost too sacred as to have been experienced whilst incarnate.  Nonetheless, there you have it, we are here to spiritually get the most out of our journey.

The light was such a glorious experience, its touch a longed for aqueous, silken movement.  Being able to experience this light was so very healing and uplifting as well.  I was really rather impressed by it all such that I simply further let go and fell into sleep.  END.

verandah2

In this the first dream, I was on the veranda of a very tropical house.  It also seemed to have been connected to a back alley.  There was a van coming down the road which was to my left.

As it sneaked along, I suddenly didn’t have a very good feeling about this van and its occupants.  The main entrance to the house was to my right.  The road, on which the van progressed, was a back road.

With the backs of the houses visible as they faced out to the main road beyond, there were larger roads close by.  Though I had no idea who was in the van, I had stealthily ducked out of view at the last moment.

A little while later, in the opposite direction from left to right, a car came by bearing Vanessa Banks-Abella.  There and then she was thrilled to see me and excitedly called out,

“Boy what are you doing up there?  What are you still doing up at this time of night?”

I told her that I was reading over my notes as I tried properly recording my dreams.  Surprised, she claimed disbelief at my still being focussed on recording the dreamtime’s experiences.

“Well wha ah goin stop fa?”

She then asked me to make sure that those kids – hers and others, stayed in the house.  I could see her plainly because the car was a convertible.  She then had to be off for an engagement.

I suppose that the house would have been hers.  I then went around making sure that all the locks on the doors operated properly.  In one instance, one had to push a latch to further secure it from the inside.

When the latch was in place, there was no way to open that particular door.  I had been concerned that the latch was in place once the children were all indoors.

The door had been opened and I didn’t want any of them to get outside then not be able to get back in.  So, for starters, I rounded them all up and made sure that they were inside and left things at that.

Here, too, there were lots of video games both on the veranda, and scattered about the living room.  A very cluttered and noisy affair – Vanessa Banks-Abella and William Abella do have three boys, plus their peers, who were over to hang out.

I enjoyed listening to them noisily.

NEO SHINTOISM

I had an encounter with Isha da Braga, in this the second dream, in which I asked what she had been discussing with Marc-André Viaux.  I wanted to know if he had told her what my HIV status was.

Obviously uncomfortable, by being very evasive, she brushed off the line of questioning.  She said that it would be more appropriate for me to directly speak to him than go through her.

She simply did not care to get involved.  It was obvious though that she didn’t want to have to get involved.  Too, it was obvious from her neurotic unsteady eye movements that she knew more than she was letting on to.

For my sake, I simply did not want to become HIV infected.  I was in my darkened apartment, here in Vancouver, whilst speaking to Isha da Braga on the phone.

I could see her clearly in her Toronto condo as though we were face-to-face.  She could see me too and, for that reason, was avoiding eye contact.  A very lucid psychic connection this was.

barre2

This, the third dream, was set outdoors at nighttime.  I noticed that there was a barre in the middle of the street.  As they drove past, persons slowed down to observe.

I was near the back of the barre and felt really strong.  Not only was my technique good but my breathing was really relaxed and expansive.  I was quite so well grounded.

We had to do the tendus in plié.  Maria de Cortez, the Mestiza, was taking the class as well.  The female instructor told us what to do.  Then she let the left side of her face rub against my right jeaned thigh.

The right foot was pointed in tendu to fifth position in front.  At the time, I was in plié.  She did this out of admiration of me.  I was flattered though concerned that my jeans which were soiled could possibly be a tad malodorous.

She could not have cared less as she wanted to pay me homage.  We then did the battements tendus which incorporated a flick that was reminiscent of a coupé.  Four times this was done, en croix, then repeated to the other side.

Naturally, when we had turned around to do the exercises at the barre, I had end up being at the front of the line.  There were port de bras that accompanied this very rapidly executed tendu exercise.

Maria de Cortez had the port de bras down pat; I really admired her grace and focus.  She and I were the only ones who were confident in our movements.

On the sous-sous to turn around, I then did a passé which I held indefinitely before closing, in plié, in fifth position at the end.  My turn out was rather elastic and supple.

