Otello: Race and the Arts.

 

 

After having pored through an interesting OperaCanada article that featured the opera Otello‘s lead, Russell Thomas, and a predictably snide review in The Star – look there is no black lobby in Canada, so one can always be expected to be as curt and dismissive of blacks at every turn; this is after all the culture where the obsession with Jazz is almost as fever-pitched as the predatory late-night runs of Klansmen with nooses at the ready – I comfortably settled into my usual ring three seat, next to trusty Lucian Mann-Chomedy and warmly awaited the magic that is theatre to unfold.  

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After a month that was not soon revisited, my mind was at times distracted by the dreck that one must at times endure in order to get by.  I thought of the heaviness in the air that the subject matter of the opera addressed; the quartet of retired ladies who usually chat about who has taken ill, moved to hospice or died since last they gathered, did a lot of coughing, sniffing and whispering.  And as these things are as predictable as flies on shit, sure enough, I heard one of them whisper, “Meghan Markle.”  Will these people ever just leave the damn woman alone and stop hunting her at every opportunity?  

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Otello, Verdi’s take on Shakespeare’s take on race relations did also from the row of retired and widowed ladies spirit the whisper of O. J. Simpson’s name.  Some things just never change… alas.  Indeed, at some moments as I looked at Otello onstage, I began to realise how we as a people are stigmatised and stereotypically projected onto.  I soon got greater insight to why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is so reviled.  Objectified, she as a black woman was only ever to have been nothing more than a bit of rough, a tryst.  

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Naturally, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his double sixness is seen as being readily taken advantage of and needed to be protected against the lascivious bit of rough who clearly conned her way into the royal family.  Born September 15, 1984, Henry born in the year of the rat has quite beautifully empathetic, compassionate numbers and with his double sixness is given to OCD behaviour as displayed by his need to fidget with his clothing – right hand inside his jacket et al.  Six people are awesome beings and Henry, a double six, is no exception.  15.9.1984 = 6.6.1 = 4.  

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With Otello, this projection of the black male as emotionally volatile, violent, easily manipulated has certainly proven an archetype that fits blind fools like Tiger Woods and O. J. Simpson to the letter.  Either way, it was uncomfortable to watch this production in places as it so mirrored the warped perception of a people by persons who question our humanity and who never seem able to perceive us beyond their generationally custodial perception of a people. 

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Be that as it may, I so hungered to be removed from the morass through which I recently waded at the end of which, I dismissively remarked of yet another power-mad woman in the work place: “She certainly doesn’t look like a fucking horse for no good reason…  Oh please, it’s just a matter of time before she rots the fuck in hell, eating every pope’s arse!”  If you cannot take offence then don’t damn well give offence…  Honest to god, some women in the work place are nothing but dickless faggots addicted to creating drama for the sheer sport of it and simply because they are just so drunk with power… to say nothing of being bored out of their frigging minds.  Well, like a bowel movement, it did not take too long for me to sniff, flush and walk the fuck away from the BS,  

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This Desdemona was an earthy, warm, beautifully soulful portrayal of a wronged woman, a woman dominated by an insecure and deceived man.  This production was a beautiful sweeping affair; I especially loved the dark broody look of the sets that captured the essence of the human condition portrayed.  Indeed, it proved a good elixir after all the dross that I had recently endured in the work place.  

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During Otello‘s intermission, I received a forwarded Instagram post from an old dancer friend, which he labelled #everythingwasbeautifulattheballet.  Of course, it was a direct response to my last blog, which highlighted the intense isolation and racial animus that I experienced for two god fuck-all maudlin years in Winnipeg.  Yes, indeed, the world of art is saturated with lisping, bottom-feeding, small ‘b’ bigoted boors who see positively nothing remotely gauche about this sort of fare well into the 21st century.  

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On yet another too cold, rainy day, which proved all too reminiscent of Vancouver, I abandoned my art-filled lair in search of more inspiration the day after the opera.  I cannot quite recall a season in recent memory that has proven both so cold and rainy as this protracted winter.  

That’s right, the day before attending Otello, there was a break in the perpetual rains that gave way to snow and hail…  truly, the dog days of summer cannot get here fast enough.  As more of the city’s 19th century streetcar tracks were being ripped up and replaced so that the racket that is the TTC outdoor workers and the local constabulary can make a killing in overtime, it took close to 40 minutes on a bus for me and my fuck du jour to get from Yonge and Dundas to Dundas and McCaul.  