Here, I was wearing a pair of red legwarmers.  When doing the tendus en avant, my arms were up in fifth whilst I looked under the arm.  In second position the head was inclined up and outwards.

En arrière, if the arm was kept in second position, one looked below the arm with head inclined forward and down.  Furthermore, there was the option of holding the arm in second position arabesque.

During the exercise, the instructor walked past and touched my arm when in fifth position.  My port de bras was perfect.  My alignment and posture were perfect.

I felt completely on my supporting leg and properly aligned.  I felt rather elongated and princely.  However, the nature of the discipline was such that she felt it incumbent on her to come by and break me down to size.

It was a way of pushing you to always strive for greater mastery of the technique.  Too, it was a way of her saying that I should not have been so advanced yet.

There was a sense, on a personal level, that she almost resented my refinement.  I could not have cared less; I was too connected to spirit and the light within to have become thrown by her intervention.

She took her leave of me as her tactics were to moot effect.

Rudolf Nureyev in Louvre apartment

An encounter, in this the fourth dream, I would have with a woman who was rather like, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  She was an aristocrat and was quite concerned in nature about being loyal.

She had been the only one to have stayed with Rudolf Nureyev, until the very end, as he suffered from AIDS.  This woman, whoever she was, had been the one to have gotten him to stop being in denial of his illness.

She managed to have gotten him to stop drinking, to excess, as he suffered a breakdown of his character.  He turned into a literal vagabond about his very opulent, finely decorated Paris apartment.

Perseveringly, she had succeeded in getting him to rein things in.  Too, in preparation of his death, she was instrumental in getting him to focus in on his spirituality.

At the time, she was trying to get him sequestered into a place where I was following up on her efforts.  I saw Rudolf Nureyev and he did so look as though he were suffering from AIDS dementia.

Though he was standing up at the time, he really didn’t seem strong enough to be doing anything so taxing.  There was no way to get around that this man was gravely ill.

His face was ashen, gaunt and his sagging skin left his eyes really large possessed-looking orbs.  He wore a narrow-rimmed little hat, from that era in this century, when men customarily wore hats; his hat was not a broad-rimmed affair.

The doyenne went up these stairs, in a very lavish opulent building, that was so very empire and distinctively Parisienne.  The stairs inside the foyer led up to a large museum where there was an art exhibit.

The paintings here were rather large.  I helped her carry him up the stairs.  In a bid to not attract attention, she had turned her back as if looking at a piece of art; it was a tiny drawing.

Lee Radziwill by Andy Warhol

She did not want the public to notice her; she just wanted to be inspired as a way of recharging her batteries.  Rudolf Nureyev was there but by himself.

We had struggled up the stairs, both of us on either side of him, supporting him just ahead of his elbows as his arms were bent at the elbows.  I was across the way from them and being silently observant of them both.

There was a path that one could take diagonally to another wing.  We had silently managed to slip the birdlike yet regal Rudolf Nureyev into the next wing; there, the space was smaller than the previous salon.

The floors here were of a rough marble that made for a noisy gallery as shoes marched across them.  It was though a wonderful light-entrapping interior where the colours were pale and soothing.

Thus the walls enlivened whatever natural light made its way so far indoors.  There was no direct natural light here, however, the soft tones of the walls left the place light rather than subdued.

The museum’s salon was rather beautifully laid out.  As we walked down to another man, I noticed an African man who was clearly an exchange student.

He had some equipment; he was an arts student of some sort.  The gear that he carried was a measuring instrument of some type.  It seemed to be a surveyor’s gear or a mini telescope of some sort.

The aristocratic woman was deeply concerned about this.  She thought that for using the instrument that he would be able to recognise Rudolf Nureyev who was fairly well-disguised.

Lee and Rudi

She seemed too to be concerned that he might just recognise her which she did not want.  She did though seem to be, the more time that I spent near her, to be Lee Radziwill-Ross and not her sister, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

There were times when she seemed to be Elizabeth Taylor.  However, this woman was a born aristocrat and was dark-eyed.  She also spoke fluent French which I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor does.

Besides, I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor was that close to Rudolf Nureyev.  This person was an aristocratic arts enthusiast, who was also a patron of the ballet, which sounds more like the Auchincloss sisters, Jacqueline and Caroline (Lee) rather than Elizabeth Taylor.

Besides, these two were so close towards the end because it turned out that they had a soul connection.  Not only did they have several past lives together but it would seem that they shared a close connection that bespoke being cadre mates.

She was in his life to spiritually help him.  She wanted him to become focussed such that he would pass with some degree of dignity and be able to move on.  This was something that one did for being of the same spiritual tribe or, in this case, cadre.

Finally, the African student, a tall East African Nubian, with richly dark skin did not recognise either of them.  He was a deeply introspective Scholar soul who just didn’t focus beyond the object of study which presently happened to have had nothing to do with them.

Both Rudolf Nureyev and his aristocratic confidante were rather pleased that the African had not recognised them and tried to interact with them.  I was rather observant of everything whilst with them.

Though I helped out, I was never intrusive and remained at times as though not a part of their party.  She had needed me to come in, from time to time, and be of assistance but then I had become nonexistent as this was how she was accustomed to relating to help.

Rudolf_Nureyev_Paris Louvre apartment

For both of them, being in this place was like a way of staying grounded and inspired.  What’s more, this museum was connected to where Rudolf Nureyev lived.

This happened to be the case, in the waking state, as Rudolf Nureyev did have apartments which were a part of the Palais du Louvre – the majority of which houses the Musée du Louvre.

This was supposed to be his last visit to the museum.  He had been actually cutting through it whilst en route to his apartments.  This was a section of the Louvre where there were lots of prints and architectural drawings.

These salons, however, were not normally opened to the general public it would seem.  Members of the diplomatic corps, the very wealthy the world over, could be invited to view these exceptionally rare prints.

It would seem that some of them were Leonardo da Vinci prints.  The collection was considerably vaster than the prints that are on display in that wing that is close to the River Seine.

This wing of the museum did feel like it was closer to the Rue de Rivoli.  Including Rudolf Nureyev’s, this would also be the wing of the Palais du Louvre where the exclusive apartments are.

skytrain2

I was hoping, in this the fifth dream, to get directions to some place that I had never been to before.  There was a woman on the phone telling me where to meet her.

She said that she would be at a kiosk by way of the A1, at the Bay department store.  This was here in Vancouver.  I was then over on West Georgia Street, on the south side, east of Seymour Street.

Yet, I never saw her anywhere so soon became concerned.  I could not quite figure out, why she would want to meet at the Bay.  It did though contain the Granville Street Skytrain stop – the city centre’s major hub.

Then I thought that it was by the entrance to the Skytrain; she had said that the kiosk was close to the ‘A’ doors.  She had said that she actually worked at the Bay department store so could meet me there.

I thought that, perhaps, it was at the doors by the Granville Street Skytrain entrance.  There was, it turned out, no kiosk there nor had I seen her at the Seymour Street entrance.  So I returned and went across Georgia to ask further directions.

Later, when she did point it out to me, I saw that it was at the northwest corner of Seymour and West Georgia Streets.  Here, things were set up differently to the waking state.  There was an overhang.

The side of the building, where the display stood, was cutaway and here in the dreamtime painted blue.  Large television screens and other television studio paraphernalia were present.

They were interactive and gave directions to the public.  The woman, who had been on the phone whom I was supposed to have met, I then saw across the street on the north side of West Georgia Street.

There was an island in the middle of West Georgia Street reminiscent of Toronto’s University Avenue.  I walked along the island going westerly and towards Granville Street.

I saw three Black women with long braided extensions who looked rather well turned out.  On seeing them, surprised to see Blacks here in Vancouver, I grew self-conscious.

As compared to being in Toronto, it was such a rare occurrence seeing Blacks locally.  Seeing me, they totally scuffed at the eccentric, outré look of me.  I could not have cared less about their fake-arsed weave-headed self-loathing idiocy.

One of them had blonde streaks in her hair.  Though not High-Yellow they were light-complected and clearly of mixed parentage, perhaps, a generation removed.

All three were of mixed familial heritage in the past, with Whites, and were possibly related.  They were very cliquish that way that young women can be.