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My date, a lissom twenty-something with smoky hazel eyes, which were vaguely reminiscent of Merlin’s, was good company.  I had for the past several hours pummelled his prostate as his daddy issues were satisfied and my angst from work place tensions were nicely dispensed with.  We men when in our 20s can be so alarmingly insecure; I have often wondered how Merlin managed to stay with me during those angst-ridden and redundantly solipsistic years.  

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My date on exiting the Yayoi Kusama Infinity Room expressed chagrin at not having done magic mushrooms before leaving my place where incense and Jazz magically perfumed the air, intoxicating our spirits as we riotously fucked our way out of winter’s gnawing frigidity.  

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Without question, no trip to the AGO is completely inspiring without a visit to the galleries where the stellar art of Inuit artists are housed.  There are some real masterpieces in the AGO collection.  

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As it was the tail end of this exhibition and I still had not visited, I simply had to make it there.  Whilst walking along the long corridor to the start of the exhibition my fey-eyed beauty suggested that we take a break and go make out in a stall in the washrooms.  Fingers interlaced, I assured him that there was better intimacy to be had the sooner we got through the exhibition and hightailed it back to my place by Uber.  

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To my very discriminating eye, the moment I saw this verbose title, I fully expected to observe a show that was curated by too much extraneous fare and not enough impressionist art.  Tumescent and impatient, I had no time for reading, reading and reading more yada yada, all of which was to compensate for the lack of genuine, to say nothing of quality, impressionist art.  Just as well, I was growing achingly moist by the minute as both my energetic ectomorph and I hungered to be carnally consumed with each other… yet again.  

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This marvellous bronze fully captivated me; it would prove my favourite piece in the shoddily curated exhibition.  

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Highlights from a rather underwhelming show.   

Detail featuring two of the most beautiful creatures.  Their depiction is not the most masterfully executed but there is something rapturous about the look of the dogs as they ambled with their human companions on a journey which they had taken countless times before that made me stop and gaze overlong whilst being truly inspired.  

Detail of what for me proved sheer magnificence… the lighting is phenomenally executed.  

A masterpiece to be sure; however, where it was hung and the palette of the salon were decidedly inappropriate.  This was all I needed to see to finally wink the left eye at my horny power bottom and to speed home by Uber in the rain for noisy, exhausting, passionate play.  

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As ever, for your ongoing support I am both deeply grateful and indebted.  Sweet dreams and don’t you ever forget to push off and start flying because life is a most beautiful drink.  Cheers! 

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

Audience with Magnetic Old King Soul.

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Battle, Kathleen Deanna 13/8/48 Portsmouth Ohio

This fragment is a seventh level mature sage – second life at current level, likely will be old soul soon.  Kathleen is in the power mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Venus/Mercury. 

Kathleen’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary martyrdom. 

The fragment Kathleen is seventh-cast in seventh cadence; she is a member of greater cadence six – very cardinal.  Kathleen’s entity is four, cadre six, greater cadre 5, pod 408. 

Kathleen’s essence twin is a sage and her task companion is an artisan. 

Kathleen’s three primary needs are: expression, freedom and expansion. 

There are 16 past-life associations with Arvin, 14 with Merlin. 

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This next dream does reflect the beauty of being in the company of spiritually evolved souls.  Said dream was the first on Monday, June 17, 1991, whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house – close enough to the summer solstice.

Interestingly enough, there was a dream within the dream in question.  This was one of the most rhapsodic and uplifting dreams had during my fourth decade of life.

I was going out from this apartment block’s front door.  I was aware that in apartment 6, down the hall, the door was slightly opened.

I could hear some classical music being played and tried to figure out who the composer was.  It was very complex music.  I went down to the front door of the building, unusually enough, to call Whoopi.

However, I had decided not to open the door to call her because if I were to have called her there, I wouldn’t have wanted her to then start showing up at that door to be let in.

I had noticed, on the way to the door, a whole stack of mail outside the door to one of the apartments here.  It was a door, which sat in the middle of the hallway wall, where there shouldn’t have been a door.

Stranger still, it was brown unlike the other four doors which were white.  So at that, I decided to walk under the ground floor by going down into the basement.

Whilst I was going, I was still listening and then heard Kathleen Battle being introduced on the radio…  She was going to sing.

As I was walking, Whoopi appeared in the basement as I headed for the backdoor of the building.  She began playfully running amongst all the many boxes stacked high in the basement.  From time to time, the adorable cat would run ahead of me and was quite playful.

Kathleen Battle† then began to sing and, my dear sweethearts, greater music has never been woven in the waking state.  The music was highly complex indeed.  It was supremely divine.

The aria this woman sang and the beauty of her voice was supremely stellar.  It was dignified; it was divine.  It was so beautiful that, as I walked and Whoopi joyously played, my body became healed to have heard this music.

At that, I hurried Whoopi upstairs into the apartment and took to lying in the bed to more intently listen to the music.  There was much talk afterwards about the music.

There was a White man around and I was being told by him that this music was, in fact, not native to this world.  The music was not native to Earth, he claimed.

I certainly agreed with the information.  It galactically towered above any of this world’s greatest music to date.

Also, lying on the bed with me was a girl.  She deliberately was forcefully putting her feet down the bed and was trying to put them in my face as I lay in my bed with my head at the foot.  She was White and I was just too into the high just experienced with the glorious music to have had time to go fighting with anyone.

Later on, I went out to wait for a bus.  Yet here too, at the closest bus stop, the music kept on playing.  It simply permeated the fabric of the dream experience.

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*Of course, it should come as no surprise that all throughout sleep, the radio here in the waking state was on in the room whilst I slept dreaming.  END.

However, the music being filtered into the dreamtime had been considerably transformed.  Here it was uplifted and expressed in a superior light which befitted the dreamtime’s magic.

The radio being on became my leap off point to experience some truly uplifting moments in the dreamtime.  Though CBC FM was playing classical music, at the time of my dreaming, the galactic music that I was hearing far outdistanced the familiarity of classical music by light years.

It was so complex and cerebral that as I stood there, at the bus stop, I suspected it was the classical music created by cetaceans.  I speculated that a pod of dreaming cetaceans was weaving their music, in the classical idiom, in the dreamtime.

I merely happened to have tuned into it, whilst the waking state music served as the leap off point, for vicariously entering the cetaceans’ dream dimensions.  This was so much more complex than classical music.

It was an intellectual high beyond belief.  Kathleen Battle, throughout it all, kept on singing.  It blew me away, to contemplate the amount of breath work involved in Ms. Battle singing that complexly and for that length of time.

There was a guy when I got onto the bus which was like the double-deckers of London.  I was on the lower level, in the middle section, looking back to the rear.

On the same side, as I was seated, there was a guy there who seemed very familiar.  He was aware of me in the same soul-resonant way that I was him.  However, we did not interact.

Across from him, there was a rowdy guy who seemed drunk.  The police had come and taken him to the front of the bus to take him away.  Interestingly enough, the police wore the uniform of the London Bobbies with the hat and the whole gear.

When I got to where I was going, it was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful tropical island with a beautiful mountain range.  There were two large homes and I was told that both of these homes were, in fact, owned by Kathleen Battle.

This was where she retired to recharge her batteries.

‘How fine, indeed,’ I thought.

There was a party being thrown for her by marvellous celebrities.  It was then that I recalled having been at a concert earlier prior to going out and taking the bus.

It was either at Salzburg or Bayreuth.  When Ms. Battle was onstage, she wore a blue dress that billowed in the breeze which created a wonderfully hypnotic slow-motion effect.

She had more fucking-goddamn fire planets in this dream, I can assure you, than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis does with her six fire planets no less.  Kathleen Battle possessed, in this briefly recalled dream within a dream, great spiritualism.

She sang and what she was doing with her voice was nothing short of magic.  She was as if the ocean because each note was so liquid, time-stretched yet complex.  There were more nuances worked into each note than is, in the waking state, humanly imaginable.

It was not unlike all the funky innuendo that a female Jazz singer can cram into one little song.  It was absolutely incredible what she was doing.

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When she was done, the house went wild.  Everybody here was so spiritually elevated.  I was up in the balcony, on the right side of the stage and I screamed down bravo with thunderously deafening passion.  My ecstatic celebration made all the people close to me laugh with enjoyment at my rapture.

As I lay asleep, my body simultaneously began zinging and tremblingly with energy as I thunderously shouted, ‘Bravo’.  When articulating my passion, I had shoved out my neck and at that my neck began elongating.

My overjoyed face moved possessed as my voice operatically roared from my soul itself.  My face ended up snaking down through the air, from the balcony to the stage, my neck like some exquisite anaconda swimming through the air bearing my proudly ecstatic face.