I did notice in the blue schemata, over by the overgrowth next to the Scotia Tower, there was an opening where there was more blue.  This opening up which created a break in the Scotia Tower complex does not exist in the waking state.

A guy was there who was genuinely, archly even, eccentric.  This man immediately reminded me of Daryll Newcombe.  On his head he wore a tiny blue and white umbrella.

A striped affair with slats in it, it looked much like a propeller which he could use to take off à la Mary Poppins.  Terribly eccentric, he was and just the sort of thing that one could expect of Daryll Newcombe.

I kept on moving along the island, going westwards, on the wider-than-in-the-waking-state West Georgia Street.

jetty2

Eventually, in this the sixth dream, I came to the end of the land.  I looked out to sea past two jetties that were quite built up.  I was high up from the water and with me was a Black man; he was young.

I rather liked his energies.  One of the jetties doubled as a wharf in this deep-water harbour.  Though it seemed fairly tropical here, I was certain that it was not St. Kitts.

Standing to the rear of my Black companion, there was a wall to my left.  Though not grey out, it was also not bright and sunny either.  The land went out to the left more and formed a peninsula.

I had a pair of binoculars which I used to try and find the second jetty.  I was trying to find the large ship; it was a navy vessel rather than a tourist cruise liner.  The ship was rather large.

However, I couldn’t find the bloody thing to be able to have surveilled the deck of the ship.  All that I could find was the steely grey of the cold-looking sea.  Never did I get to find the vessel with the binoculars.

Soon enough, I was otherwise engaged as a jetliner came into view.  It flew from right to left whilst headed for an airport.  There were times when this place did feel as if some part of Basseterre, St. Kitts.

This was definitely a Tri-Star L1011 aircraft.  Wide-bodied with some red in the schemata worked into the tail and the third engine – which sits atop the back of the fuselage and beneath the tail.

Coming in to land, the plane cut quite a majestic line.  The plane travelled unusually slowly which caused me some concern.  My companion, though, assured me that he was just making its final approach for the airport.  This didn’t seem to be the case to me; for this reason, I asked him when then was it going to deploy its landing gear.

The craft at that point was dangerously close to the ground.  It did eventually initiate the deployment of the landing gear.  Moving away the binoculars, it did seem to my eyes that the flaps had not opened sufficiently to enable the wheels to drop.

Replacing the binoculars confirmed my suspicions.  Still following its progress through the binoculars, the plane then began turning to the left.  It was seemingly a standard manoeuvre at that point in all approaching flights to the nearby airport to our rear.

To compensate for having dipped too much, the right wing sharply tipped – in a bid to prevent it from curving too close to the sea.  With that, the plane went into a sudden nose dive and landed on the shore of a black volcanic beach.

plane crash2

Skidding in the sand, the plane travelled some distance breaking against the wet sand.  The waves were gently crashing ashore; it was not at all a rough sea.  I drew my companion’s attention to the fact that the tide began suddenly changing.

This I pointed out was good as it allowed the plane not to move into the water.  The craft was veering off towards the right, rather than left, wing.  My companion, however, was not the least bit concerned about the plane’s supposed crash landing.

Meanwhile, no one seemed to be the least bit scared.  Too, no one was screaming at the unscheduled landing.  At one point, the plane’s nose fell downwards and kicked up lots of sand as it dug in whilst barrelling its way along the beach.

It was a muddy consistency as the sand was still fairly wet; it eventually covered the entire plane in a wet sheen of black sand.  Ultimately, after having made a sharp left turn facing towards the land, the crashed craft came to a stop.

The rear end of the fuselage was being partially covered by the sea.  Still, the tides receded some more and at which point a group of us began rushing down from the cliff to the shore below.  We were keen to investigate the crash.

Not knowing what next would happen, I hung back as I feared the worst case scenario of the plane possibly exploding in a massive fireball.  A little bit to the rear, and right of the plane the ocean floor dropped off, suddenly.

Beyond that, the ocean had receded to beyond 100 yards.  Stranger still, from beyond the receded cover of the ocean up to the plateau came a procession of persons.

There was no mistaking the fact that they came from the ocean.  The look of these people was decidedly Oriental.  Clearly, they were rushing to the aircraft to try and help pry the bodies or passengers from the crash.

They were there to help out in this emergency situation but there was no getting around the fact that they lived in the ocean.  Though wet, they seemed not the least bit affected by the wetness or the cool temperatures of the water.

From my vantage point, high up on the beach, I saw that the aircraft had opened up an emergency exit shoot.  Instantaneously, all these bodies came popping out of the craft.  This was a horrific sight.  Truly it was.

Everyone in the airplane was doused and appeared as if made from rubber.  Also, one feature that they all had was that their eyes had popped.

Their mouths were wide-open in the same horrific arrested scream as in the Edvard Munch canvas, The Scream.  Clearly, their deaths had been horrific and their final expressions were frozen in death.

Too, from their mouths poured what appeared to be the small intestines, brain matter or lung tissue.  They had vomited a great deal.  Obviously, from this, one could deduce that the airplane’s cabin had suddenly depressurised.

I got the sense at that point, at which I saw it coming down to land, the entire group – passengers and crew – had already died whilst at greater altitudes.  The plane was simply flying itself in on autopilot.

The landing gear failing to deploy was another indicator that the entire crew had died before they had gotten so close to landing the craft.  The bodies were all squashed, and atop one another, as though they had been banged around at high altitudes, during the flight.

It was all very sad.  Then I noticed a stout woman trying to shove her way free of the craft but the listless bodies proved a formidable obstacle.  Eventually, I noticed that there were others who wanted to make their way free of the crashed airline.

These survivors were in a state of shock, not surprisingly, and screaming their heads off.  As a matter of fact, they seemed on the verge of savagery in a bid to shake free of the bloated exploded, rubbery-looking bodies that were piled everywhere and obstructed their escape.

One stout woman appeared to be in the process of being birthed by the clamor of dead rubbery bodies piled thick, pouring through the mouth of the escape hatch.

The look of the piled up bodies was tantamount to toothpaste being forcefully squeezed from a tube.  Once halfway out of this macabre birthing canal, the woman then turned around.

What seemed like a bid on her part to free her body, from the tangle of listless bloated limbs, proved a bid on her part to pull others free who were struggling to make it out after her.

This was quite the grotesque spectacle.  By this time, some of the people began making it onto the beach rooftop from which I had safely been on looking.  For fear that the airplane may yet explode in a sudden fireball, I was still cautious about getting any closer.

The rooftop was not especially large.  A Black woman came out sometime after the stout woman.  She looked completely dazed, and just out of it, as though she were still on the astral plane whilst her body clambered and struggled of sheer instinct.

Truly exhausted, she – like all the others – was covered in a white substance that looked much like rice or stringy pasta.  This was a very lucid experience.  As much as I wanted to turn away, I simply couldn’t.  It was way too garish.

As much as I wanted to turn away from this horrific sight, I was magnetised to its surreal unfoldment.  Truly horrific was the experience vicariously.  Eventually, the Black woman made it from the aircraft and then came up onto the rooftop with the rest of the crash survivors.

Laying there on her side, as though she were looking for the solace of the womb’s protection, her legs were drawn up foetally.  Clearly, she was in retreat.  Too, she was experiencing a great deal of abdominal pains.

I had a glass of ginger ale or some such soda.  Kneeling down before the Black woman, she rolled over onto her back and rocked herself back and forth whilst writhing with pain.

Pandora da Braga was also here, incidentally, as an observer.  She seemed fairly numbed by all the devastation here.  In any event, the Black woman wore a brown floral printed dress that was soaked.

The smell of gastro-intestinal acids was rife and stifled the briny sting of the ocean.  A sour smell it was.  Holding the Black female survivor by the right hand, I bled my very life-force into her and soothed her spirit with the quiet whisper of cooing reassurances.

I told her that it was all up to her that if she wanted to she could definitely survive the ordeal.  Too, I let her know that she was merely in a state of shock.  As we were all right there for her, there was no need for her to panic anymore.

Important too, I thought, to seek out someone who was Black to comfort her.    After all, over the course of her life, the stresses of all-pervasive racism are so Real that her tolerance threshold was already considerably diminished.