My face was peeled wide-open with ecstasy.  Indeed, the fire in my eyes was just phenomenal.  This dream was inordinately empowering.

It was as though I had become truly animated with a hyper-elongated neck and my face was not unlike the faces of those spiritually elevated and regal ladies that I had recently dreamt of.

Also, I was quite certain that my warping behaviour in this dream had been much inspired by the eloquence of physique that these strangely beautiful women had presented me with their august bodies in another dream of days earlier.

To have best expressed the gratitude that I felt, from my very soul itself, it was as if my neck had become a giraffe’s.  Here I was looming down over the house and up to the stage.

To begin with, in all of this, I had not even been seated at the front of the balcony.  My ‘bravo’ was a very long, extended, purely male-energied war cry.  This was pride in this woman that had nothing to do with our shared race of being both Black rather our both being human.

I was simply applauding her very soul itself for its great achievement in artistic self-expression.  In point of fact, I actually got a high from hearing the thunder of my voice when saying bravo because this very deep and resonant baritone was not my familiar register.

Moving up, I climbed up the hill to both Kathleen Battle’s houses.  There was a woman there who was White and older.  She was helping this old, old, ancient White man.  I wondered,

‘Who is this man?’

I knew straight away that he was definitely very important, in the spiritual scheme of things, here on this planet.  I thought that, perhaps, it was Herbert von Karajan but he is now passed on.

He did, after all, have quite an attachment to Kathleen Battle.  This is why she was always invited to Salzburg.

However, then too, I thought that it was more than likely Herbert von Karajan because the energies of this man were incredibly magus fitting the archetype of the magnetic old king from the Michael Teaching which Herbert von Karajan was/is.

I thought that perhaps he looked as old because he was doing so much immense energy work in his function as a sixth level old, magnetic old king soul.  Naturally, his agedness would have been a reflection of his having passed a large number of lives, to date, at sixth level old.

He was very transcendent and, you could tell, was no longer physically focussed.  More importantly, everything about this dream indicated it being very much so alive.  The dream was very much so real and set on the astral plane which is where that magnetic old king, Herbert von Karajan, now resides.

In any event, he was being helped down by this long-legged, handsome, strong-willed woman.  She much reminded me of Marella Agnelli, the wife to the CEO of FIAT motors of Italy Gianni Agnelli.  However, this woman was older than Marella Agnelli presently is.

*One of the things about some, definitely not all, wealthy persons is that their stratospheric wealth enables them to be in their element.  As they are such mature-souled, august, reincarnationally sophisticated souls, money allows these spiritually elevated persons to exist in the world unencumbered by the Maya of the wretchedness of every day existence.

Such wealth enables them to transcend the Maya of financial limitations that entraps and stifles the merely working class to upper middle class.

For the latter classes, the lines of demarcation are more nebulous than they would like to accept.  Hence, the excessive restrictiveness and obsessions with class, looks, greed, Brahmanism et al.

Some of these truly wealthy people do not suffer the strictures of belief systems.  This allows them to just live in their element and be supremely human.

This is not true of all wealthy persons because, for one, the nepotistic cupidity of Hollywood certainly validates this.  These people, such as Gianni Agnelli and Marella Agnelli, do not suffer the displacement of humanity that many greed-fixated wealthy persons experience.  END.

This woman here in the dream, in that sense, reminded me of Marella Agnelli.  The latter impresses me as someone who truly does embrace her humanity.  One gets the sense of her that she is not separated from the little people of choice.

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We then all came down after, of course, I had gladly gone to give the graciously handsome woman a hand with assisting the magus himself.  We sat in this long, long, long enclosed veranda that had a fine linen mesh covering it.

There was a wonderful breeze.  The magus was on my immediate right and talking away.  Indeed, he did make my energies zing and become reshuffled.  It was at the level of the atomic and it was subtle but noticeable.

He was talking about the music, raving about how great it was, and how fabulous Kathleen Battle had been in performance.  Next, he opened a large bottle of spirits which was like champagne but it looked more like a bottle of gin.

He then took up a magnum of some expensive champagne or other and raised it saying,

“My dear, you must have a drink.  You have earned a drink.”

He had a wonderful soulful voice.  Whatever he said became the law.  He was beingness in the flesh.  He simply held court.  You experienced his spirit, more to the point, one experienced his very soul.

He was truly what the Michael Teachings would call a magnetic old king.  One just intuitively sensed and knew it because this, after all, was the astral plane.  One did not doubt insights gleamed here.  He was so grounding to have been next to.

When he was pulling out the cork it proved very long.  In fact, it was extremely sexual what he was doing with the cork.  It was very slow and hypnotic.  I got a sexual high experiencing him uncork the champagne.

I never did look into this man’s eyes overlong because his face was so powerful and so tremendous.  He was someone who was clearly passed on.  I also knew that it was not Merlin.

I had only looked at his face, in the distance, when he was up on the hill.  He wore the most spiritually refined face imaginable.  Up close, I knew that I just did not have the power to peer overlong into this face.

I was too drunk by his magus energies that bled outwards magnetically permeating and fine tuning everything – man and nature.  Thus I had to hold the champagne flute with both my hands with my knees sexily drawn up whilst my feet rested on the edge of the chair.

Giggling, simply giddy from his energies, I said en Français,

“Champagne!  Oh god I love champagne.”

He began pouring in the champagne whilst it was fizzing.  He poured it in a decadent manner.  As it crashed into the glass there were a lot of bubbles from the bottle, gurgling aloud, where gobs of drink orgasmically splashed over the rim of the flute.

It was so sensual, so timeless and wonderful that on concentrating on his actions, I experienced the stasis of time.  I began besottedly drinking and grew giddy at the implications of the fine company that I was in and that he was serenading me at that.

It much reminded me of the garden party that I attended in Toronto with Merlin, the second to last summer of his life, when the writer Ted Allen had me sit by him spending the party regaling me and flirting with my spirit.

It was a nonsexual thing… just an intimate commune of our spirits.  Really fine and memorable it was too.  There were other family members about – Pandora as well as Harella.

He told me to move away the glass before the champagne did not spill, over onto my lap, which shortly it would have had he not prompted me.  I moved it to the right between him and me.

Immediately, on taking the first sip from the flute my mind stood still because the cool potent touch of it illumined me.  Instantly, I realised that the bottle of drink was merely a metaphor.  What I was being given was an elixir from his very soul itself.

The magus was healing me thus.  What utterly potent aqueous magic.  It was cool yet simultaneously warm.  It was all the things that the music was and more.

In fact, it was exactly what I needed after having been made drunk and high from the music of Kathleen Battle’s magic.  When he finished, it turned out that he had only poured a drink for two other persons of all the others gathered at the party.

I was so blown away by the fact that he genuinely wanted me to be sitting next to him.  Perhaps, it was because I had been considerate enough to have assisted him.  I had made it possible for him to go down, the hill from the upper mansion’s gardens, to the veranda of the lower house.

He chose not to have passed on the drink to anyone else.  It was very subtle but was not, of course, lost on me.  He did not pass it around although everyone had glasses and were quietly waiting to be served by him.

Certainly, the impressive magnum could have amply supplied every glass.  I was then told by Harella not to be greedy and she advised me to perhaps offer my glass to others.

Ignoring her, I languorously looked out beyond the mesh and thought aloud in a whisper,

“God this is such a wonderful dream.  What did I do to deserve this dream?”

Just like that the dream dissolved for me being doubtful and seemingly unappreciative.

vDream one.  Earlier, in one section of the dream as I had listened to the music, I saw an inner vision of a holographic diagram.  The hologram indicated where in the Cosmos the particular music that was playing, to which Kathleen Battle was singing, had originated.

There was this cardboard-like diagram, which much resembled an Olaf Nordstrom lithograph, which was very sculptural and intellectually placed.  Olaf Nordstrom interestingly does, in fact, have six air planets.

Simultaneously, I knew that as much as the successive diagrams were of the cosmos, they were also of the human spine, the nervous system and the human chakra points.

I could see the crown chakra which was very, very expansive.  I then saw the first chakra which was close to the tip of the spine.  I was being shown that it was very tight and needed to be opened up.

I was being told, by way of seeing this network of cables of light, one had to have one’s energies realigned.  It basically was about yoga, breath and, also, about the awakening of Kundalini energy within my body.

It was about becoming more so opened up, at all chakra points, so that I could get more flow.  Too, it was stressed that I needed more positive light into and through me.

There was a great deal of blue light flooding the diagram’s holographic systems.  There was red light, as well, in certain areas of some of the chakra points.

It was deemed to be neither good nor bad.  Rather, it was an energy that was presently focussed in my body.

I was being told that it could be successfully transmuted.  I certainly think that I know, to what it was referring, in terms of the sexual energy flow and my sexual centre’s proper functioning.