She needed not to have been abandoned.  I knew how important it was for her to feel not to be passed over, as is socially customary, in this hour of need.  There weren’t, anyway, White survivors up on the rooftop.

I felt that it was important to stay there and give my support, rather than run off, lending my energies to the others who were exclusively White.

However, there was one woman in all of this who was beginning to go hysterical; her child was being administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Ridiculously, this idiotic Black woman began screaming at the man to stop kissing her child.  How dare he put his mouth on her child’s?  This was all a part of her denial – the state of shock into which she had been catapulted with the high altitude incident that had led to the crash.

She had had to be restrained.  I gave the glass of ginger ale to the other Black woman and then went over, with Pandora da Braga, to pacify the mother.  The mother wore a brownish-red floral-printed dress.

As the others worked frantically, in a bid to resuscitate her, the child was very limp.  Then she went stark raving mad, all bug-eyed, saying to whomever off in the indeterminate distance,

donna summer2

“I know it, you know.  Ah goin’ sue dey ass!  As soon as Donna Summer announced that we were going to crash, that’s de firss ting ah say.  ‘Ah goin’ sue dey ass!’”

Similarly dark-skinned, this woman so much reminded me of Dian Mason.  She was, in both senses of the word, truly hysterical.  Then she added, licking her lips frantically, and looking so distinctively West Indian,

“Boy, yu wait!  If ah live, ah goin’ sue dey f-ing mudderscunt…”

This woman proved the point of one of the most hysterical dream experiences in ages.  Offering up some reassurance, I told her that she had to calm down and not get herself too agitated.

I told her that she simply had to focus on calming her nerves.  If the child were to survive then she needed to focus instead on the child and not her issues, to which she answered,

“Boy, hush yu damn ass!”

She went wild with rage at my suggestions.  Then she turned on Pandora da Braga and made threats of her whilst insisting that it was Pandora’s fault why all of this had happened.

According to her, it had been Pandora da Braga’s idea that she take the bloody flight.  Threatening to beat her up, she pounced towards an unflinching Pandora da Braga.  And she was a tall woman too, much like Jan Hartley.

With that I leapt in between her and Pandora da Braga, squaring off with her, meeting her eyeball for eyeball as I hissed at her,

“Watch your fucking mudderscunt!”

I was deadly ferocious; my intensity was more than she could withstand.  This diffused and centered her energies; she was the first to flinch then stand back.

There was positively no way that anyone was going to attack Pandora da Braga once I was around or alive.  The tension diffused, I watched her back as she walked away to go look after her daughter.

There was then a woman, down off the rooftop, to the left of where we stood.  Looking down at her intently, she was a somehow familiar Black woman.

It was as though I was supposed to have known who she was.  Perhaps, I had encountered her years earlier in a dream.  Perhaps, she was from another time… another life.

At the time, everyone was laying blame at Donna Summer’s door.  Apparently, the chartered flight had been organised by Donna Summer.  The entertainer was headlining at a resort which was a partly owned business venture of hers.

The discussion was about who exactly was karmically responsible for the crash and the number of persons who had lost their lives as a result.  The woman down below was there to keep score of everything: who had been lucky enough to survive, who had not.

Also, she sought to learn the severities of the injuries sustained by the survivors.  Her record keeping was also on the order of keeping akashic score of who owed who karma in this multidimensional group dilemma of sorts.

She was rather officious and adroit.

__________________________________

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

Pilgrimage to Windsor… that dress!

Windsor_Castle_from_the_Air_wideangle

Aerial view: Windsor Castle, Berkshire.  

20181115_092221

In the mad dash to board the train from King’s Cross/St. Pancras Station to Paddington Station, I boarded the wrong train and ended up losing almost of hour of valuable time.  Nonetheless to Windsor with me, indeed.  

 

 

The ride to Windsor was lovely and it was still well before before 1000 when I got into town.  So nice to know that a flash of the London Pass gets one into the Castle, plus to see the exhibition of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s wedding finery plus the outfits worn by pageboy, HRH Prince George of Cambridge and the always ‘on’ HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge.  

20181115_100236

Next, through the hurdle of being scoured by the most thorough security detail; and with good reason too.  

20181115_101319

The mélange of Chinese, Japanese and Korean dialects made for an interesting symphony of sounds as I made my way past security and onto castle grounds.  

20181115_101711

I am reminded of Vancouver Island by the hearty vegetation down below.  

20181115_101714

Nothing is more refreshing than the smell of moss in cooler weather.  The air is so fresh here in Berkshire.  

20181115_101810

The view from the Middle Ward down to St. George’s Chapel; but that’ll come after touring the castle’s state apartments.  

20181115_101929

The glorious view north across the River Thames to Eton College Chapel… Nothing beats being out on the terrace and looking out to the landscape below.  

20181115_102116

The view along the terrace towards the entrance to the castle. 

Inside-Windsor-Castle-Grand-Staircase-Windsor

Once inside, of course, photography is not allowed.  This, understandably, is for security reasons; it is after all the Sovereign’s main residence.  Formidable, an entrance indeed.  Touring the state apartments, the progression’s starting point was different to previous visits.  

4c80e9e200000578-5753387-image-a-21_1526911277517

Without doubt, I knew that the wedding outfits worn by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex would not be on display in the castle’s Green Drawing Room; there is only one door into said room for the public and the other at the opposite end, leads directly into the Sovereign’s private apartments. 

Inside-Windsor-Castle-Green-Drawing-Room

Furthermore, that single door is too narrow to accommodate persons going and coming into the Green Drawing Room, if they were to enter and exit by said door.  

This SGH

Similarly, I knew that the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex could not have been held in St. George’s Hall above.  There is simply too much natural light which floods the space; this could actually prove more harm than good – even though it would be best to see the dress in natural light.  Moreover, I did not expect that it would be held there as the space is too large and, frankly, with the amount of racially charged animus towards this marriage, it would likely not draw as large a crowd to warrant being staged there.  Truth be told, there were no Caucasians viewing the exhibit when I moved through it, than there were East Asian and blacks combined.  

State-Apartment

I will never forget my confusion on first experiencing The Waterloo Chamber in this lifetime.  I just felt as though, perhaps, my sense that I had been to Windsor Castle in prior lives or a lifetime was off.  Of course, I would learn that this marvellous salon was installed during HM King George IV’s reign, at which time, I had reincarnated into Barbados, after having been a countertenor at the court of HM King George III and during the early years of his son’s Regency.  

Inside-Windsor-Castle-Waterloo-Chamber

Then again, those high-placed windows in the Waterloo Chamber would preclude its assignation as the setting for the exhibition, A Royal Wedding: The Duke and Duchess of Sussex.  

Inside-Windsor-Castle-The-Crimson-Room

Though noted for its stunning portraits of both HM Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother and HM King George VI, this room much like St. George’s Hall has too much light exposure.  

On entering the long narrow hallway with large windows that look out onto the terrace, the River Thames and the north shore beyond, one happens on a wall of linen panels which cover the floor to ceiling cabinets with priceless china from the Royal Collection.  

2625

2240

9322198d-9f31-4126-9980-1add428e9615-getty-960534728

gettyimages-960056382-2-1527764448

prince-harry-duke-of-sussex-and-the-duchess-of-sussex-leave-news-photo-960080372-1540488903

royal-wedding-markle-jumbo

meghan-harry-1527764426

meghan-markle-dress-today-180519-inline2_b5578bb93108cd6dbf635b39f3c53cd6.fit-560w

Imagine all these iconic moments from the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex on hanging linen panels of more than 8 or more feet tall.  The effect is warm, enveloping and their size deftly impress on one, the uneclipsed love between these two star-crossed lovers.  

state-rooms-1010w

Next, into the grandeur of the Grand Reception Room one slips and with the heavy red curtains drawn, the effect is even more stunning.  The large chandeliers are softly dimmed and handsomely display the bridal garments of the wedding party.  

meghan-markle-wedding-dress-1540471039

The embroidery on HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s uniform, to the Queen Mary Diamond Bandeau tiara when seen in intimate detail proved more breathtaking than I had anticipated.  Goodness, even the shoes worn by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex were exquisite.  