It was mentioned that it was terribly ego-based and not all that highly evolved in the end.

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As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support; I am immensely grateful.  Sweet dreams and don;t ever forget to push off and start flying.  

 

 

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

Astral Projecting into Dreamtime.

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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.  

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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.  

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©Alex Grey

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

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Astral Projected Self-Portrait.

Crayola on Paper 

©1984-2019 Arvin da Brgha. 

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…

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*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.  

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                                                            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.  

baobab2

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. 

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                                                            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 

A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

                                                            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.  

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                                                            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.  

tour bus2

                                                            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.  

Reclining Buddha of Galvihara-sunny

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

Past-life dream set in intrigue-filled Dynastic Egypt.(Redux – Happy Mother’s Day!)

Harella da Braga, my mother, and I never enjoyed good relations.  However, I have never borne her a grudge for the failure in our relations.  I am reposting this dream because it speaks to who my mother was.  Harella was a woman of great strength, inner beauty and she was, without a doubt, nine parts intellect and you can’t get any better than that in my books.  

One of my favourite memories of my mother, Harella, was of her dancing: lips pursed, head held high, lids collapsed and flying-without-moving to this Diana Ross and the Supremes gem.  I felt her beauty of spirit as she danced and weaved her magic about our Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts living room.  She had been very sick and bedridden in August, 1974 and on her recovery, there was something different about her; it was as though she was intent on doing all the things she had never done before.  Definitely, dancing to a ‘worldly’ song like, Someday We’ll Be Together, counted among her newfound departure from the norm.

Harella was a fantastic cook whose sauces were always rich, soulful and gloriously sweet like that sexy wobble she affected when in high heels going to church.  There was no bigger showoff than Harella come Sunday in her faux fur hats and matching leather handbags and high heels; no one sexier strolled the streets of Sandy Point on Sundays because no one was more confident than her that she looked damn good… and did.  

What I love about this Nina Simone gem is how beautifully it captures the essence of my relationship with my mother, Harella.  As the house in which we lived was said to be haunted by jumbies (ghosts) I slept in bed with this enigmatic woman who was not the least bit fond of me each night well into the tumescent-craze dawn of pubescence.  Chiefly, I relished sleeping with her because I was ever fascinated by the fact that my mother could come to the dinner table hours after having awakened and casually start recalling her dreams in lucid detail.  In the cover of dark West Indian nights, being enveloped by my mother, Harella’s, warm rich voice as she reanimated the magic of her dreams, was being mentored into finding my own bounty of dreams.  I just knew that regardless of the fact that she was not especially fond of me, somehow, for sleeping with her, I would grow into a dream shaman in my own right.  

Thank you, Harella, for having so richly gifted me with this immense love of yours.  

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah yes, she’s brought him with her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This had to do with the care of the child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She made Iman look no-necked by comparison.

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Photo: Supermodel Iman.

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

Take Five.

Sachal Studios Orchestra Take Five

Dave Brubeck Take Five.

© 2011 Sachal Studios

Groove with me as I dance and fly without moving.  Happy New Year Shamans… I love you more.

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

Do nothing ’till you hear from me!

© 1994 Lena Horne music by Duke Ellington & Sidney Russell

The first time I heard this music, I was arrested by the opening chords as I stood still in the middle of my living room on the third/top storey of 878 Gilford Street in Vancouver’s West End.  At the end of Lena Horne’s passionate singing, I screamed and laughed uncontrollably with tears running down my face.

I had been standing half naked before getting ready for work and decided that the experience was too great to do something so ridiculously banal as go in to work that day.  Naturally, I had been standing with tape recorder in hand – after having just recorded the dreams dreamt.  Quickly, I grabbed a new cassette and recorded the newly released song from the CBC FM radio station as Ross Porter had waxed on long enough about the new Lena Horne Jazz recording for me to have pounced into action.

I spent the rest of my stay in Vancouver listening to this recording at least four times weekly.

This is the music that let’s you leap off into truly sublime dream experiences.

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

Silent Night

Kathleen Battle and The Wynton Marsalis Septet. Merry Christmas dreamers… you are the best kind of people going! ___________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________ © 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Birdland: Weather Report & Manhattan Transfer – Live.

1982 Playboy Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl Weather Report’s Birdland accompanied by the Manhattan Transfer Music to keep alive the child-ego state! Create! Fly! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weather_Report Home http://www.playboyjazzfestival.com/ ____________________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________________ © 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.