rc-weddingdress-windsor-241018-18-1540489737

What I found most interesting about the dress was its sheer simplicity.  The dress serves as a foil for the intricacy of the five metre veil entwined with the fifty-three flowers of the Commonwealth nations, along with the state flower for Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s home state of California.  Not until in the presence of the dress did its simplicity make sense; the dress is masterfully constructed such that its simplicity reminds one that only the expert craftsmanship of a couturier could have designed and manufactured the dress. 

meghan-markle-wedding-dress-1535470515

Yet, there was more to the simplicity of this Clare Waight Keller dress for Givenchy and it was not until moving around it a second time that it struck me; the simplicity of the dress speaks to the recent past of Ms. Markle’s African heritage.  Its simplicity speaks of the history of a people which was erased, wiped out by the terror of having been robbed and enslaved.  

meghan-markle-royal-wedding-dress-1526730077

Yet like the simplicity which belies the masterful craftsmanship of the couturiers who created this stunning dress, there is also greatness to a people though reviled, socio-economically oppressed, criminalised, marginalised and made to feel inferior… the same people whose greatness shrines through in Jazz, for one.  Remarkably, the simplicity of the dress, is like the sheer eloquence with which HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales sincerely both acknowledged and apologised for the past, which his society and family had contributed to in the immense suffering of Africans; this he did this past autumn when touring West Africa on behalf of HM The Queen.  

Inline_2158785_3.4

This was not only not a heavily attended exhibition but, at the time that I moved through it, there was not a single Caucasian viewing the wedding garments.  Though many would like to have you believe that there is no basis in race why they dislike Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, that is just a damn lie.  Naturally, neither medicine nor academia acknowledges the existence of the racial predator as ‘No’ is the most powerful word when dealing with blacks.  Indeed, not until going to St. George’s Chapel after the tour of the castle was concluded, did one see Caucasians in numbers that reflect their proportions in the society.  Indeed, unlike previously, one was being fixed with looks that were charged with racial animus.  

Margaret Beaufort Ascension2

Though she is now the most reviled black woman on the planet, truth is that the soul who is now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was Margaret Beaufort, Tudor Matriarch: key figure in the War of the Roses, cousin of HM King Henry VI, mother of HM King Henry VII, mentor, counsel and favourite of her grandson, HM King Henry VIII who was much impressed by her focussed untrammelled ambition, great-grandmother of HM Queen Elizabeth I. 

rs_634x1024-171221041524-634--1PHMM-MK122117

Without her drive and singleness of purpose, England may still be a Catholic nation and its language may well be French.  Nonetheless, such is the rabid, irrational tribalism that is racism; her true nature cannot be perceived by the blind who can never see either the links to the past or the bigger picture.  

gettyimages-960173986-3-1527764475

In the end, I was much inspired for having made this pilgrimage to see this dress, which in its simplicity symbolised hope, atonement and the love of two entity mates who have known each other in twenty prior lifetimes.  The simplicity of this dress proved an epiphany.  

20181115_111608

Statue of HM King Charles II without whose drive, there would have been no Restoration.  

20181115_111907

View of the round tower on exiting the State Apartments and at the edge of the Quadrangle.  

20181115_112227

Details of St. George’s Chapel.  

20181115_112231

Details… and more details.  

20181115_112233

Even more interesting details…

20181115_112236

Sadly, photography is not allowed inside the chapel.  

St.-Georges-Chapel

Despite the general seething that being black elicited from most persons here – thanks to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex having married the black woman, I rather enjoyed revisiting the spiritual home of the Knights of the Garter.  There is a certain warmth and intimacy to the quire’s dark woods that I favour.  

1024px-Windsor_Castle_at_Sunset_-_Nov_2006

And like that, another day of adventure was completed.  

20181115_093921

As the train sped back to London, I spotted this queer, though, appealing architectural gem.  

As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support and always remember to become awake when asleep into the magical realm of dreams.  

_________________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________________

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

 

Crawl the Fuck in your Casket!

galleon-2-the-mary-rose-and-fleet-jean-walker

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah whatever, get out of here!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was one of the most pleasurably rapturous experiences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that, I took my leave of them both.

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

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

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

___________________>0<______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________________________________

Art:  The Mary Rose and Fleet

Artist: Jean Walker

___________________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved