A house that much reminded me of the one in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts proved the setting for this most potent dream. There were five of us here; although, one person’s identity now eludes me. There in the living room, seated on the blue sofa of our Crab Hill home, was Merlin with his back to the north. Directly behind him was the five-foot oblong mirror; it was hung against the living room’s wall. On the other side of that wall, in the waking sate, was Harella’s bedroom.
Here in the dreamtime, which was definitely astral plane in focus, the living room was elongated; it was more oblong-shaped, along a north-south axis. Merlin’s right side was closer to the veranda and the main road with the McHughs across the road. Across the room from me, with her back to the street and facing due east, was Gita Gurucharan – Oberon Samuelson’s lovely wife and mother to miracle worker extraordinaire, Vijayalakshmi Gurucharan. Oleg de Brontë was seated directly opposite Merlin. There was a man, to my immediate left, who sat directly opposite Gita. Whilst I was closer to Merlin than anyone in the room, I was not however sharing the sofa with him.
Abruptly, Merlin got up and took his leave of us. He went into Harella’s bedroom. The others had dropped by to visit. It was clear, early on, that Merlin simply wasn’t into it. There was strain to the social dynamic which Merlin put an end to – he rudely took his leave of us. This was so unlike his former self during his recently-concluded incarnation. Yet, I fully understood where he was coming from. Whilst being in the soul state, he was now more so his true self. This gathering of persons represented the past to him, which at this point, clearly served no interest for him.
I then got up and stood next to Gita who was on my right. After Merlin rudely took his leave of us, we had all silently gotten up. To say the least, it was awkward. As we faced towards the dining room, our backs were now to the veranda. Filling the void that Merlin’s departure had created, Gita and I began making conversation. To say the least, it was a strained, canned affair. Here, I was keenly aware of how much I am dismissed as a social misfit. I was aware that these were persons who had long ago decided that I was not the swiftest of souls – I don’t indulge in clever repartee and such plastic aggressiveness when socialising.
The Black man then came over; he was tall and handsome with a gorgeously mesomorphic body. He stood to my left, directly facing Gita, and began talking. There were a lot of pauses here; they were trying to get me to shove off by firmly excluding me. Finally, I dryly said, “Well, I’m going to go and see how my man is doing.”
I then walked between the chairs, on which Oleg and the Black man sat, as though heading for the boys’ bedroom rather than Harella’s to which Merlin had retreated. I then, however, made an abrupt turn left going instead through the door from the living room to Harella’s bedroom. On entering the bedroom, I saw that Merlin was lying in the girls’ bedroom next-door. Merlin seemed as though asleep. He did look as though ill with full-blown AIDS. It was not, however, distressing to have seen him thus; I was lucidly awakened here.
Initially, when out in the living room, Merlin looked robust and even leaned towards a robust, mesomorphic body type. It was clear though that having to visit with these persons, from the past, had very much so enervated his spirits. Rather than sit there interminably, enduring what was an unpleasant situation for him, he thankfully had taken refuge when he had. On drawing closer to him, I gently caressed his face – all the while thinking of how difficult this was for him. I wanted to share some of my energies with him; I wanted to restore his. The vibrations from the living room, however, were distracting.
After excusing myself from Merlin, I returned to the living room. Immediately, I dramatically shifted personae and became rude. I told them to sit down, at which point, we all did. Oleg then got up after awhile; he was holding a long-necked, brown beer bottle. There were three empty identical ones on the floor and next to his chair. There was no mistaking the fact that he was drunk.
‘Who the hell gets drunk on the astral plane anyway?’
Oleg wore a woollen jacket that was dark and nondescript. Incidentally, on my return, the Black man was no longer present. In his place was a White man with the same physical description; he came over trying to save face. The unfamiliar man charmingly suggested that it was time that they pushed off. Oleg had gotten very drunk indeed; he was not at all being belligerent. It turned out that Oleg had gotten emotionally distraught – about Merlin’s condition; he was upset at the way that things had turned out between them. The fact that things were unresolved between them, at the end of Merlin’s last life, caused Oleg a great deal of distress.
He did not know how else to deal with it; thus, Oleg got miserably drunk. I wanted to be of solace to Oleg, however, since my energies were already committed to being with Merlin that option proved a nonstarter. Clearly, Gita and the other man had been there to try and broker some sort of peace between Oleg and Merlin. Obviously, Merlin was not up to it. At one point, I had actually headed to the dining room and called back to Oleg. My voice rang out as I asked Oleg if he wanted another beer.
This was the point at which the unfamiliar White man had interrupted and declined the offer; instead, he suggested that they take their leave of Merlin and me. Oleg, of course, was inclined to take another drink. I did not like my role here – that of keeping Oleg grounded by drink. Certainly, it did give the impression that I was trying to block any resolution or any communion between both him and Merlin. Although, to be honest, Oleg had begun drinking after Merlin had left the room. It was quite embarrassing really. Oleg could hardly get up – let alone stand on his own.
The man had had to rush to Oleg’s aid. Like Merlin in the bedroom, Oleg was completely enervated though he had used alcohol to drown his pain. Oleg was devastated that Merlin was not going to return. More importantly, Oleg knew that Merlin had positively no intentions of suffering him for a minute. The man threw his arms about Oleg and braced him up. More than that, he was fortifying his very spirit.
Again, I took my leave of them in the living room and headed back for Merlin. However, I did not spend time visiting with Merlin. On returning to the bedroom, I got a long, black, woollen evening coat. It was rather expensive and cut close to the body. Bearing the coat, I returned to the living room where I insisted that Oleg take it to stay warm. For not realising that he had been drinking to excess, I had felt badly. He was truly distraught; nothing pained me more than seeing this truly beautiful man’s spirit in disrepair.
Whilst his White friend got him into the coat, I stood in back of a disjointed Oleg and held the evening coat open. Interestingly enough, Oleg’s handsome, Black friend earlier was the same handsome Black man, with the striking resemblance to Maxwell Bowleson – he had appeared with him in that august-energied dream, on Friday, July 21, 1995. Eventually, they all took their leave of the house; they were rather low-key when doing so. When I had returned to the living room, after having visited with Merlin in the girls’ bedroom, Gita had not said anything further.
No sooner than had they all left the house that Merlin came out to the living room to join me. I was surprised to see that he was again looking so healthy. Directly opposite Merlin, I now sat alone. Merlin silently sat there. Whilst consciously sending him loving energies, I held my back erect. Much to my surprise and amusement, Merlin carried a large, clear plastic bag with about 1.5 pounds, likely more, of marijuana. Merlin meticulously rolled a large thick joint with all the Zen focus as he had when incarnate.
I sat there being truly blown away at the sight. I had completely forgotten the sublime, almost Zen, sight of Merlin rolling a joint. Moments like this were when Merlin really turned up the hues of his magus nature. It was a groove into which he slipped, in order to conceptualise – to non-linearly think. These ganja joints were so thick that they looked like short white cigars; they certainly smoked profusely like a cigar does. I was mildly humoured by Merlin’s realness. It was grounding.
On looking up, Merlin paused before lighting up and turned up the sensual hues in his large brown – which they were not when incarnate – eyes. Coolly, Merlin intoned, “I have no intentions of seeing these people…”
He then pursed the fat joint in his rosy lips and lit up. Casually, Merlin blew on a long even breath that readily perfumed the air with its pungent aroma. Up to that point, the room was sillaged by that most glorious of scents patchouli – it was Merlin’s favourite fragrance. As an afterthought, Merlin added that Oleg had intended to come back tomorrow and join him for lunch. There was supposed to be some woman or other present then.
Apparently, it was not going to be either Morag O’Hoare or Gita Gurucharan. I don’t know who she was supposed to be but it was also definitely not Elektra Skanczchowicz – and definitely not Hélène Plotte-Visage. Merlin took his time and drew on another breath. He then announced that the luncheon had been arranged by none other than Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny. Merlin, however, was not into it. “Are you sure that you’re going to be up to it?” I asked obviously concerned.
As I looked across the room at Merlin, I spent a great deal of time being spiritually focussed and sent him energy. What was really interesting in this process was that with his long even breaths, when dragging on the ganja joint, I used his breathing rhythm to become harmonised with his vibration. The focussed process of sharing my energy with him was very potent – real. The energy flowed with great ease. For being intensely lucid, I thought of elevating my vibration’s frequency. I had hoped to thus cycle off a ton of my energy into Merlin. I accomplished this by envisioning us both encircled by spheres of intense blue-white light. Soon, I saw my energy body cycling off a coil of white light.
This light originated both from the top and bottom of the sphere of light which completely enveloped my seated body. The light travelled the distance between us, across the room, some seven feet away at most. It made contact with both poles of his energy body’s identical sphere’s integrity. Together, we were truly in communion soul-to-soul. The interesting thing here was that we both continued casually visiting though I knew that Merlin was keenly aware of the energy work that was being accomplished between us. As he continued his detached Zen-like smoking, I knew that it served as a backdrop to his being receptive of the energy work that I was doing on his behalf. Our breathing was completely synchronised.
I used each inhalation to draw off the negative vibrations. It was this energy that had caused him to become completely enervated when seated opposite Oleg whom he clearly had no desire to have encountered. Merlin then chose to abruptly retire, whilst the others visited, to the girls’ bedroom to crash. With each exhalation, I sent him intense, white-light energy that was being liquidly drunk by his energy body. The marvellous thing about this entire experience was how utterly feminine Merlin’s modalities were. This was in marked contrast to my very masculine, martial, warrior-energied focus.
It was truly a validation of the creative principle, Merlin being yin to my yang. Together we were becoming whole. Together our energies were perfectly harmonised. As a result, Merlin’s energies were thusly realigned. Too, for being in this very expansive state, I caught brief glimpses of the outlines of the light energies that were being manifested between us. During the moments when he would exhale potent puffs of smoke, I observed the manifested spheres of light each time. The smells of the patchouli and ganja, combined with the ganja’s smoke, created the effect. I was so grounded for being here in this astral plane reanimation of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house. It was a truly sublime shamanic experience.
It was clear that Merlin had no desire to experience unpleasant aspects of the past. As he sat there, Merlin waited for the air to clear; he waited for the ganja to wane and the strobe of the light spheres to fade out before replying, “No, no. It’s okay. I’ll be okay…” As Merlin spoke for the first time, he looked healthier than he had looked at any point before during our astral plane dream encounter. Earlier, he was lying on his stomach with his left cheek on the pillow; his face looked out the door that led to the room from Harella’s bedroom. There was a cool sheen of sweat then that covered his brow and body; he laid there looking truly wasted.
Even his breathing was loud then. As I patted his cool brow, I could hear the crackling in his lungs that suggested that he was again suffering from a bout of pneumocystis. On soothing his spirit, I had brushed the wet strands of his shoulder-length hair from his brow. It was so very good to have seen Merlin. The most exquisite pleasure of being in his presence was the great sense of peace that I felt for seeing him whole again. The simple act of his rolling a joint was, for me, on the order of bliss; he was transcendent. Of course, as was the case during our relationship in the waking state, he did not offer me a toke of the cigar-like joint.
I do know that I found the second-hand smoke pleasurable. It was sweet; it did much to relax me, along with the focussed deep breathing that I independently did – that we did in unison and which had been triggered by his breaths when smoking the joint. Feeling the need to come down from the intense energy work that I had accomplished with Merlin, I got up and walked slowly over to Merlin. I asked him if he was going to be okay on his own. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about; he would be fine. I knew it too. So with that, I took my leave of him. In a bid to move back into my regular-dream body, I went out to get some air on the veranda.
He assured me that I did not need to come back, later on, and join him. He would be quite okay to handle things on his own, he assured me. I believed him. Merlin simply glowed throughout; his cheeks were flushed and fleshy even. Merlin looked centred and genuinely contented. I then found some ice cream, beneath one of the living room chairs, which earlier I had been eating. Naturally, it was not all that great as it had melted down and lost its flavour.
Yeah groovy people, you know the score, just plié, push off and fly like when you have just had the greatest sex and dance as if this gorgeous planet ain’t nobody’s property but yours. I love you more.
As I slipped into sleep, on Friday, July 9, 1993, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house – though not the least bit focussed on Merlin prior to sleep – the dream shaman would manifest and weave the most sublime magic yet. As will become fast evident, the first three dreams that day were about process. I was during those dreams, divesting myself of the baggage that affects one’s waking consciousness/persona. These are waking state survival mechanisms which would be disposed of, in each successive dream, so that I could be elevated enough in spirit to have moved on to the truly noble experiences of the later dreams.
Whilst yet another stood beside me, I was looking into a full-length mirror. At the time, I was with Sjaak van der Velde – friend, current lover and Manhattan cabaret singer. As I stood there, in the near-darkened bathroom getting cleansed, I keenly looked at my face. On looking down, I noticed that my entire body was nude; it was completely depilated. This, of course, presented a big challenge because I am so vain – big hair and all. I was mildly horrified that my gorgeous pencil-thin moustache was no more.
To say the least, as intended, the moustache and big hair do nothing but scream vain solipsism. As I try warping self to stay with the ageist, lookist gang, vanity ends up making things that much more superficial. I spent a great deal of time really scrutinising the lack of facial hair. After assessing things, I finally came to like the naked look of my exposed upper lip. ‘What the hell,’ I thought. I began laughing aloud by grinning down my self-consciousness and vanity. Soon, I grew to like my smile a lot. It was truly wonderful.
Then who should appear in the mirror to my left, though never next to me in the dreamtime, but Len Morse. He, too, had recently shaved his moustache in the waking state. I was surprised to see him. I guess that there is some soul connection that we share which was clearly being alluded to. He has been present in a few dreams of late. He was warmly looking out at me as if to say, “Oh really now? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to be self-conscious of…”
Frankly, I rather liked the nudeness of my face and head minus the moustache and big hair. The whole thing was a true revelation. I genuinely looked handsome because I wasn’t trying to run from or hide behind anything. It was truly uplifting. What was so empowering about the revelation, too, was the fact that the moment at which I became relaxed with myself – unconditionally accepting myself – my eyes awakened more completely. It was as though they had never shone so brilliantly, indeed, shone so beautifully before – absolutely revolutionary!
All this maya only caused me to hysterically laugh enjoying the absurdity of trying to get caught up and lost in lookism. ‘Who frigging cares?’ That was the essence of the wisdom being disseminated here by my higher self. This new perspective was truly a rare and treasured gift. It was quite the uplifting experience and one not soon forgotten.
Next, in the second dream, I was outdoors in the daytime. I was in this heavily trafficked, overpopulated metropolis. It did feel as though I was at Seventh Avenue and 23rd Street. Whilst, crossing 23rd Street, I was on the west side of Seventh Avenue going north in Manhattan. I wore a knapsack which was much like the one in the waking state. Close to my chest, my arms were crossed and folded. They clutched a book that I was currently reading. As I passed a young, White couple, they made socially aggressive, racist remarks about me.
‘I don’t want this kind of energy, at all, in the dream state,’ I thought impatiently deflecting their ignorance. When I got to the other side of the road, I felt unresolved about the whole thing. So, with that, I turned to look after them. They veered off, on seeing me eyeing them but I knew that they had wanted to cross Seventh Avenue – on the north side of 23rd Street. They headed off going east, to the right, on the north side of 23rd Street.
Impatiently I purposefully and heavily strode on my heels, back towards them, soon overtaking them. On catching up to them, I walked alongside. The woman was closer to me and him closer to the traffic. He was considerably taller than her. They were a very waking-state-focussed, hard-edged, racially aggressive, pinched couple. Big-boned and Yuppified – they were the epitome of North American, aggressive, merchant class greed. In a rapid-fire, ballistic staccato, I began aggressively repaying their racist bile bit for bit. I repaid their aggressive verbal abuse bit for bit.
They were stunned by my response. As with the codified behaviours of the racist paradigms in the waking state, which keep racially preyed on Blacks fearful of defending themselves against such actions, I was not expected to retaliate. I had no intentions of sublimating any aspect of self, either here or elsewhere, to suffer anyone and their bullshit. Yet what could they have done?
They simply turned glacial and remained petrified acting as though one were, all of a sudden, not there. I had no intentions of having them dump this kind of psychic garbage onto me. I slapped the racial animus back in their direction and was able to divest myself of such negative energies. Perhaps, though likely not, my response gave them pause for thought.
The third dream then found me going down into the belly of the underground. I proceeded to take, what would prove, an extensive series of train rides. I had been down in this particular sprawling subway station. There were no pillars in between the tracks. The station was not unlike London’s Liverpool Station and though similarly dimensioned, however, it was completely below-ground. Whilst waiting for the train to arrive, I had gone and stood close to one of the ends of the platform. Raising my leg, I had placed my right foot on an orange-coloured railing whilst waiting. Close by were two White women standing and speaking.
Long, flowing, drop-waisted dresses, that were light summer fare, they both wore. For being close to them, they fell silent and projected that cool steely edge that was informed by their racist perceptions. This was not the kind of energy that I wanted to be around. I strongly resented having this hideous grey light, of waking state racially-tinged maya, flooding and destabilising the Chi of the dreamtime. Since this was not my scene, I chose to tune out their invasive, racially predatory, psychic aggression altogether. Pretty soon, they came to realise how utterly ridiculous what they were doing was.
Immediately, they stopped their bullshit and resumed being human. The WST (waking state transference), in which they indulged, towards me evaporated. The air became noticeably clear… less dense-energied. Soon thereafter, the train rolled into the station and we boarded together. Unusually large, most impressively, there was also a dizzying amount of persons on board this train. It took the longest while, for us to get on board, as throngs flooded out from the train at our station. Even when finally we boarded, the bloody thing was still overgrown with humanity.
I eventually arrived at this particular stop where, again, it was densely populated. Wherever you looked, it was lushly overgrown here with incredibly large arboreal giants.
Not surprisingly, in this the fourth dream, it was impressively landscaped here. There was a dizzying array of flora and most of them were not readily familiar. I was up on a winding road that rose up a high hilltop. Along the way, I encountered an old Black woman. Goodness was she ever ancient. Hers was a face that was on the plus side of ten millennia. To match every lifetime-filled millennium that she had outlived, boy did she have a lot of life and personality. This was clearly her astral body, which I was encountering, whoever this well-travelled, marvellous old soul was. This sprawling metropolis was distinctly French.
This place did remind me of being at Montmartre when looking down into Paris. This metropolis, however, was several times larger than Paris. So many eons older than Paris, was this metropolis, it even seemed vastly older than the old woman. Her lovely dark-complected body, reminding me so of some West Indian women’s, she was so readily familiar. This metropolis was easily twenty millennia older than Paris. A truly august-souled metropolis this was.
The woman, along the road on the side of the hill, much reminded me of Clarice Jack who lived in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. Of course, Clarice lived next-door to the church that Harella built. She was a big-boned, large-bosomed, full-figured lively gal. She was turning about, busying herself, doing some landscaping repairs along the side of the road. On approaching her, I asked how to get to a concert hall. I had been en route to some destination which, presently, I could scarcely recall.
“Oh no, no, no, my dear… You have to go all de way back down into town. It’s not at Palais Royale, in fact. Don’t even think of there. You have to go and get some other trains, to get you someplace else…” Her tongue darted back and forth, over her ever-moist lips, as her lively rapid-fire French gave directions.
She had pointed, off in the distance, to what seemed like Grand Palais. It, too, had a companion like Petit Palais in Paris. Here, however, these stately buildings were easily four times more colossal than their waking state counterparts. To anything in the waking state, the scale of architecture here was beyond compare. Gargantuan doesn’t, even remotely, convey the towering scales of the proportions here. Everything here was grown over. The metropolis, centred in this fantastic locale, was layered with each rise and fall of the civilisation readily discernible. In that sense, this metropolis was much like Rome is.
Everywhere, there were visible signs of crumbling architectural masterpieces. Still, other long-abandoned structures became the outer shell for more recent revivals of themselves. The latest additions, to an old ruin, could have occurred four millennia later and still have been easily a dozen millennia old – truly ancient. There were so many different strata of architectural styles layered one atop the other. This truly was a living museum of architectural giants. It was impressive, to say the least. One felt so utterly nouveau, for being of waking state Earth, as none of Earth’s civilisations can architecturally boast any such richness of character.
Great epochs of civilisations grew on top, through, about and around themselves in this impressive astral plane metropolis. This place was quite beautifully landscaped. Everywhere there were mound-like hills, like the one that I was on, which were forested areas of lush growth. They looked like some of the better-gardened neighbourhoods of Naples.
Next, the fifth dream had me taking my leave of her. I went down the hill, into the metropolis, where I entered one of the city’s many termini. This one much reminded of Gare d’Austerlitz in Paris. Here, too, this terminus was easily seven times more colossal. I began my marvellous adventure by taking a number of trains. There would be a few transfers at other, just as massive, termini along the journey. Here, at all times, I travelled with a silent astral guide who remained just to my rear. He seemed to be younger and was definitely White.
There was a staggering amount of people in transit here. People here were also very quiet. The majority of communication was telepathically engaged. There were so many tracks all of which were being used by trains. This was clearly a metropolis on a planet whose population easily soared beyond 17 billion (I meant to say 70 billion). With lots of transfer points converging all at the same terminus, this particular station was a major hub. This travel that I was doing, the vehicular transports I was using, merely proved secondary to what was really at play here.
I was going through different planes, travelling through different dimensions, and realities. I was in transit – for the ease of waking consciousness, much of this has been perceptually transliterated as being modes of travel comparable to waking state paradigms. The trains were capable of transporting one, to various locales, at protected faster-than-usual speeds. However, the travel was definitely destined. We travelled along a set, guided course. It was, if you like, a willed form of travel. It was not as though one were aimlessly wandering about a wilderness or city.
For being buried below-ground, it suggested that this was travel that was deeply rooted in the domains of the soul itself. There was a definite route, a purposeful intent, and a clear objective for undertaking the journey. Although for much of the time, especially when I was on the terraced hilltop with the old Black woman, I couldn’t quite recall why I was trying to make a definite rendezvous. All that I knew was that I simply had to get there. As it were, I had a destined appointment. For following along certain experientially mapped out routes, one could interdimensionally travel whilst on board these trains.
Whilst I was on one of the trains, when in transit, I sensed that I was not alone. Looking around, in search of someone’s familiar energetic signature, there on this utterly crowded train I found Merlin! I was so blown away. So that the dream wouldn’t be aborted, by my whiting out and prematurely awakening, I had to contain myself. I can’t say here how utterly arresting it was to have seen him.
Not since he had walked into the salon, in that dream on Saturday, July 25, 1992, had Merlin’s beauty so moved me. Merlin here was as real and as focussed as ever he was, the seven years that I had known him, on the other side of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality. I was so thrilled. I became overwhelmed with genuine happiness. I simply couldn’t believe that this was happening. I was acutely aware that I was dreaming. Oh my goodness – this was enlightenment and then some. Seeing him was akin, to having been away and upon my return opening the door, to have Whoopi come rushing towards me – her familiar pigeon-toed sweetness being the most treasured gift in my life at present.
One glimpse and you fall in love all over again. Seeing him, I felt all the quiet rapture that I felt – on Friday, October 1, 1982 – when he ambled into my life. On slipping in through the glass-paned door of a Hell’s Kitchen walkup, Merlin began weaving the most sustained, sublimed magic. Merlin, to look at him, was such an encapsulation of health and inner beauty. Goodness, I was completely blown away. Merlin wore a light, gauze-fabricked shirt that was very much so from the Indian Subcontinent. Caramel-coloured and ancient-looking, it was reminiscent of many of the ones he so favoured – ones which were perpetually sillaged with patchouli’s grounding signature.
The shirt was covered throughout with tiny rosebuds and other petals – exquisite. This was so Merlin in every refreshing detail. A long-sleeved shirt that was buttoned at the wrists, he wore, but with a bit of ballooning just aft the wrists. So thin and loose a fabric was it that it seemed diaphanous. Merlin was the picture of health, so much so that, his skin actually glowed near-imperceptibly. The light was the faint glow, which was the subtle undulating glow, of his aura.
This was much the effect that one would observe, if photographing someone, through a soft-focussed lens. Yet it was more than that, there was a definite hum to his aura’s vibration. There was so much flesh and vitality to his face and the rest of his still-rakish body that I was left overjoyed at the sight of him. His mane was beautifully coiffed in a long, leonine, gentle fall. Interestingly, it was not at all grey or greying. For that matter, Merlin’s hair was not greying as it was at the time of his passing.
Additionally, Merlin’s beard was not white. He looked like a much healthier version of himself, as he was at age thirty-five, when we met. It was so fuck-all fabulous to have seen him. It was great to have experienced him. Seated there, languorously looking into the forever of his familiar eyes, my spirit simply danced for joy. I vibrationally zinged at a higher frequency, on seeing him, to have experienced him yet again. To have drunk of his familiar spirit was that longed for elixir that my wandering soul so quenched.
Merlin silently looked over, validating that he recognised me, with the most intimate of smiles. A smile it was by which, for too long now, I had not been warmed. We communed, though our communication was telepathic, at the level of spirit. Our communication was not only mentally accomplished but it was emotionally complex and thorough. We immediately connected, more to the point, we did intimately connect. There was no getting around the fact of this having been why I had felt so compelled to quest, to journey, in search of this concert.
On finally having a rendez-vous with Merlin, what stellar music of souls this was. I knew, there and then, why I had been in transit making all these connections and travelling at such great speeds. I was in an astral plane metropolis, one which clearly served as a resting and inspirational space, for souls in transit – quite wonderful indeed. There I sat, on the fast-moving train, flying without moving. How utterly rapturous a living dream postcard this dream was – especially after our last profound encounter, a year ago. Sure, there had been other dream encounters during that interval.
This, however, was a dream of high order. This was a dream which existed at the same heights of spirit as that, on Saturday, July 25, 1992. Merlin’s eyes were so large, clear and focussed. Merlin here was so serene. He was transcendent. It blew my mind just to look at him. For resonating with him, I felt myself quivering with rapture. To feel the quiet purr of his spirit so close, and so familiar a spirit, was more than even I could have hoped for during pre-sleep meditations.
There was no getting around the fact that Merlin was now considerably more elevated than, when we last kissed in that dream, on Saturday, July 25, 1992. Merlin was now more in control. He had greater mastered his astral body since then. Back then, he wore a cloak that had a cowl. Merlin looked every bit the magus that he was. It was just like the cowled cloak that he had worn in our initial dream encounter, July 1978, four years before finally meeting on the physical plane.
Merlin here was so much more elevated than ever he had been in life or since his passing. Now, he was casually dressed but still looked every bit the magus. Indeed, Merlin here was the dream magus ascended. This dream was so very healing for my spirit. Then, on Saturday, July 25, 1992, Merlin was tying up loose – as he was experienced in that sublime dream. In that dream, Merlin thanked me for having served him nobly and in a healing capacity.
Thanks to his life task, Merlin had awakened the magus within me as I served him during his illness. This shared task of ours enabled me to become more spiritually focussed. As a result, as mentor to me, Merlin initiated my accelerated spiritual growth. In this dream, Merlin was simply saying hello. No postcard, across the seas of time and dimensions, could have been more beautiful a gift received. I could not believe that I was seeing Merlin. He did not, after having set out and sent me that one momentous dream on Saturday, July 25, 1992, have to send me yet another momentous dream. Yet here he was, by express transit no less, sending me a most magus, evolved and uplifting dream postcard.
Thank goodness my mind was fully aligned with spirit and the soul, as validated by my Venus-Uranus conjunction, enabling me to assimilate the potency and depth of this most sublime of gifts from Merlin. At that moment, when I found Merlin, the train was speedily travelling above-ground. The glow of his aura was further highlighted by the swells of sunlight, whose crests broke and oceanically flooded into the train, from the sunny outdoors. The merry sunlight added to the intensity of the encounter’s sensuality. I was so captivated by Merlin’s sublime beauty that I had not caught the conductor’s announcement.
A little dark-haired boy then announced that we would have to change trains. The boy had stepped up to a round circle, in the middle of the aisle, before the doors. In a vertical shaft of light, there the young, male astral guide stood perfectly still. He then announced to us the different transfer points – all of which he telepathically did.
Next, the sixth dream found all three of us – Merlin, the youthful astral guide and me – seated on a bunk in a rustic, near-dark, high-ceilinged bedroom. There were marvellous, dark wooden beams, high overhead in the ceiling, which created that familiar astral plane look. Whilst seated on the edge of the bunk, our legs dangled over the side. Merlin was on my immediate right as we visited side-by-side. His energies were so very warm and familiar. The house was unmistakably large, like everything else in this dimension. Incidentally, the ceilings here were vaulted. There was no mistaking that this dream was set on the astral plane.
*The key signature of the astral plane is its phenomenal architecture. The astral plane seems to serve as incubator and one from which great thinkers and movers, from time to time, come along and manifest their impressions thereof into the waking state. These great thinkers being architects such as: Antoni Gaudí, Frank Lloyd Wright and others. In these dreams, set on the astral plane, architecture is marked by the rustic, the aged, the organic – the fully concretised and usually in proportions that are not of this world. Everything seems much larger and more solid than even in the waking state.
There is nothing ephemeral about the architecture of the astral plane. The most impressive thing, about architecture on the astral plane, is the staggering amount of details that are worked into these true works of art. Structured and sound, one always immediately feels secure, is architecture on the astral plane. END.
The young, astral guide was on my left, silently holding the large book of photographs, as Merlin guided me through its pages. One series of photographs was of a guy who was water-skiing. The guy reminded me, as a matter of fact, of Maddox Pool. We looked at the photos which were taken, from the perspective of someone, at the rear of the boat to which he was tethered whilst skiing.
In one of the photos he had taken away his right hand, from the grip, to energetically grin and wave. The photos in the book were not static. They were holographic yet, somehow, they never extended beyond the page. They were three-dimensional but you were not looking at a film. Instead, you were looking down into a three-dimensional holographic image which was within the borders of each photo. It was in these shots that the waterskiing young man looked so much like Maddox.
He was dark-haired and the picture of health. The water was crystalline and eye-scorching blue. He was about twenty-two to twenty-three years of age – exactly the same age that I was when Merlin and I met in New York City. Merlin telepathically explained to me, as we looked at the photographs, that this photo was representative of himself after his first bout of pneumocystis with full-blown AIDS. Merlin told me that this was the nature of the work that he was presently doing.
Astral plane habitués, such as Merlin, after they had done work on themselves could elect to assist persons still incarnate and moving through the illness. The crisis of AIDS was so impactful, on humanity at this point, that those who were discarnate had to direct a great deal of energy planetside to those incarnates who were moving through the experience. When persons went from being advanced with HIV, all the way to being sick with full-blown AIDS, then they on the astral plane would work with them after their first bout of major illness.
Merlin explained that they were seen to have a resurgence of vitality because of the energy work, being directed to the incarnate full-blown persons, by astral plane habitués in his position. This is precisely as had been the case with Merlin, in the spring, summer and early autumn of 1988, after his first bout of pneumocystis – all of which abruptly atrophied when he was betrayed by that stupid drunken woman, Morag O’Hoare.
Merlin also intimated that the energy work came not only from persons such as him, between lives on the astral plane, as well as from souls above and beyond the astral plane. This was energy that they were sharing, with afflicted physical plane habitués, which they could then use to sustain their lives for a year or two or even a decade plus. Merlin further shared that they could indefinitely live on, to the full course of their lives, if they so chose.
Though they were fully capable of surviving long-term with the virus, which allegedly led to AIDS, people planetside had not yet made the realisation that they did not have to atrophy and die because they had tested positive for the HIV virus or for going full-blown with AIDS. This ability, of afflicted incarnates, to live on had to do with willpower. Choice was the issue in this situation. They must have wanted to remain incarnate.
They must have wanted to live and to accomplish certain tasks. The nature of the support system, that one surrounded oneself with, was crucial to being able to become long-term survivors. Persons really did not have to pass on so soon, Merlin intimated, after discovering that they were HIV positive or full-blown with AIDS. Humanity presently had such stultifying fear of death that afflicted persons ended up, literally, terrifying themselves to death. It did not help much that there were so many stigmas associated with AIDS. At present humanity, for the most part, did not yet realise that death was merely but a refocussing of one’s energies.
“Death…” said Merlin “…was no big deal. Come on, look at me. I’m here, aren’t I? How different am I?” he intoned in a quiet whisper rather than telepathically. ‘Can’t argue that one,’ I thought.
Merlin was as human and as real as, he had ever been every day of our being together, during our glorious seven-year relationship. Even though I could see him, and indeed touch him, he was so much more evolved and frankly better off for being in that dimension of purified vibration. This was definitely not the normal domains of the dreamtime. From the regular confines of the dreamtime, I had travelled – to this conduit space within the astral plane – to be able to experience Merlin from his regions of the astral plane which are exclusively inhabited by the discarnate.
We met in a dimension wherein persons, both discarnate and incarnate, could meet and interact. It was quite solid here and rarefied too. To be able to have experienced Merlin left me so immensely happy. Merlin further explained that people tended to die so soon, after having become full-blown with AIDS, because the spectre of dying became a vortex of fears – enervating energies – that literally depleted their reserves of willpower and caused them to die sooner rather than later.
By becoming so obsessed, with fear of death and the stigma of dying of AIDS, those subjects simply became victims of their own fears. Merlin said that they had to turn that vortex into a white hole rather than an imploding, enervating, gnawing black hole of fear. Such a vortex proved a vacuum that sucked the very life out of the afflicted and caused them to die what was clearly a premature death. Once transmuted, this vortex could be used to assist one to go on to live a very productive life.
This energy could simply be used to fuel oneself and serve as a conduit to channel pure, life-sustaining energies from discarnate souls, such as him, on the astral plane. This would ultimately enable one to stay focussed, in the afflicted life, for considerably longer. The thing to remember was that the mind did not have to become afflicted with fears because the body had become impaired by disease. All over the world, Merlin assured me, the afflicted could choose to triumph over fear of imminent death and it was being done with increasing success.
This vortex of transformed fears could, according to Merlin, become a catalyst for undertaking a great deal of spiritual work. The amount of growth that could be pulled off for becoming thus focussed, Merlin assured me, was no light matter. As Merlin imparted this wisdom, I was being illumined to this revolutionary approach to life and death which heretofore, I had not before thought of the paradigm in this manner. It, however, made perfect sense.
What was really impressive, about all this, was having Merlin return now as a teacher. He was so wise and magus. I felt absolutely proud of him. He was a guide to me, sharing of the wisdom that he has gained in his trans-dimensional sojourn thus far, as the realised dream magus who had long set out ahead of his much-loved adept and companion magus. I can’t say enough how very pleased that I was to have seen him. I was so moved by Merlin. It was simply profound.
I was so incredibly happy to see Merlin. The windows to the large hall, in which we visited, were all closed. This caused the place to be dimly and intimately lit. Here, it was very womb-like and nurturing.
After that intimate visit together, followed by journeying on some more, we arrived at this the seventh dream. On returning to the large terminus, we had to take yet another series of trains. We arrived after much high-speed travel at another terminus. This one was far larger than any before which I had visited. Here, the terminus was above-ground and wide-open at both ends. Multiple tracks were everywhere and veered off in all directions. After we got on board the train, as before he had, the little dark-haired boy who served as astral guide came up and stood in the centre of the aisle.
Here, there were many people with kids and several persons were travelling with a ton of baggage. They were carting around all this baggage which they really did not need. This baggage merely served to weigh them down and impeded their forward advancement. They did not yet realise that they did not need it. Neither Merlin nor I had any baggage. Similarly, the young astral guide had no baggage. Somehow, because of the travelling requirements here, I couldn’t ride in the same car as Merlin. Instead I rode one car behind him on the same train.
On pulling up into the large station, there was a PA notice that indicated that the train we were on would not go any further. We would apparently have to transfer at the next station on disembarking. The announcer said that one would be able to find one’s appropriate ride by following the colour-coded lines on the platform. When I got off onto the platform, I began running ahead to the front of the platform in search of Merlin. Not for anything did I want to lose him now.
A couple had impeded my progress as they wobbled along with a ridiculous amount of baggage. The luggage was so much dream symbolism – inasmuch as there is such a thing. These persons represented newcomers to the astral plane. More importantly, they represented persons who had recently died and returned to the astral plane but who also happened to be fairly young-souled. They were dead yet not already fully aware. Just as they were spiritually blind, when incarnate, they now progressed. They were now hobbling about, carting around all this baggage, as if they could truly ‘take it’ with them.
With them was all this Maya, the baggage of their perceptions and the worldviews, which had held them hostage whilst incarnate. Here they were, on the astral plane, arrivés habitués carting around mindsets that were totally redundant. What I found unique here was that no one interfered with anyone. No one came to their aid telling them that it was not necessary for them to be carting around all this baggage. Furthermore, they were repressed such that they appeared these Boteroesque persons – bloated in the style of Fernando Botero sculptures.
Their little merchant class worldviews had had them well-preserved, and puffed up, with pompous self-aggrandising notions of their greatness. They did look truly South American in that pretentious sense. They looked not unlike some of the parvenu-looking subjects of Fernando Botero’s paintings and sculptures. They were truly lost souls both here and when previously incarnate.
I, on the other hand, was nimbly walking whilst bounding down the platform. I had hoped to reconnect with Merlin whom I knew had also gotten off at the same stop. Here, too, in this station all the railings were orange and sturdy-looking. Rushing ahead of the Boteroesque couple, who vibrationally felt as if made of the heaviest metals in the universe, I noticed something truly spectacular.
High up in the walls of this terminus the wall would simply open up, much as a camera lens’s aperture would, then from the gaping hole would stream out a train at full speeds. The train was, as it were, intersecting dimensions. This fantastical train was, along with several others that I had noticed, simply splicing through our pocket of the astral plane en route to heaven-only-knows-where. At the far side of the terminus another aperture-like portal would gapingly open to accommodate the approaching airborne train.
Soon after, the train would be lost into the black void which moments earlier had opened up. Those trains, like the others, were massive and looked as though the stateliest trains from the late nineteenth-to-early twentieth centuries. More than that, they barrelled through the air without travelling on any overhead tracks. What’s more, they progressed as if along well-mapped out routes.
Some were higher than others. Others intersected our little cul-de-sac of the astral plane, in a diagonal manner, cutting perfectly across the immense width of the terminus. These trains, just like all the others, seemed so imposing for being as massive and as multi-carriaged as they were. Despite the fantastical spectre of these trains, the matter of Merlin’s whereabouts was of paramount concern. On noticing the initial train, I peripherally recalled that there had been a similar such train piercing through the earlier terminus. However, its outréness had remained peripheral or not readily assimilated.
Just as described over the PA system, there was a series of colour-coded lines on the platform. These colour-coded lines indicated where one had to venture, in order to make the appropriate connections, back to one’s final destination. As could be expected, the trains were all very massive. What’s more, they were distinctively leaden and stylistically looked as if straight out of the 1930s. They were very art deco trains indeed.
One of the trains was silver and black. It was a tone of black that was truly austere. The silver was used for most of the detailing. Its silverwork was so opulent that, by comparison, it made Erté’s deco sensibilities seem bland. Somehow, I knew that it was the one that I was expected to take. In all, there were two trains that I was supposed to have transferred to. This black and silver train was energetically the densest-feeling one of all the trains that I had seen.
This, I think, was the case because it travelled between this locale and the density of the physical plane – the waking state. Nonetheless, all that I could think of was Merlin. I did not want to lose contact with him. As ever, he had done in the waking state, I had initially seen him leaving the train then gone energetically bounding down the platform. With so many people everywhere, and for having been impeded by the Boteroesque couple, I had lost sight of him. My mind busily raced as I thought of the horror of possibly having to lose him here.
I did not want our encounter to end just like that. Besides, we were supposed to have gone off somewhere. I came down off the platform, desperate to find him again, by using a narrow flight of stone stairs. From there, I crossed the tracks ahead of the austere-looking train that I was supposed to have taken. No sooner than had I crossed its track that I saw, off in the far end of the terminus, an unusual-looking train.
It was stationed beneath a sunlight-flooded awning. It was a most unique mode of transportation. A series of long horizontal slabs, hovering off the ground, they lined one after the other. They were, basically, the floors of boxcars that had no wheels, no sidings and no roofs to them. They were, if you like, just a series of hovering rectangular slabs à la magic carpets. The awning, beneath which it was stationed, gave a sense of how truly massive this hangar-like terminus was. It was then, too, that I saw Merlin.
I had recognised him by the brown tweed cap that he always wore in the waking state. To look at his body, he was the sexiest human imaginable. Merlin still could work his magic on me. Merlin wore a faded pair of blue bell-bottomed cotton slacks. A pair of well-worn, doe-skinned shoes was familiarly upturned at the toes.
He was so true to form – realistic. This was so very Merlin and so like the Merlin, whom I had known so very intimately, but for the fact that he was not smoking a ganja joint. Also unlike the sublime dream encounter, on Saturday, July 25, 1992, he was not wearing his gold-rimmed round glasses. Naturally, he did not need those things anymore. It was so very good to see Merlin. Here, he was my astral guru – indeed, the transcendent dream magus had returned to impart his magical wisdom.
Merlin was so phenomenally alive and real. I was moved beyond belief to see him. So excited was I, to have found him again, that I went rushing up to greet him where he hung out on one of the slabs. Thrilled and delighted, I let out an excited squeal. Soon enough, I grew immediately self-conscious of the fact that no one here verbally communicated. In one graceful balletic leap, I went rushing up onto the platform broadly grinning. My love for him welled up from the very bosom of my soul. As soon as I got there, I realised that everyone else was seated in these circular groupings.
They sat in lotus position and faced inwards towards each other. Merlin was part of a circle of men, seven deeply meditative men, all of whom looked just as transcendent and centred as did he. They seemed to be so deeply engaged, at the level of spirit, as if a part of a coven of magi who were engaged in group energy work. Their silence was impactful – there was so much being said and done in its weighty stillness.
Merlin’s eyes were so brilliant and clear yet there was a fecund agedness to them. The clarity came from the intense focus of his energies, where he presently is, in his transition through the discarnate progression. They were older-souled eyes; there was no way to get around that fact. I realised, there and then, that I wasn’t supposed to have been there at all. So pleased was I to be with him, too eager to telepathically communicate, I began chatting aloud. It was a way to wrestle his full attention as there was no way that I could have competed with the union of spirits and minds that they shared.
They were simply too deeply telepathic, “Look Merlin, why can’t you come on this train with me? I don’t want to be here on this one. When we start moving, it’s only going to aggravate my allergies which are acute right now in the waking state. It’ll be too much wind, too much exposure to pollen. It’s just going to affect my allergies too much. There’ll be too much wind blowing in my face. Look, I really don’t know if I want to do this. Why can’t we go on the other one?”
The moment at which I paused, after having posed my questions, Merlin seized control of the dynamic. Very firmly, he entered my mind and said, “Be still. Be quiet. Don’t rush. Don’t you understand? I don’t care to go there. I don’t care what you want… what you desire. I’m going to stay on this one. Besides, it’s what I have to do. I’m going this way…”
When he intoned that last phrase, from the inflection and weight he telepathically used, I realised that there was no way that I could leave this place but on board that austere-looking silver and black deco train. Merlin implied, by his intonation, that the conventional old train was the one that I had to use to safely ferry me back to the waking state. Clearly, he couldn’t take that train because it was too mechanical.
It represented the past and the density, when incarnate, of his former physically ensouled state. He was now in a dimension of existence which was vibrationally infinitely less dense. Even the mode of transportation, for his dimension, was more advanced. There was no denying that these levitating slabs were being kept aloft by their focussed, united wills – Merlin and his kindred spirits’.
To have entered their midst, the air and the Chi were intensely purified. On entering the vibrational sphere of their midst, I instantaneously felt lighter in my body. Their seating formations only intensified their energies and focussed their thoughts and wills. It is safe to say that in these formations, they became a unit. They were a shared consciousness of sorts. They did though each still possess a will of their own. This was clearly the case with Merlin who was able, independent of his circle mates, to exert his own will when asking me not to be an intrusive presence.
He was never hostile but he simply asked that I not be so inconsiderate of their need for privacy. Meanwhile, the six others patiently waited for him. You cannot imagine how mentally powerful these seven men were – individually and as a shared consciousness. They patiently waited for me to either calm down or simply take my leave of them. What was really intriguing, in all of this, was the fact that they did not have a preference whether I should stay or leave. That choice was exclusively up to me.
It was truly insightful – they simply had no emotional engagement and were totally objective. This was so much like the Merlin I had always known. It was so good to see him that I really did not want to leave. There was no way that I would pass up on this most rare of treasures found. On calming my nerves, I directly looked Merlin in the eye and said, “Okay, I accept… I accept…. I accept. I realise that I was being so selfish. Do forgive me. I know how selfish I can get at times.”
Yet there sat Merlin supremely long-suffering and patient. I would not, nor could I, deny myself the elixir of those eyes. Impishly, I added, “Okay, please, let me come some of the way with you, at least. I don’t know. I don’t care…” For breaking protocol and wanting to leave this place by going in his direction, I was more or less quieting my own fears. I would gladly have given up the ghost, as it were, just to go on journeying with him.
As his eyes warmly smiled into me, a discernible smile drifted across his large, lucidly focussed face. I was thrilled. He telepathically suggested that I take a seat, which I did, just outside of the circle. Two of them shifted their positions signalling that I join the circle rather than not. The moment that I entered the circle of beings, which included Merlin, the procession of levitating greyish slabs began moving. They had been hovering, just above a groove that sat, between two knolls. These rolling mounds were covered by the most verdant cropped grass that zinged with a whisper of misty dew.
Instantaneously, we were moving at faster-than-sound through to faster-than-light speeds. It was immensely thrilling an experience for me. Merlin sat with his back always to the front of the procession of slabs. In that sense, he was in a powerful position. We were seated towards the end of the third or fourth platform. Each platform-like slab contained several clusters of seven asexual-looking men – even Merlin looked asexual.
Even more interesting, along the lines of the Michael Teachings, was that there were six or seven clusters of six to eight individuals in the tight circular formations. Here everyone was in lotus position. There were never any doubts in my mind that Merlin and every last one of these discarnate individuals were the ones whose focussed wills were directing the travel of this light trip. This was so right up Merlin’s alley – unabashed magic.
Each levitating slab measured roughly ten feet across by close to fifty feet at least. They were linear and, though wafer-thin, had the most softly plush comfortable surface. They were just as soft as if we were seated on satin throw cushions. The speeds with which we travelled were phenomenal. I did not experience any discomfiture for moving at such great speeds. There was simply a whizzing blur of everything, outside the confines of our progressing procession of levitating slabs.
We travelled some four feet off the ground as we jetted away from the hub terminus. The winds never affected us, nor did my body experience the increased G-forces, for travelling at such great speeds. The landscape sped past, even more rapidly than when on board the trains. Of course, when on board the trains, we were then in an enclosed environment. Yet here, as there, we were not at all affected by the winds. As a matter of fact, this proved an infinitely smoother ride than when travelling on the conventional trains.
There weren’t any of the chattering minds, for one, as experienced when on the conventional trains. So deeply internalised was this place that there was nothing but Zen order. No wonder Merlin so loved Johann Sebastian Bach’s artistry because it was so wonderfully suited to the ambience of this place.
*It was as though, this place was the grove to which he gravitated between lives. It gave him the sense of serenity, of order and of peace, which was so readily discerned to the core of his being. At such times, Merlin would become lost – grow intimate and private with his very spirit – for listening to Glenn Gould’s mastery of J.S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Merlin’s intellect, at such times, would become expansive. Each time, his spirit and intellect were sensed, he would be spatially experienced. Quite simply, for experiencing him at such times, there is no other way to articulate how one would feel. END.
All around us were wonderful, rolling green plains situated in a vast expansive vista. Everything was so thrillingly filled with life. For travelling at such intense speeds, we were left in a heightened state of sensitivity – or at least I definitely was. Perhaps, this was par for the course with Merlin and his kindred spirits. I, on the other hand, found this so new and exciting for my dreamer self. Everything zinged with more abundant negative ions, at concentrations that were more pronounced, than in the waking state.
This dimension was a harmonious mélange of pure thought and pure emotion. It was so invigorating and completely centring. Pure emotion, minus the trappings of ego, it gave the sense of Merlin and his kindred spirits’ transcendent nature. There was an audible drone discerned here, to our splicing progress through space, which seemed as if their combined breaths held in a sustained meditative hum. Truly serene a spiritually uplifting experience this was. How transcendent they each were, too.
This sound was so intense and pure that it can best be described as being audible light. The sensations and emotions I experienced were so thrilling that I couldn’t believe such intensity of joy could be experienced whilst incarnate. At that moment, the experience was heightened when Merlin and I both directly looked into each other’s eyes. In that moment of connectivity, mere words could never do justice to what I experienced. We were truly intimate soul-to-soul.
Looking off to his right, impregnating me with this most beauteous gift, Merlin oceanically poured his very soul into me. This was the most sublime postcard yet, that he had sent across the seas of time, from his journey up ahead. I couldn’t ever have imagined that any gift could be so profound, beautiful and cherished. Looking to the left, I had done so as he had telepathically entered my mind, saying a warm and intimately familiar hello.
Slipping into my moist, expanded intellect, I felt the familiar purr of Merlin’s soul as he edged closer and squinged up next to me soul-to-soul. How many nights had we gotten this close when he was incarnate… Yet none of that – physical intimacy – could have compared to the exquisite ticklish touch of his soul deep within me. This was such a massiveness of spirit that I experienced. I couldn’t believe that I was feeling the intensity of sensations and insights as I was experiencing. This was such a massive experience that to look at Merlin the giddy ecstasy that I felt caused me to whiteout.
This had been fostered, too, by the enriching stimuli that bombarded my totality as the levitating slabs sped on. The feel of experiencing nature, as we so rapidly sped by, only made the vibrations of everything that much more pronounced. As I moved without moving, my body quivered throughout. Looking to my left into the most intimate pair of eyes that I have known thus far in this lifetime, I thrillingly flew whilst seated there in lotus position. Merlin’s eyes being the pair that has been more intimate than any other… This moment of Zen bliss caused me to quickly draw on a sharp breath.
As though I were nodding off, my body had bobbed a tad. With that I lucidly awoke – my body quivered as I remained in bed on my back looking up into and beyond the off-white ceiling. Merlin alas quite cleverly had hypnotised me, back into wakefulness, with one sensual look.
By far, those dreams were among the most truly uplifting dreams of this incarnation. There is not a year that passes since then that I don’t recall these dreams with the greatest fondness and humility. So, alas, dream your dreams of wonder – for having been so richly inspired by mine. Sweet dreams, you!
As the Moon progressed through the early degrees of Gemini, transiting my first house, I would on taking to bed, slip up past the folds of restfulness. There, I would awaken into the most lucid dream experiences had in long ages. It was Saturday, July 25, 1992 – long after Merlin’s passing.
Regardless your combination, there is no greater gift to receive than the love of another to whom one has chosen to completely give of self. There is no greater validation of love’s superiority than to experience love from another, who has transitioned onto the next octave in that soul’s maturation, in a lucidly awakened dream as this shared between Merlin and me.
We have all loved and been loved and may you dear dreamer, by opening yourself up, experience your own moments of rapture as I did in this rhapsodic astral plane encounter with the one, the man, the elfin, the fuck-all fabulous, the ganja-smoking, groovy shaman from Babylon, Merlin!
The mark of a truly great love affair is the fruit it bears… dreams.
The first dream was set, at nighttime, in Sandy Point, St. Kitts where I had spent my childhood. I was playing in the street, well past midnight, with three local youths. All Rastafarians, too, they were all in their twenties. I was my present age – thirty-one. They were younger. Everything about them was very real. There was a direct focussed tenor to their gaze; they looked into you. I felt very edgy with all this probity.
We had been acrobatically playing, in the street in front of the church, in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. Of course, that same church Harella had built twenty-two years prior in the waking state. I tried not to outshine them, with my leaping tumbles, for fear of escalating the tension in the air. There was an edge to our interactions. It was a tension born of my having been so long off-island and their being suspicious, I thought, of my outré sexuality.
Just then, I noticed a light streaking across the star-punctured sky. In a bid to diffuse the tension between us, I drew their attention to it. However, I soon noticed that its progress was unusual. There was also something distinctly different about this light. It caused me to recall similar icons in dreams past – each had presaged rather momentous visions. Like all those before it, this streaking light seemed a silent observant probe. Immediately, I became open to what this comet-like streaking star could later reveal.
I began to explain to the youngest Rastafarian who was an impish, sexually-dynamic beauty – he was not the least bit self-conscious of his missing front teeth – that it was no doubt a very high geostationary satellite that had bombed and was now crashing to Earth. Further, I speculated that it was no doubt an orbiting space shuttle presently reflecting Sol’s intense light. As I spoke, I knew that I did not really believe either explanation but I thought that the ideas were a good way to ameliorate my position in the dynamic. The ruse failed to have done the trick. On returning my attention to the group, I was sent bolting – the leader was menacingly lunging through the air towards me, with a raptor’s ease, in eager flight.
Soon I also was in flight being chased through the streets of a Sandy Point, St. Kitts which quickly morphed and shifted becoming, more and more populous, like parts of old Havana. I was not certain which city this was but I was definitely still in the Caribbean.
I managed to escape into a house where I very energetically fought off their advance, securing the locks to the front door, thereby shutting them out. I climbed up the narrow and steep flight of stairs, in near-darkness, to the safety of the second storey. Winded and more enraged than stunned, at their behaviour, I took the time to gather my breath. I briefly visited with my aunt Pilar do Aragão† and Pandora – the latter whom Merlin favoured the most of my siblings. They were unaware of the tumult that I had just endured.
I took refuge in the darkened front of the house’s second storey. Next I found myself, in one of those rare dream moments, actually falling asleep whilst lucidly dreaming. I nodded… on recovering, I found that I had come to in an apartment. It was one more opulent than the one in which I had just grown suddenly drowsy. On a red antique chaise longue, in the most beautifully dark, wood-panelled, high-ceilinged digs that I had ever seen, I was now seated. Across the room was an open door that led out to a veranda.
A dark awning provided ample shade and allowed just the cool tropical breezes to laze in satiating the spirit. To have awakened into this new dreamspace had left my awareness more sensitised… more absorbing. The dream became more lucid and any sense of time dissolved. This left every moment infused with a sense of mysticism – magic even. It definitely felt like the West Indies here, perhaps, old-money Haïti or Guadeloupe if not Cuba.
Slowly, I drank in every detail of the stately furnished room. There were, on both walls to my left and right, floor-to-ceiling shelves which were not untidily crammed with old leather-bound volumes – some red, some brown, most were black. Slowly, from where I reclined, I pinpointed my vision to check the titles of some of the books. Thus I was able to see and read them, as intimately, as if I had gotten up and gone to stand before them closely peering. They were mostly ancient volumes. However, the script was not vaguely recognisable like any of the innumerable ones on the other, more familiar side of the dreamtime.
My spirit soared, as I felt fully relaxed, in this most bucolic of dreams. Strangely, though not unusual for the realm of the dreamtime, I felt that for having looked at these laden bookshelves my mind had absorbed the library’s voluminous wealth. Just then there was movement, to my right, across the room. I saw a cat that looked much like Whoopi. It appeared from behind one of three sofas, skulking towards another, situated opposite across the room.
Each sofa, like the chaise longue on which I reclined, had beside it a small round table. Each table was covered in either rich, dark earthy damask or actual rugs in deep though muted red. I was immediately reminded of the round table, across which sat the sibylline woman from Merlin and I, in the dreams of September 4, 1988. I sat up calling her name,
“Whoopi! Whoopi!” at which moment, the cat shimmered and became Julio – our black cat at 20 Amelia Street in Cabbagetown who, like Whitney before him, was killed in a hit-and-run as he ran across Amelia Street on New Year’s Eve, 1987. As I watched the cat disappear behind one of the three sofas, which accompanied my chaise longue, my mouth froze open in amazement. Whilst I assimilated that one and thought to myself that this certainly was a most unusual and lucid dream, there was utter stillness.
The cat’s metamorphosis had discernibly shifted the vibration of the dream. Now time seemed considerably measured as compared to its usual frenetic rhythm. The door in the far right corner then opened… into the room walked Merlin.
*I can’t here relay the rapture I felt on seeing him but the ecstatic descriptive of dream audio-cassette recording, for that day, comes fairly close. END.
Overwhelmed with emotion, my body quivered throughout. I tried to rouse from my reclining position. My arms outstretched to him, I greeted him squealing with delight. He stood, just in the entrance, raising his brows with the left familiarly arched higher. Staying me with the index and middle fingers of his raised right hand,
“No, don’t get up…” I heard Merlin direct me with the quiet familiarity that our intimacy knew.
This directive I telepathically experienced as though we were squinging up in bed, in the dark, at 20 Amelia Street in Toronto’s Cabbagetown. Our souls tickled, at such times, as we listened to some glorious thunderstorm drowning out the dog days of a too-hot-and-humid, Toronto summer. I obliged, sitting upright on the edge of the plush chaise longue, for the first time placing my feet on the beautifully designed and predominantly red rug. His face warmed towards me in a smile.
At once my mind expanded, simultaneously processing on multiple levels, becoming even more awakened. Rapture… pure rapture – I was enthralled. Here again, Merlin wore all the evolved energies that he had in that first dream encounter – that dream, of course, set in a Pacific west coast rainforest that was not unlike Vancouver Island’s Cathedral Grove in July 1978. A dream, of course, which occurred four years before I would physically meet him in the waking state.
Slowly, he walked the short distance of the room towards me. A breeze coming from the veranda not only cooled the place but it shifted the ambiance and made the place grow dimmer. The dimness highlighted the definite soft yellow glow that girdled his entire form. I sat there thinking,
‘My god, I can actually see your aura Merlin.’
He smiled and I was reminded that everything that I thought was instantly being telepathically shared. I was passive… moreover I was ripened as though I had just experienced an Alfred Brendel recital. I felt so lightheaded that I firmly pressed down both my palms, into the chaise longue’s plush red velvet, bracing myself. Merlin came and stood before me. He was casually dressed in loose, earthen woollen clothing. A cloak he wore stylishly draped about his narrow shoulders with its cowl removed.
As I looked up into his face, besotted by the beauty of his soul’s magic, he slowly arched his left brow in the way he had always affected when he wanted to be intimate. Merlin’s magical expression was exactly as it was, that gibbous-Moon October night, when we met in Babylon – which now for him was truly a lifetime removed. My face liquidly melted away in a smile. I was warmed by the knowledge that I was dreaming and that here before me was a man, Merlin, with whom I had shared such wonderful fortune. He had shared his grace, along with his beauty and his intellect, in the most magical combination with me.
As we made eye contact, still never having said a word, he slowly knelt into the bay of my open legs. Enthralled, my eyes slowly and unflinchingly shifted to look down into his as now he knelt before me. He wore his glasses, his beard cropped close, his hair styled in a leonine full-bodied mane. Moreover, I was moved by just how much this pose reflected the last night we had spent together – November 17, 1989. With an acuity rarely achieved in the waking state, my mind lucidly assimilated this rapturous encounter.
Here before me knelt Merlin. Merlin was the very embodiment of wholesome health, healing my spirit, releasing me from so much of the pain that I had endured. Like that last night of his life, before dying of AIDS, I was overcome with emotion. However, owing to the healing that this moment affected, now I wanted to melt in tears of joy. More than that, the moment’s poignancy rose from how uncannily it mirrored our final encounter.
About his slender long neck, Merlin wore a necklace of thick, copper-coloured coil that looked not the least bit malleable. The coil was half an inch in diameter and set with beautiful large crystals of various colours. The coil moved through each stone’s centre and each stone was deeply etched with golden hieroglyphs. Although Mayan hieroglyphs bore the closest resemblance, the inscriptions resembled none in this planet’s long history.
The effect of the bronze-coloured coil and crystals was grounding. The crystals gave off a low rumbling hum that was felt. It was akin to the definite effect of my pyramid, in the waking state, but easily thrice as intense. There were seven crystals in all. Principally, there was the large, smoky rough-hued quartz set at the bottom of the circular coil.
Its design slowly shifted from within but its glow seemingly originating elsewhere. It was huge and by far the most powerful. One quarter the way around the circle, which was duplicated on the opposite side, there were three crystals. The crystal in the middle was like nothing imaginable in the waking state. It was a coppery-bronzed colour with hints of blue-lapis lazuli dust throughout which actually glistened.
With any slight movement, the dust shifted becoming copper-coloured. When the colour shifted, I experienced a correspondingly subtle shift in the serenity that I felt. The unusual central crystal was flanked by two small and perfectly clear crystals. They were more radiant and powerful than any multiple-carat diamond yet found in the waking state.
It was actually difficult to sustain my focus on their exquisite beauty overlong. They were dynamic and seemingly made of the heaviest element imaginable. I was so pleased to see Merlin. The necklace he wore was like a grounding conductor. Seemingly, in order to manifest from his dimension to this dimensional dreamspace, he needed the energies of the crystals to join me.
He wore an argyle sweater that was not unlike one of the pastel ones I had bought him one Christmas. This one though was an earthy brown which he had, years earlier, interestingly claimed to have preferred. He effortlessly removed the crystal necklace placing it at my feet. The humming abruptly ceased. The crystals’ effect immediately shifted. I actually felt a cool energy, from the crystals, buzz through my entire body travelling from my feet to the crown of my head.
I watched as he detached the different crystals and made sure to leave the central one on the coil. Somehow, he was able to remove the six crystals from the coil though the coil remained a perfectly whole circle. As he kept placing the crystals, in different circular formations at my feet, he kept looking up at me with the warmest direct stare. Each formation affected a different temporal lobe and corresponding area of my body.
I was experiencing crystals with a potency that never before had I known in the waking state. I felt splayed by the experience. There were times that I felt as though my body and head were being stretched – elastically elongated with an ease nowhere else possible except the astral plane in the dreamtime. I thought then how absolutely incredible this man Merlin was – how truly fortunate I was to have met him, to have known him, to love him.
The lights noticeably further dimmed in the room. Next, the central large crystal grew black changing into the most unusual design. There had been an incredible energetic drain from me – energy which I suppose was collected in the now-transformed crystal which had remained about the coil.
From his left breast pocket, Merlin retrieved a little black pouch. As he looked down at it, I said to him,
“Oh my god Merlin, you are so beautiful…”
I knew that I was dreaming and I was thinking at the time,
‘…I will never be able to meet you, again. I’ll never see you again. You’ll never be that perfect mélange of bloodlines that created the magic that was your every idiosyncrasy.’
He looked up and smiled making me again realise that everything, we said without speaking, was so very clearly, readily known to the other.
As he opened the little black pouch, my lips trembled. I looked at those utterly gentle fingers that, I thought in passing, were now ashes in the earth at Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery,
‘Oh yes… those fingers, those beautiful delicate fingers.
‘Oh my god, yes…’ I simultaneously thought,
‘…These fingers, I will never see; they’ll never touch me again in the waking state – they’ll never exist again.’
Then, as if to eclipse my melancholy, he gently took my right hand in his. Merlin’s still-sensual hands purposefully began pouring the little, black pouch’s contents into mine. The touch of him was as intimate and as gentle, an evocative memory, as absent waves heard distantly lapping ashore on the beach in Pump Bay during childhood. How, as in the still of the night, my mind would race wondering of what new vistas I was yet to dream – when I was a child in St. Kitts.
All along, I had restrained the desire to touch him for he seemed so much more evolved. Truth be told, I was afraid that to physically reach out to touch him would only dissolve the dream. Naturally, for becoming emotionally overwhelmed, the fear was that I would undoubtedly whiteout. However, his touch was so real and so very familiar that I let out a heavy familiar sigh.
Into my palm spilled a dozen, perhaps more, of the most beautiful tiny crystals that were quite powerful. The touch of them actually made my mind further expand. My head seemed to contort, once again, with an élan that matched the lightning speed with which I assimilated the intense energies from the clutch of crystals into me.
They were more leaden, easily by ten times, than their small size betrayed. They glowed and they were decidedly hypnotic. They emitted a sense of music that was more experienced than heard. In spite of the fact that they glowed, I brushed aside the beauty of them and chose instead the real magic. I took his free hand with mine and began holding it, rubbing it, squeezing it.
Even more intently, I looked overjoyed into his arrestingly soulful eyes. I began groaning, moaning, I was overcome with intense emotion. This was, by far, the most alive and most lucid dream with Merlin since his passing some three years ago. I wanted more… I wanted no moment of this great intimacy to stop.
I asked him to remove his glasses so that I could really look at his eyes. He obliged and when he removed them his eyes weren’t their smoky grey-hazel-faded blue. They were brown, in fact, but they were his eyes and I thought, ‘My god, you’ve got brown eyes,’ to which he slightly blushed.
He wore a beard; it was the usual bushy affair. His lips were so moist, I said, “My darling, kiss me.”
Taking the lead, as I had when we met, I held the bottom of his ticklish beard and reached up his face to mine as I bent down. We kissed each other. It readily became a wonderfully slow and timeless dance high up our entwined greenhouses. My spirits soared to even greater heights. It was the greatest pleasure.
It was quite simply a sensory whiteout. We did not use tongue. We just kissed each other on the mouth. Throughout, until it was no longer possible, our eyes remained perfectly glued to each other’s. I turned my head to the right to kiss him, again. It was a soft lingering kiss; it was a kiss of complete surrender in which was communicated so much.
As though he and I were two leviathan creatures swimming together in a sensual medium of liquid blue light, our intimacy was pure movement. This aqueous light medium was immensely heavy and inhibited our progression to a slow-motioned crawl. Progressing playfully, as though so many nanoseconds were deleted from each time-stretched moment, we effortlessly danced alone. We were together and enraptured in a universe just for two – Merlin and me.
It was such great pleasure that, in its shared intimacy, it reflected the idiosyncrasies that we had known so well. It was a continuation of the dance we familiarly had always intimately known. It was such incredible intimacy that when the kiss was concluded the dream dissolved…
I sighed, on a deep sustained breath, besotted with the beauty of Merlin’s spirit. This was a most rare dream, a most soulful of dreams, with the dream magus. The sound of my breath was so loud that I actually felt the weight of my high-dreamer self as I crashed back into my body from, being astral-projected, high up the astral plane.
I felt fatigued, I felt spent, as is customary with such dream travel. Whilst remaining still, I kept my lids shut. Focussing on my weary breath, I allowed myself to drift upwards again. This time, I melted into true sleep where I could rest and recoup my energies. I awoke, about an hour later, in the nearly dark room of my tiny Queen Street West apartment in Toronto. Rested, I was truly rejuvenated after all that astral projection in the first sleep cycle.
As is customary with reparatory sleep, there were no dreams recalled of the second sleep cycle. I cried… I cried for joy. The realness of Merlin was so intense that after crying, for the first time since his passing, I grew aroused after dream contact. I savoured the beauty of this man, Merlin, my elfin-dream magus.
Pulling the black, satin blindfold back over my eyes, I slipped onto my stomach between the red satin bedding. Tightly holding on to a pillow, my left cheek pressed into it and the bedding drawn up over my head, I withdrew into a sweat lodge where I could continue communing with Merlin’s very soul.
My right knee drawn up, I allowed my rock-hard cock to ride up against the bedding and away from my tummy. Slowly, kneadingly, I ground my winding pelvis into the luxury of the bedding. Ploughing away, beyond its wet folds, I massaged my lusty thoughts deep and high up into the magical greenhouse. Whispering his name, my lips, my abs and body quivered.
From time to time, I managed my way up onto my toes. This allowed the exquisite play of cock and bedding to draw out greater pleasure. My abs ached. Whilst sweat sheened throughout my shivering body, I shuddered as the inside of my thighs violently tremoured. Merlin still knew how to work his magic on me.
Losing myself, my breath collapsed in repeated noisy, exhausted, shuddered grunts and groans. I whispered his name proclaiming my love to that point. In no other way could I have celebrated this truly profound astral plane encounter with Merlin in the dreamtime. As ever, hands-free auto-eroticism resulted in a most profuse and exquisitely pleasurable orgasm.
So richly deserving was I to have lost myself this way – beyond the usual daily auto-erotic ritual. I needed to savour this momentous dream encounter by making a solemn ritual of pleasurable thanksgiving. I had been moved anew by Merlin’s magic.
So much of what happens in the waking state is smothered by fear-based strictures like tribalism, classism, sexism, racism et al which results in one being preyed on – one’s very life threatened. Sadly too many proceed through their lives impervious of the Maya that effectively leaves them blind to the ties that bind us all together as souls incarnate in the human experience.
Being as awakened when awake as when asleep and dreaming, gives one a greater appreciation of the beauty of life and the beauty of all humanity. This awareness also allows one to see across the illusion of time.
This sensitivity and awareness affords one the ability to perceive and appreciate the gift of persons known and loved along the way – from lifetime to lifetime.
This visionary dream not only spans the rifts of time but it also gets to the heart of the love that binds all souls together. That love that endures regardless the strictures of the waking state and the perceptions of those involved.
The dream was rather magically and lucidly experienced, on Tuesday, January 9, 1996, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and near-conjunct the cusp of my fourth house.
*Prior to sleep, I meditated with crystals in the pyramid. I then focussed on being able to astral project, during sleep, to specific points on the astral plane where desired experiences could be had.
I opened myself up to, requested of my soul itself, pleasurable experiences with persons whom I have shared multiple past life experiences. Most of all, I was clear that the bonds had to have been predominantly of a positive nature.
Thus, I fell into sleep open to whatever laid ahead.
In the first dream, I was having a phone conversation with both Isis and Isabella. In some way, this involved much discussion about Pandora.
I had been concerned afterwards that I had not upset Pandora for having overly spoken of her. This is an area, her private affairs, which Pandora never treads into with anyone.
There was real pressure here, on both her siblings’ part, to see to it that Pandora went out and got herself a job. Both were furious with Pandora and claimed that she was not putting any effort into finding a job.
Concerned for Pandora, naturally, I thought of how possibly I could help her get grounded. I thought perhaps to phone Maddox Pool and see if he could not get her work in I.A.T.S.E.
However, I really did not think that Pandora would be able to adapt to such a work environment. Besides which, realistically, my connections to the place precluded her being able to get her foot through the door.
Since Owen Hawksmoor knew Pandora and her connection to me, I knew that Vikram Srinivasan would definitely not approve of her getting work there.
The next dream then found me in an incredibly far-off land. This is the only way that one can best describe this place. Here, it was nighttime out. A black capsule, in which one was able to sit, was being prepared.
An additional person could sit on one’s lap though it was basically a single-occupant capsule. It was shaped not unlike the lunar modules, which returned to Earth and landed in the ocean, during the Apollo missions to the Moon at NASA’s heyday in the late 1960s to early 1970s.
However, this capsule was conical. There were exceptionally tall men who wore black clothing that covered them from head to toe. Their faces were kept hidden by black visors. The capsule door was opened and closed by these same men who seemed like sentries.
At this point, when sitting in the closed capsule one would seemingly travel to distant places without moving. Of course, this was the astral projection that I had coveted during pre-sleep meditation whilst in the pyramid. Nonetheless, I became highly suspect of this capsule’s true purpose.
A couple was there with a young child. They wanted the child to sit in the mother’s open legs whilst she was already seated in the male parent’s opened legs. The three members of the family wore thick saffron robes.
For whatever reasons, the little girl tugged free of her mother’s embrace and began running away. Immediately, the sentries were hot on the heels of the child in a bid to apprehend her.
Of course, as it only validated my reservations about the true nature of this machine, this I did not find very reassuring. Opting out of taking a flight aboard the capsule, I shoved off instead and began flying.
I left the large hangar-like structure behind me and flew out into the outdoors. Next, I was beneath the awning of the building; the awning extended from the building for about fifty yards. It was a most massive structure!
The architectural proportions here were inordinately massive. The scale here was on the order that things appeared in that dream of Merlin, on July 9, 1993, which was truly astral… truly colossal.
I thought that I shouldn’t stay too close to the building – any of the sentries could come around the corner and apprehend me for having left the queue to the capsule.
I then held on to the awning’s beams whilst inverted much as though I were a fly on the awning’s underside. I then went to the right, of the far left corner, where persons were way below me who busily walked about on the sidewalk and in the infrequently trafficked street.
No one had noticed me. I did grow concerned, nonetheless, at being spotted from below thereby drawing unwelcome attention to myself. As I crawled along the awning, it gave way inside to the ceiling of a very noisy watering hole.
This bar was jam-packed with high-spirited persons. Not liking the energies here I crawled, still inverted, back into the large complex from which I had fled.
From inside I peered outside, beyond the awning, where I saw a large craft. White and massive, it made the Boeing 747-400 series look like a compact glider. The craft’s nose, however, more resembled that of the Concorde aircraft.
Thinking that the sentries were perhaps on the inside of the craft, I let go of the awning beams. Of course, these beams were the typical dark woods of the astral plane.
With that, I had resumed flying. Whilst still inverted, I flew from just inches below the beams. From time to time, I held on to a beam to get my bearings. At such times, I looked over my shoulder below and behind me.
I then went in through a proper entrance to the building which I used for crossing over to another section of the noisy bar. With that I then did a half-tumble, rolling over, to now face down to the patrons in the bar below.
Slowly and effortlessly, I floated down and alighted. I had not made too much of a spectacle of myself as there was a major disturbance happening in the bar to which everyone was noisily focussed.
A Hispanic man and another, who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas, were being especially rowdy. The bartender decided to maintain order and left his post to show them to the door. He was a large burly man.
The door, through which they had been ushered outside, had a view to the outdoors. The natural pathway from the bar led to a large tropical-looking growth beyond the complex.
Soon after they went outdoors, there was a sudden outbreak of light flashes. Basically, they had had a run-in of sorts or had been apprehended by the sentries who were clearly extra-humans. Soon after they had left the bar, I also headed outside.
In search of the Hispanic with the uncanny resemblance to Diego Lunamas, I had gone flying through the air. I had remained, when airborne, between ten and fifteen feet off the ground. My flight was slow; my flight was languorous. This was clearly astral projection.
The growth here was very thick. Enjoying the purity of their energetic signature, I flew through the trees whilst simultaneously revitalising myself in the process.
This soon gave way to an opening, in the thick growth, beyond which was the most breathtaking vista. These were by far the most beautiful trees imaginable. They were simply colossal.
Each arboreal’s trunk was about fifty feet across whilst they towered up at least a mile. I momentarily hovered whilst my entire body quivered throughout at the powerful vibration that they exuded.
This was a truly humbling experience for me. Right away, I was reminded of the ecstatic epiphany that I experienced on Boxing Day, 1972.
One tree snaked from the ground and rose up into the air. It leaned against the right side of a tree that was incredibly immense. It seemed a mile-high astral plane baobab.
Flying over, I landed on the trunk of one tree. This tree had two leaves that were frond-like but incredibly oversized. Whilst I stood on the trunk, a slight man – he looked Amerindian though likely Balinese or even Fijian – approached me.
*He seemed from an earlier age in human history. Of course, this was likely owing to the fact that he was yet another humanoid, extra-human species. END.
He suggested that I look at where the growth began. The vine-like trunk was some fifty to seventy-five feet in the air; it extended at an incline to a great distance far away. It was a truly fantastical tree.
There were the beginnings of the two frond-like leaves close-by. He told me that he used them to get milk. He said that the milk derived from this rare arboreal genus was used in all manner of applications.
He was a shaman. He was a true, innate dream magus.
I then noticed an indigenous ladder that they used to climb up the tree. Here it was nighttime. The frond-like leaves grew side-by-side and curled over. The leaves looked, as a matter of fact, not unlike umbrellas. It was these trees to which the locals came to harvest the vine-like tree’s milk.
I then began moving down the tree trunk growing concerned as the much-feared extra-humans were expected to return soon. They seemingly appeared at set intervals and their intentions were generally adversarial.
With that, I flew away and returned into the clearing. As I flew back, where there was now a large open area below, I saw a Black man who was an agricultural engineer. He carried a wheelbarrow of earth. He had placed the earth over a trap of some sort which employed a cord system.
They apparently also captured cicadas. When I came off the inclined vine-like tree, I had briefly landed on the ground before taking flight again. To my amazement, I had landed in a patch of a few hundred cicadas.
They were exclusively on a tree which seemed the very centre of the growth. This central tree gave off a definite hum. All the cicadas were on the trunk of the same unique tree that seemed, by its vibrational signature, to be a life-sustaining energetic magnet.
This tree was not a member of the pine family. Rather, it was a tropical tree which made the sitkas in Vancouver’s Stanley Park or the redwoods in northern California look like seedlings.
I remained motionless for the longest while. I was magnetised by the tree’s vibrational hum. It was hypnotic. There was nothing but love radiating from this tree. It was a truly humbling encounter.
The cicadas had swarmed onto its trunk to become harmonised with its vibration. As I flew off and looked back, I realised that the cicadas were being caught by the locals as they had proven themselves a nuisance.
The cicadas were not in the habit of eating the crops but there were so many of them that their noisy song made the locals devise a plan. The locals simply captured and relocated as many of the cicadas as they could.
I realised that this bit of drama, being acted out in the clearing, was also a metaphor for the larger drama back at the cosmopolitan complex.
There the extra-humans were laying traps, by way of the oval-shaped black capsule, for capturing unsuspecting humans. However, there was also another aspect to all this symbology that was not lost on me.
I knew, though many of the cicadas were still alive, that the ones who had left their empty shells behind represented two things. The symbol of the empty cicada shell was that of being astral-projected out of the shell of the sleeping body.
Secondly, the other symbolic reference was that, each discarded cicada shell represented a lifetime already concluded. They were as if totems of past lives. This was validated by the fact that here was I visiting, as it were, a remnant of a former life.
It was a life that was lived in Southeast Asia. A life it was in which my spirituality was closely connected to the strong bondedness that I achieved with the all-encompassing beauty of nature.
This was validated by the ectomorphic loin-clothed Balinese – Southeast Asian – who had come from his little thatched hut to greet me and serve as a guide to me.
He was, if not me, then definitely someone whom I have known in this lifetime but with whom I have shared multiple past lives. I can’t say, however, that this was Merlin in a past life.
He was quite familiar and was more than likely an entity mate of mine. I was similarly reminded of Diego Lunamas in his fey sweet-eyed beauteousness.
I then flew back through the growth where I saw the Hispanic man who had been kicked out of the bar. He was standing outside a thatched hut.
This man was so exceptionally good-looking. He no longer looked like his Hispanic self when at the bar. Then he had had a striking resemblance to Diego Lunamas. Here he seemed now Balinese, possibly Sumatran, though on the outside chance he could have been Filipino.
He held something in his hand that looked like a knife. However, it was not a weapon as such. As he stood there, his back to the hut, he was unaware of the intense light flashes taking place inside his hut.
This to me suggested that the extra-humans were inside the hut. It was possible that this man had alternately just died and had emerged from the hut, his final astral projection, though not yet aware that he had died.
I then moved inside the hut where I was able to get a handle on what was taking place. The door to the hut was a drape of green banana leaves that were regularly replaced.
Lots of bamboo shoots were used to anchor and set the frame of the hut. The slight man had been desperately trying to cut through the door of leaves in a bid to get outside.
Each time that he would cut his way through one drape of leaves, to get through the door, another would manifest beyond the other that already existed there. He could never seem to cut his way free fast enough. It proved a futile attempt to get out.
Each door was made of a different type of leaf and reed but all of them were green. The hut was eight feet square with a conical roof. As a matter of fact, it was more so pyramidal.
I floated close to the ceiling of the hut as he desperately tried to break out. I am not at all sure that most people were able to observe me in any of these giddy dream experiences.
The loin-clothed local did not quite comprehend the nature of the shiny object that he used to try and cut his way free. Soon enough, the hut was burnt-out with a few burnt-out frame beams standing.
The remaining beams were charred with black ashes everywhere. It was obvious that in his bid to escape he had not made it out.
Here, it seemed as though I was experiencing a series of vignettes – vignettes into past lives – all of which were interconnected. A very intense experience of soul journeying these dreams would prove.
Again, I saw the man who much reminded me of Diego Lunamas. I flew out to the tree, with the two frond-like leaves, on which I had been earlier.
I, soon enough, came down off the tree on seeing these green gourds that were cut open down on the ground. From the inside, a thicker version of what looked like coconut milk spilt out.
The milk was being bled into appropriately placed containers. On closer inspection, I realised that the gourds were grown below the surface of the ground. The liquid looked much like cassava root milk.
From there, I flew ahead to another section of the great arboreal growth. Now I came to a clearing which was set in Japan. I intuitively knew that this dream occurred in Japan.
For me, this was readily discernible owing to the strong past-life resonance that I experienced for being in this locale. There I saw a series of cultured rivulets that were part of a water fountain. The fountain was part of an extensive irrigation system.
The cultured rivulets were stone affairs in which flowed green fluid rather than the clear transparency of water. As I had flown over this site, I saw from on high that everything was completely white.
The trees and every aspect of the landscape were completely white. I knew that it was not a snow-covered landscape. Rather, this was the result of some sort of attack from the black-clad and visored extra-humans with the conical, black space capsules.
This I knew meant that they would soon be returning to the area where I was. Closer to hand, I hovered above the Japanese village.
I saw here lots of Japanese women who were performing a ritualised dance. They ritually sang and danced using fans. As they danced, they were a study in grace and reserve.
From there, I decided to fly on in search of the source of the oddly green river. I rose in the air as I flew by following the incline to where the fountain began. This led me in flight into a hilltop complex where the fountain began.
It was a large compound which included a temple, shrine and living quarters. Here there were more women who, though not ritually dancing, carried fans and were just as reserved.
At once, I alighted hurriedly moving through the compound. I was as if possessed. I knew at every turn which corridor to follow. On my arrival, I let out a cry upset at what I had found.
I couldn’t believe what these people had done. They had desecrated this important bit of their culture and heritage.
Of course, this was an astral projection to a past life milieu. Everything was at once familiar. My sense of smell was acute. All the writings I fully understood though they were in Kanji and Sanskrit.
In that past life, my former self had had a hand in establishing the temple and its shrine. Now some time later, however, they were performing these rituals in appeasement of the new overlords.
Of course, the new overlords would have been the extra-humans. I was really upset… I was really hurt. They shook the fans as they danced and this was supposed to have mimicked something about the extra-humans’ culture with which I was not familiar.
To atone, the Japanese humans had set up several altars to the extra-humans. Truth be told, they worshipped the extra-humans as their deities. The reserved women had the same milk-like substance which I had earlier seen being harvested.
Said harvesting area looked to be in Bali more than anywhere else. The harvested milk-like drink was stored in very ornate vessels that were decidedly Japanese and examples of ancient Japanese pottery.
In particular, there was a large dark-wood altar – Butsudan – that captivated me. Inside the Butsudan were several wooden carvings which were in the likeness of the visored extra-humans.
I grabbed one of the carvings, enraged, and began banging it against the other carvings. In short order, I had desecrated the imposition that the extra-humans’ presence represented.
I began furiously yelling at the Japanese locals for having sold out. What really surprised me was just how enraged and powerful a persona I possessed. I was intensely warrior-spirited.
I seemingly was a member of a Samurai sect which meant that there was fierce pride and honour at stake here. This was such a gross betrayal.
“Where was their loyalty to traditions and history?” I rhetorically asked.
As I bashed away at the carvings, I heavily panted. I felt rather passionate, on my return, about the fruits of my past-life labour having been defiled once left behind on my passing in that former lifetime.
I addressed them in Japanese, no less. It was quite something.
*It much reminded me of that dream encounter with ‘Francesca,’ on January 1, 1989. I had then encountered the fiery redheaded Briton who had been a former life of mine.
I was quite the strong-personalitied dramatic woman who was quite sparkling-personalitied and with great presence. END.
In that former Japanese life my body of work was clearly dear to me. I couldn’t conceive of how these people would turn their backs on the efforts made on their behalf.
With that I took leave of them and went rushing into the shrine’s private apartments. I ran up the stairs then stopped and walked along the unusually narrow hallways. The proportions here were decidedly Japanese.
On the walls were engravings that bore inspiring words and poems. All of the art was spiritually focussed. Too, there were lots of long narrow rugs on the wooden floor of the hallways.
An extremely ancient Butsudan sat in the private apartments where once I had lived in that former life. The Butsudan’s two silver latches were complicated to open.
In fact, they were not readily opened based on the way that they appeared. Nonetheless, from memory, I effortlessly opened them on the first try.
The shrine was so immediately familiar. I couldn’t believe that it still stood there. My fingers actually trembled as I made to open the latches. The Butsudan was also covered in wooden engravings.
One set of the latches ran across the midsection of the Butsudan. Still, the other latch system came down vertically at the bottom. So excited was I that I began levitating whilst opening the Butsudan.
I first opened the one at the midsection, then the other, after which I flung open the door excited to once more see the Butsudan’s coveted scroll.
Just inside the door, there was a dark-brown leather flap with engravings on it. Raising the flap finally led the light to be cast in on the most time-yellowed Gohonzon imaginable.
It was truly antique and I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. The structure was so very powerful. On realising what it was, I shuddered and began quivering throughout.
Immediately, my connection to Buddhism in this lifetime was being validated. Of course, having seen Diego Lunamas in the environs of prior dreams made perfect sense.
He had also been on the palatial grounds of the temple as I had hovered in the air. On opening the shrine, I alighted and collapsed on the floor in lotus position before the Gohonzon.
I keenly focussed on the Gohonzon though mindful of the fact that the black-clad and visored extra-humans would be returning soon. Here in this most awakened of dreams, I began chanting Daimoku. I cannot stress enough how intensely lucid a dream experience this was.
As I chanted, I became aware of my vibration rapidly intensifying. I remained reverential before the ancient Gohonzon, with hands clasped, yet I found it hard to believe that I was having the experience.
More than that, the flow of energies from the time-yellowed Gohonzon to me was as real and intense as the intense light flooding the tiny private apartments – an apartment where once I had lived in a former life when Japanese.
There was the sillage of sweet sandalwood incense ghosting the air. For some time, I chanted aloud then concluded with a long, slow, piercing utterance of Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo.
With that, I shot to my feet and fled from the room going down the hallway and turned to the left. In my haste, I had left the Butsudan opened with the Gohonzon exposed.
However, there was a strong sense that it was to have been left opened. The light and energies from the Gohonzon needed to be obstructed no more.
I then arrived into the large palatial living quarters that were quite open. There was a low mat, a futon actually, to the left of the door on entering the room.
To the right of the door, half of the wall area opened up to a view of the beautifully terraced gardens outdoors. I knew that whoever presently lived there was coming.
I could sense the person’s approach down on the grounds to the right. With that, I floated down to the ground level and effortlessly moved through the pane of glass.
I simply upped my frequency and willed myself to become light-bodied. Thus, I was able to effortlessly move through the thick floor-to-ceiling pane of glass.
I went to the left of the building, slowly moving through the night air, on the terraced grounds of the temple compound. At that point, I noticed that there was a man approaching.
About my neck, I still wore a brown scarf that had covered the Gohonzon. On opening up the large Butsudan, I had removed and placed the scarf about my shoulders.
As I flew with the scarf, I realised that I could be apprehended once spotted with the unique telltale scarf. The man waited for me around some large wooden pylons that served as the opening in the fence.
It was, in fact, a gate system. It led from the private inner courtyard to the outer courtyard where others could gather.
There were several wooden stools on which one could sit and reflect on the beautiful gardens. Architecturally, this place was simply inspiring. It was truly Zen here and was both uplifting and conducive to serenity.
On coming around the pylons, the man turned out to be none other than Kaarlsohn Frieden. From above in the air, I was stunned to have both seen and found him here and excitedly beamed down at him.
He wore only a large top that fell to just below his arse. Floating down, I alighted whilst the brilliance of a full Moon night seemed to magically shift to intense daylight.
The lighting here was truly ethereal. The energies here were wonderful. Here on the grounds of this compound, the energy was very densely negative-ioned.
Way down the hill, whilst in flight, I had noticed several children playing. They were all Japanese. I had landed by a series of stone shrines that had been strategically placed about the gardens. A stone table sat close by that looked several centuries old.
I simply couldn’t believe that I was having a dream encounter with Kaarlsohn. Here was I so lucid and he was so real. Truly, this was an astral plane encounter of the highest order.
On ambling over, I warmly greeted him. I chose not to try and get rid of the scarf. I was, though, concerned whether or not he would be mad with me for being there.
He called me over. Kaarlsohn’s stubby thighs were strong and athletic-looking as though he were in his twenties. Understandably, he did look older than when I knew him.
On the inside of his right thigh, I noticed a large thick vein. As he looked at me warmly smiling, I stood to his left. Kaarlsohn was so warm but, more importantly, I couldn’t get over how real an encounter this was.
As he was only wearing the large unisexed top, and nothing beneath it, I got a good drift of his sex’s strong musk. It was a bit overwhelming but I kept focussed on his clear smiling eyes.
Looking into his eyes, I spoke to him making sure to be simultaneously telepathic – there is greater power of persuasion when thus focussed,
“Oh my god, Kaarlsohn, I’d give anything to be alone with you. To be intimate but not necessarily sexual, mind you.
“I’d do anything to relax and recline with you, sensually. I’d really love to laze about with you… caressing.”
At that point, I placed my arm about his lower back whilst we unflinchingly looked into the other’s eyes. He smiled sweetly blushing. I then caressed his arse and felt its firm roundness beneath the sheer light fabric.
Then Kaarlsohn surprised me by saying, “Well, I like to do that, from time to time…”
He slowly, suggestively arched his brows high up his forehead. It was a gesture that was reminiscent of Merlin when he wanted to be intimate. What was really telling though was Kaarlsohn’s enunciation when he had uttered those words.
By ‘time’ he meant reincarnational time and not time relating to his present incarnation. So that he meant at the level of soul, he did not mind having a same-sexed or bisexual focus ever so often when incarnate.
I looked at him and was blown away by his mischievousness. With that, we both playfully laughed at his teasing winsome handsomeness. Here his voice was not as strong a bass as his voice is in this lifetime.
Beyond all that, the level of love, warmth and intimacy between us was astonishing. It was a rare pleasure to be so genuinely intimate with another soul. This depth of openness and acceptance simply blew me away.
Then as if all that weren’t revolutionary Kaarlsohn initiated sexual play. He fondled me whilst undoing me with the most sensual kisses all over.
By this point, we were now sitting down on the table in lotus position ravenously groping each other. From time to time, he would stop kissing me to directly look into my eyes.
On those occasions, it was as though time itself stood still. My senses were so heightened that I thought I would simply die of joy during the dreamtime.
Kaarlsohn’s eyes were so real and focussed. His eyes’ intensity was only distantly frightening as they were so potent.
Lips passion-reddened, moist and apart revealed his quivering tongue. He quickly breathed in shallow breaths in between groaning. His groans were filled with yearning and called out to me.
Truly aroused, he seductively invited me to come out of myself to join him in ecstasy. His hard, firm hands were tightly wrapped about my throbbing cock slowly kneading and massaging it.
What he was doing was not sexual. Rather, he was performing energy work. With each groan that called out to me, he was inviting me to do the same for him.
So I did in kind. Kneading, gently and just as painstakingly slowly, I massaged his thick, large, foreskinned cock.
There was nothing more potent and shamanic than the energies that passed between us. It was electrifying. It was magus.
I did sense that there were a couple of bruises on his cock which I had passingly noticed. I thought that, perhaps, they were from an outbreak of herpes.
He then said, as my cock grew more tumescent,
“This is a really nice cock, you’ve got…”
As he gently massaged me and pulled back on my foreskin, my cock kept stabbing into the centre of his cupped right palm. As I danced and flew without moving, in spirit, a more sensual solo variation could not have been danced by Evelyn Hart. Indeed, he was as if David Peregrine to my Evelyn Hart – in the sensually exquisite pas de deux, Belong.
At this point, I lucidly became aware of my intentions prior to sleep. I had specifically meditated asking to have memorable experiences, on the astral plane, with those whom I have shared positive past life experiences.
Whilst I looked hypnotised into his large clear eyes – which here were a brownish-green, I recalled having shaped my dreams.
The light here was so intensely brilliant. Much of the light here was being initiated by the love that this man’s very august soul was imparting to me. A truly energising magus dream experience this was.
*What is most phenomenal about this soulfully intimate experience, of all the people I know, Kaarlsohn is the least homoeroticised. He is also the most macho of men.
Too, I had neither spoken to him in ages nor had I recently thought of him. Yet here was this major totemic encounter. It truly proved healing and insightful a dream encounter.
Whilst in the midst of our intimacy, I let out a sigh and suddenly found myself being slapped back into my body. At having had my astral projection aborted, there was weightiness at my solar plexus as I suddenly awoke.
I had been slapped awake by the shrill cries of raccoons outside my opened bedroom window. They were having yet another nasty fight. They had come out of Stanley Park to forage for food.
I had been terrified on hearing the grunting and screeching, whilst in the midst of my potent astral plane encounter with Kaarlsohn. I had assumed that it was the sound of the extra-humans advancing on us.
Now, I realised that these so-called extra-humans were, in fact, astral guides. Rather than being a negative force, the sentries were there to assist with proper astral protection.
I had been projecting the disturbance outside the window onto the visored and unseen astral guides. Raccoons are visored, as it were, with their distinctive black band across their faces at the eyes.
As was the case, the raccoons had been fighting for some time and continued fighting for much of the night. In fact, they fought till daybreak. They prowled the West End in search of food before scurrying back to Stanley Park at twilight.
**What’s really interesting about these astral plane rendez-vous was that both Diego Lunamas and Kaarlsohn Frieden I met during my stay in Winnipeg. With both men, I had enjoyed an ease of communication and instinctively knew that we had had past life contacts.
Diego I had introduced to Nichiren Buddhism. Kaarlsohn had already been practicing when I started. Kaarlsohn proved a good companion with whom to chant Daimoku.
Rarely have I felt this satiated on awakening from the dreamtime. Though understandably aroused as all hell, I cried for joy at the beauty that I had just experienced and chose to remain lying in repose within the pyramid.
The reason for some of the cicadas having been alive was that they represented the ever present “now” of the soul which does not experience time. Initially, the cicadas had all been alive but then some flickered out of existence.
Those cicadas that remained were quite a few. They surely represented the potential of future lifetimes. However, the remaining cicadas that were still alive were not in the majority.
The cicadas initially were all alive because to the soul they were being experienced simultaneously – past lifetimes, future lifetimes and this lifetime.
The sum totality of my lifetimes, as symbolised by the cicadas, was a swarm of creative energy which was magnetised to this great arboreal giant. Of course, the arboreal giant represented the soul to which ultimately all cicadas – in order that they may experience transformation, reincarnational metamorphosis – are anchored.
The tree to which the cicadas were anchored also represented the physical plane. A physical plane into which the lifetimes of the reincarnating soul, as symbolised by the cicadas, had to manifest in order to become self-actualised and fulfilled both spiritually and creatively.
As much as the arboreal giant represented the soul quality on the astral plane, simultaneously, it represented the physical plane into which the soul was reincarnationally focussed.
Since I was on the astral plane whilst dreaming – where time as such does not exist – the cicadas were all-extant. The totemic cicadas represented every lifetime’s dreamer self which is never extinguished.
Thus the dreamer self forms a conduit, like the black teleportation-like capsule, to having connective glimpses into past or even future lifetimes.
I suppose too that, at the start of this lyrical dream adventure, the black conical capsule in which one sat and travelled was a symbolic icon of my pyramid. Of course, when lucidly dreaming these truly marvellous dreams of uplifting adventure, I was sleeping in my pyramid.
This was a truly illuminating dream experience. To have experientially undertaken this astral awakening was very rhapsodic, in each lucid moment, as it swept me along.
A sensory feast this was. A feast on which my very soul was made pleasurably besotted. A truly magus dream odyssey this was and one which validated anew that dreams truly are the poetry of the soul. END.
As ever live as lucidly awakened when awake as when self-aware in the most fuck-all glorious lucid dreams. I love you more.
As I work 7 days a week, I was debating whether or not to attend the Twelfth Glenn Gould Prize Gala at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. That morning en route home from some errands, I discovered that someone had jumped from a neighbourhood condo. I got in and realised that there was no more feet-dragging; to hell with being dog-tired. I got on the phone and called up Lucian Mann-Chomedy and said, “My darling, we are going to the Jessye Norman Gala!” As ever, always positive, Lucian chimed in, “Oh my, oh yes, how lovely. Well, I’ll be both honoured and delighted.” Indeed, life is for living!
Merlin and I met Friday, October 1, 1982 in a Hell’s Kitchen Walk-up, the following Monday evening, on his return to Toronto, Merlin called up crying. The man whom he had spent so much of our first evening together speaking of, had died; Glenn Gould had died. For the seven years that we were together, Merlin listened to Glenn Gould’s interpretation of J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations at least thrice weekly. Indeed, the first gift I purchased Merlin, was a recently released recording of the Goldberg Variations at Christmas 1982: I think that it is safe to say that that gift sealed the deal, I was a keeper for sure.
As I had waited until the last minute to get seats, I was sat in Ring 4 rather than the usual Ring 3. This, alas, was my view of the stage and of course, the butterflies are from the set for Atom Egoyan’s masterful staging of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte, which the moment I saw the set, I began chuckling to Lucian on recall of Tracy Dahl’s unsurpassed performance as Despina.
As I was too busy trying to throw something together for Instagram, I was heard gasping when it was announced that the head of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Jury this twelfth prize was none other than the actor, Viggo Mortensen, who then walked out onto stage. He, indeed, who in a few days time will be attending the Governors Ball where he may or may not be holding an Oscar.
Out onto the stage arrived the Twelfth Prize Laureate, Jessye Norman. Truly, it was a shock to the very core to see Madame being ushered out in a wheelchair. Suddenly, I was reminded of the events of earlier which caused me to rush home and purchase two tickets for the event. That aside, there was no greater joy than drinking of her soul’s inspiring beauty.
This beautiful gala was so filled with touchstones for me, none more so than the moment that bass baritone, Ryan Speedo Green was in full song. When he sang, “Aprite un po’ quegli occhi” from Wolfgang A. Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro.
Yes, indeed, this marvellous aria’s orchestration included a harpsichord. Straight away, I was teary-eyed as memories of the truly eccentric and delightful Milan Newcombe readily surfaced; Milan will ever remain a lover like no other.
During the intermission, I ran into two old friends not seen in at least 1.5 decades; we spoke of nothing but our surprise at Ms. Norman’s entrance. Life really does march full speed ahead.
After the intermission, it was the announcement of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Progidy Prize with the recipient being none other than, Cécile McLorin-Salvant, the most fabulous Jazz singer on the planet. Is this not an evening to remember during Black History Month indeed.
This stunningly unforgettable gala was closed out by the final recitalist being the divinely gifted soprano and Glenn Gould Foundation Prize juror, Sondra Radvanovsky in full song, singing Verdi.
The gala concluded with Ms. Norman returning to the stage and singing a duet with Cécile McLorin-Salvant. This was a moving, emotionally intense evening and my life was greatly enriched for having chosen to attend. The gala was nothing short of magical.
As a tribute to this marvellous evening in the theatre, I will include herein two dreams, which were originally audio-cassette-recorded in the 1990s. Before each deam, one of Glenn Gould, the other Jessye Norman, I will include each individual’s Michael Overleaves.
Gould, Glenn Herbert 25/9/32 – 4/10/82, Toronto
This fragment was a sixth level mature artisan in the repression mode, with a goal of growth, an idealist in the moving part of intellectual centre. He had a Mercury/Saturn body type.
Glenn’s primary chief feature was self-destruction with a secondary of arrogance.
Glenn was third-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity four, cadre five, greater cadre 17, pod/node 819.
This fragment has an artisan essence twin who was alive during Glenn’s life but there were no plans to meet. This fragment is still incarnate on the physical plane.
The fragment who was Glenn has a scholar task companion, who was in a previous life, Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach. They were not incarnate at the same time.
However, the fragment who was Glenn was exerting considerable influence on Carl Philip Emmanuel.
These two fragments had many lives together, once as luthiers, three times as court musicians, nine times as brothers of the cloth, twice as brothers in the flesh, as well as completing several important life monads, including student/mentor and master/slave.
In the immediate past life, the fragment who was Glenn had as his three primary needs: security, communion and exchange. Only the first of these was ever even partially satisfied.
So here we had a warrior-cast artisan who had seriously conflicting overleaves and a primary chief feature of self-destruction. He had a goal of growth but a repression mode which would not allow him to flourish.
He had a need for communion, but was sexually ambivalent and socially inept. Undeniably, he had great talent but took no pleasure from performing in public.
This fragment has a great deal of scholar energy that was used in the immediate past life to enable Glenn Herbert to painstakingly examine and interpret the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.
He was very interested in form and structure for all of his adult life. This fragment was, unfortunately, the victim of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, also for all of his adult life, which worsened considerably during his third and fourth decades.
This fragment did not, as popular wisdom teaches, retire from public life because of any strong beliefs in the recording industry. Glenn Herbert retired from public life because he could no longer bear to be in crowds, even if he was distanced by a proscenium.
Needless to say, this fragment did not complete work on his fourth internal monad.
Astral Plane Glenn Gould Recital!
Nothing is more uplifting than finding oneself at a great musical performance on the astral plane. This dream was about being richly inspired and by Glenn Herbert Gould, no less; it was truly marvellous an adventure for the spirit.
The dream occurred, on Tuesday, October 6, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house.
I am in France where I leisurely browsed through a store; perhaps, it was somewhere in Paris. It seemed here like at nighttime. Whilst in one corner of the store, I noticed that there were all these big slabs of cheese in packaged containers.
There was a woman coordinating the display of the cheeses. Sometimes the cheese was being grated and other times not. There and then, I decided that I was going to buy one slab of the cheese that was packaged in a rectangular box.
The cheese was about an inch thick and about eight inches long. The cardboard box that it was in was white and almost like the size of a box of Cream of Wheat.
Surprisingly, the box was rather heavy. Though not unlike cheddar, it was a dark cheese. The smell of this cheese was really hard – quite the bite to it.
It had seemingly been opened for too long as parts of it was growing hardened and turning colour. I knew straight off the bat that I wanted to have some to take home with me.
So, off I went to purchase the slab that I liked. Everyone here was, of course, speaking French which I quite so understood and liked. Interestingly, I too was speaking very competently in French.
It was obvious that I was not too heavily accented as the others were pleasant-enough with me.
The second dream had me leaving the store; I then found myself hovering in the air. Whilst in flight, I went into a building which had a green – oxidised-copper – roof. It was part of a long set of buildings that had very, very tall stone chimneys.
These were chimneys that were not unlike the ones at the Palais du Louvre. As a matter of fact, the building was similar to the Canadian Parliament buildings though it was not those buildings.
This complex was considerably longer. These were a series of complex buildings. Here, I was easily thirty storeys up whilst in flight. I looked down at the complex which at maximum could not have been more than five storeys tall.
After having contemplatively observed the complex for awhile, I began very slowly gliding down through the air. I intently studied a procession of persons, way below, who were bailing out of very large buses; they were, as a matter of fact, tour buses.
This was all happening in a courtyard-like area and away from the bustle of the street. I next noticed some men who appeared; they seemed, in their long, flowing white robes, to be priests.
They were not Arabic or Muslims in caftans; rather, they were definitely Whites. The buildings here were long on the order of Palais Richelieu in Paris. When I finally alighted, we had to go through this incredible entrance.
This led into a wonderful sandstone building; it was very modern with a neo-classical design. On the order of being imposing, the door to this place was massive. They seemed to be the doors to a temple.
To get to the entrance, there were many steps which one had to climb. On entering, off to the right, there was a passage that one could take.
An aisle led along another passage; it seemed illumined by a skylight. The priestly men had all entered before me. They preceded a procession of adherents who had come to partake of some ritual.
I had gone to explore, off to the left, because it was the wing of the building that had reminded me of the Palais du Louvre. Going there, I wandered about being fascinated by the place.
Some women were posing for artists in this particular wing. They wore modern garb but were very exceptionally beautiful. What was most intriguing about their look was that it was exactly as they would have appeared on the finished canvases.
They were very nubile young women; they had to hold their poses for interminably long periods. Here several kids kept on going through the place; they were seemingly art students.
They were all very North American, middle class with their loud, snobbish bourgeois affectations. Right away, it was obvious that all the muses were still virgins.
Theirs was an innocence that could never be affected. They were all teenage girls whose bodies were very voluptuous and full. These were not skinny people at all.
There was one point at which one girl was holding different poses. Each girl would be painted by from three-to-five artists, at a time. Thus every pose would be captured from different perspectives.
At one point, they told her to take a break; they then reverted back to an earlier pose. This was so that they could return to that work and put some more work into finishing it up.
When she changed the pose, she had also turned some 180 degrees. This particular model, whom I was studying, wore socks with Oriental-looking sandals.
Inside her socks she kept little items of hers. Whilst she was making the transition, she simply reached up her foot and pulled up her right leg to reach down into the socks.
Hers was a pair of blue-coloured socks – pale blue. To just above the ankles was the extent to which the socks rose. Looking at her, she took out something from about her ankle which looked like a wafer.
Not the least bit self-conscious, she ate it at once; it seemed like a chocolate wafer which she favoured. She seemingly needed it to get an energy boost so that she could stay focussed on the tedious work that she did.
After having found it all very interesting, I moved on sufficiently knowledgeable of the goings on here. Walking along a corridor, I ended up going into a room where everyone was very strange.
A guy there was a lot like Galen Shim – my very beautiful, Hong Kong-born, Eurasian friend. He reclined on a bed with his head close to the door. When I came in, I noticed that he was naked. When giving him a massage, I began by oiling his body.
It was quite fragrant oil. Rubbing down his body, I began working on his toes and feet. Afterwards, I got up to leave but he very silently began coming with me.
So out we went and joined the procession of persons; among them this time were several kids. Mostly, they were teenagers – amongst whom I did not want to be.
Galen or the guy who seemed like him, here the guy was not wearing glasses as before nor would Galen for that matter, and I kept walking through the place. Pretty soon, after we had left the noisy kids, we started hearing the most beautiful music.
This was one of the rare times that I found the music of the pipe organ to be beautiful. Within the complex, we happened on this wonderful cathedral inside which were most of the people from the procession.
On entering the structure, it seemed more like a concert hall. We soon learnt that the hall was specifically built so that only Johannes Sebastian Bach’s music could be played there.
Never before had I heard classical music sound so beautiful. We stood there transfixed whilst listening together. Who then should I notice way at the front of the hall, at the pipe organ that sat high on the dais-like stage, but Glenn Gould. I could see his right profile as if in close-up.
My god, this was rapture and then some. He was playing with such rapt abandon that I steadied myself and whispered more to myself than to Galen,
“My god, what an incredible dream to be having…”
There seemed to be a skylight on the side of the high-ceilinged nave. Instead of there being stained glass windows, windows for that matter, there was only intense light raining down through what seemed to be a skylight system.
The centre of the halved skylight was a wonderful neoclassical, oxidised, copper-looking, greenish flying buttress. Here the look, though modern, was more in the style of Islamic mosques or even Moorish architecture rather than the classic Gothic signatures.
A series of the most intricate and complex circles intertwined, like some riotous jungle vine, in the cathedral-like, concert hall’s stonework. Breathtakingly beautiful it was. I stood there, just inside the entrance to the hall, on the left of the wide aisle.
This was a very wide-bodied structure. As you progressed down the aisle, there were different levels where one could go up and sit. These were either on the right or left. The central aisle was covered by the most beautifully designed red carpet.
This place was considerably wider than Notre Dame Cathedral. Unlike the Parisian Gothic structure, it was not a darkened affair. Here it was very intensely bright out. The light coming in on the right and left side of the flying buttress-like, central girder fell through a slightly frosted glass.
The light was an intense – almost aquatic – blue. Interestingly, there were no beams or columns, supporting the unusual central, flying buttress-like beam. For looking at the light, one became slightly languorous. I felt paralysed with pleasure; there before me, down the massive hall, sat Glenn Gould.
He wore the most thick-fabricked garb; it seemed from an earlier age. All the men in the white gowns were up at the front. They were all transfixed – as well they should have been.
Though I love Johannes Sebastian Bach, at the time, I had some reservations as I am not especially fond of pipe organs. I suppose that it is because it has always had too many religious associations during my childhood.
The persons attending the concert were there simply to recharge their batteries. They seemed, all of them, as if not quite in their bodies for being so transfixed – they were otherwise-engaged.
Eerily, I had a sense that these were all persons who were between lives as is Glenn Gould. They were in a form of processing, a form of deep meditation on the order of sleep, as they prepared for the next incarnation.
This fugue was the most complex music imaginable. Indeed, the music seemed designed for those between lives. The fugue was composed for astral plane habitués who, sans bodies, could best endure the music’s intensity.
Getting a sense that I really shouldn’t be there, plus the fact that I finally couldn’t get into the pipe organ, I started taking my leave of the place.
Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, and I then went out front. There we waited for the specific tour buses to show up and take us away. Whilst I waited with Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, I was joined by Pandora.
It seemed that most of the people who were here were very young-souled. They seemed to be on a pilgrimage, like visiting the original Gohonzon in Japan or going on the Hajj, at Mecca.
As the pipe organ played, I could hear in the tone of the place a faint whisper from the men in white robes. Their thoughts, it turned out, could be telepathically heard. Even earlier, when I had been hovering in flight high above the complex, I knew that this was more so a political institution rather than not.
This was a structure which was just as colossal as the temple at Karnak and considerably older. This place was mind-bogglingly complex and massive. The temple was posited directly in the centre of it all.
Just like La Chapelle in Paris is comparably dwarfed, by its surroundings, so too the massive concert hall-like temple was dwarfed by the complex. This architectural marvel was simply soul-inspiring.
Whilst all the buses were waiting, I took to one of the buses with Pandora. I had gotten impatient waiting to be assigned to one. We spoke in French because everyone else here did the same.
This was not unlike a Parisian bus – the seats all faced each other. Seated close to the front, we were on the left side of the aisle behind the driver.
As though getting close to Saint-Sulpice Métro, I got up and said goodbye to Pandora. I wanted to get off there then walk back to her rue de Grenelle apartment.
Pandora planned to go out then come home later so had asked me to wait for her at her place. Here it seemed as if nighttime coming on to dawn.
Speaking guardedly in French, I made sure that I was speaking properly and not just fumbling partout. Really, I rather enjoyed this experience of being together with Pandora.
I was very serene enjoying the very beautiful experience. Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, had silently slipped from my side when Pandora came and joined me.
*Of course, it would turn out that the person in question was Louka Duplessis and not Galen. I would meet Louka, who accompanied me in this dream, the day following this dream.
Just prior to meeting for the first time, it is not uncommon for me to dream of persons.
Norman, Jessye 15/9/45, Georgia
Jessye is a first level old priest in the passion mode, with a goal of rejection – functioning for the most part in the positive pole of discrimination, a spiritualist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.
She has a Jupiter/Saturn body type.
Jessye’s primary chief feature is arrogance, with a secondary of stubbornness.
This fragment was third-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. She is a member of entity five, cadre six, greater cadre 33, pod/node 212.
She has a discarnate priest essence twin whom she did know earlier in this life but this fragment died in Vietnam. She has a warrior task companion and they have worked together and continue to do so occasionally.
Her three primary needs are: freedom, expression and power.
The warrior energy gives Jessye tremendous organisational powers and her stubbornness has enabled her to stick in there when the going got very rough many times.
Jessye is a warrior-cast priest who has been a spiritual rebel in this life. This is, by the way, not the first time this fragment has sung professionally. This fragment was a well-known castrato in seventeenth century Italy and performed many times before the crowned heads of Europe.
Jessye has great need to serve her concept of the higher ideal and has done so admirably by combining the folk music of her people with her operatic repertoire.
She performs well, as do most entity five fragments. This fragment has always enjoyed her work. Singing has been an extension of her inner spirituality. It is, in fact, a form of meditation for her.
Now that’s a Hollywood wife!
These rather lucidly awakened dreams were experienced with an intense sense of wonder and joy, on Monday, July 2, 1990. At the time, the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.
This first dream found me in a very busy place. When going south towards the Danforth, it was not unlike being on Broadview Ave. It was at nighttime. I came there and found that there were tons and tons of Black people.
Even so, it seemed like Toronto and at Broadview Subway station because there are all these streetcars there. One of the streetcars was improperly parked, as a result, it was going to go and turn around.
Waiting for it to do what it had to do, there was another streetcar out in the street. It was really more like a red-rocket streetcar. It was not like one of the newer ones.
Everyone here was Black. There were no Whites or other non-Blacks that I saw. Everybody was in the street which was very jam-packed. They were getting ready to cross, after the streetcar had passed, to go in.
There was now a system, where you paid your fare aboard the streetcar, so that you did not have to enter the front doors of the station on Broadview.
When you got aboard the streetcar, it was mandatory that you pay a fare. So it did not matter whether you paid a fare at the proper entrance or not. There were many people queuing up to get aboard a streetcar.
Passing these people who were seated there, I went through the proper entrance. One of them seemed like Gabriella Vartan† and they were talking about me.
I came around and began going down the steps, into the nether regions, en route to the trains. There was this little old lady who was taking her time, holding up things, so I pushed her to my right.
I made my way down then had to go around taking another flight of stairs; I then kept on going. There were a whole lot of levels to this subway system.
When I got down, there was this little cul-de-sac where there were these Black guys – homeboys – hanging out. However, they were not Black American.
I found one of them very attractive and smiled at him. He, however, was very homophobic. He went running upstairs to go call the police on me.
The train then came into the subway and it was a very, very large train. It towered very high to the ceiling. It was like an Amtrak train which seemed like a double Decker train. It was mostly silver, however, it turned out not to have been double Decker.
When it stopped, I began running full speed because I did not want the guy to come back and board the same car as me. I ran to the front of the train only to find that one couldn’t board there. Instead, one could only enter this train where the cars joined each other.
You could enter the front or backdoors of each car but not the front ones of the first car. It was very sleek, round and Deco like a train from the 1930s.
The whole place did have a feel of the ‘30s to it. It was very neo-Gothic like the Chrysler or McGraw-Hill buildings in New York City, or for that matter, even the Empire State Building.
It was reminiscent of very early in the twentieth century which was all about great architecture – of things being large, mammoth and spiralling upwards, too, things getting faster and faster.
That sense of adventure about the wonderful world of commerce that one had created. It was that time when people had not yet begun to see, as we now know, the consequences of things being bigger and better and faster and all the effects on nature.
I got onto the train heading, again, towards the front. Somehow, I felt relieved because I had lost the guy. I was there and noticed a stout man who was either High-Yellow or, perhaps, even White.
The people here were very strange because they were just rather unusual. Even though they looked White, they seemed more bronzish, actual bronze, than the pinkish tonality of the waking state.
This was not a place that I knew. It was very otherworldly here, I soon realised. I did not get a seat and as I stood there I then noticed a woman. She was standing at the very front of the train.
The train progressed with unusual speeds, I immediately noticed. When the train had shaken, the stout man had tried to brace himself by putting out his foot that was already out in the aisle.
In the process, he had stomped me and I had had to pull my foot out from under his and pushed his away. He wore business attire, a suit and tie, as though en route to an office job.
The woman who was standing up was playing on a wooden flute-like instrument that was less than a foot long. However, the thing about all this was that she had unusually short arms.
They were fully functional hands with tiny little fingers that nimbly danced over the valves of the wooden, wind instrument. Her arms were like a Thalidomide-damaged child’s.
Then I noticed too that there were other people on the train, about three or four musicians, practicing as well. I soon realised that everyone on board had some sort of physical deformity.
They were just ill-proportioned people with torsos that were too long or arms that were too short. Arms too long or what have you, moreover, this also applied to the legs.
The most pronounced cases were always the musicians like the female flautist – two or three of the other musicians were male.
Someone else who was on the train began laughing and, out of nervousness, I joined in. The person was laughing at the woman. She, however, hadn’t paid them any mind.
Nobody else was paying people, who were laughing, any mind. They did not see anything wrong with the people who were being laughed at.
I then got off the train and was out in this concourse area, where the trains arrived, before I went upstairs. Before I would go upstairs I saw this child seated in the middle of this white blanket that seemed more like diaper material than flannel.
The child wore a salmon-coloured merino. He had little, white, cloth diapers on. The infant had, again, very unusually, unusually short, short legs that made it look almost like a child because it was seated upright on its bottom.
However, it had a very big torso – matured, such that the child seemed like a very big, big child for its age. Its head was very large with a very developed large and soulful-looking face.
At the time it made me thing of Jake Hudson. Jake does have a very large head and face. I was trying to connect with him. He reached out his short little arms, crying out and said,
“Dad, I want to go.”
There was this youngish man, who was blond like the child, and he seemed not unlike the guy Olaf Knight. He picked up his son and used the blanket, on which the child sat, that had these straps and put him around his shoulder.
Like an African mother would, carry her child when in the fields, thus he was carried on his father’s back. He walked off with the child, who was holding on to him, except that the child was really an adult male.
It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.
I ended up coming upstairs and going out in the outdoors. There were people here – again, mostly Black people. I was talking to them when I heard the strains of Richard Strauss‘s Four Last Songs beginning.
I beamed and excused myself from the people, with whom I was interacting, and went running off up this plaza. It was a clay-tiled plaza and when I got there, I saw the symphony.
I went and sat in lotus position and sat very close to the front. There was a gathering of persons in a semicircle and I was, as a matter of fact, the closest to the stage.
The stage was above on a dais and it was edged by old gold juniper. The juniper was really, really nice and quite fragrant, refreshingly so, to the smell.
Along came, from around a corner walking, Jessye Norman – the high priestess herself. She had been preceded by her divine voice’s magic. She was, of course, singing Four Last Songs.
She wore a beautiful, beautiful, glistening black dress that seemed almost organic with a life of its own. It was twinkling on and off but the lights were lifelike like fireflies.
They were sequins but they seemed, somehow, to be organic. It had hues of gold, silver, bronze, and dark green hues like pine and blue hues like lapis lazuli. It was very, very intensely rich a fabric.
She started singing the first song, Frühling, and it was very hauntingly beautiful. She saw me and beamed down at me. It was so connected between us. I was so enthralled and overpowered; I was quite smitten by her.
I thought very rapturously awakened,
‘Yes! I’m having a dream of Jessye Norman. So very good to see her again, my god here she is and performing Four Last Songs.’
She then came almost to the lip of the stage and stopped as though about to sneeze. Then she held her breath and started laughing because it was so hysterical.
The look on my face was one of being truly horrified for her. This had actually caused her to crack up. Then she began singing again and began making gestures for me to move or be removed.
I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.
‘Why is she snubbing me like this?’ I wondered.
Then these two huge, burly guys came to eject me out of the area. As I was leaving, I could hear her starting to sing again. I was very, very upset.
I was, in the second dream, in this large house that was a very many-storeyed place. It had many apartments. I came out and it had a very slanted roof that one could go out onto. This roof was, however, very dangerously precipitous.
I was looking about and thinking of Carl Leroiderien because, somehow, someone was talking about him. This White man was talking to me and telling me that Carl had been enquiring after me.
He then went on to ask me if I smoked dope which I denied. I can’t think of it doing anything for me except, perhaps, to make me sneeze at the most. Sometimes if mixed with hashish, I then got a massive headache.
“It doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t really like it. I don’t see the point to it and I don’t smoke it.”
At the time that he was saying this, we were climbing some very, very steep stairs. Then at that point, after she had given her performance, I encountered Jessye Norman again. She was seated on a bench and called me over.
She said hello very warmly and apologised saying,
“I hope you weren’t upset. You realise that it was a misunderstanding. I wasn’t laughing at you; it’s just that you don’t seem to realise where you were.
“You were, well there are certain degrees of protocol and you were ahead of the dignitaries.
“And you shouldn’t have been so close to the stage because one of the reasons why your nose started bleeding was, in this dimension, if you’re this close to the stage… when I’m singing, when I hit certain notes it can shatter your eardrums but also shatter your mind.
“So you see it was very crucial that I get you out of there. Also, I was having a very bad allergic reaction to the plants at the edge of the dais. They made me want to sneeze. It wasn’t at all you or exclusively you.”
In having embraced me thus, she was being most healing. I did, in fact, have quite the nosebleed. As I was being hustled out of the place, by the burly guards, it was then that I realised that my nose was bleeding.
At the time, I had thought it strange. As this dream progressed very lucidly and linearly, there was no point at which either burly guard had so much as touched me.
I was so upset. It was so very good, after the fact, to have had her explain as she did.
*This dream really does validate the notion that all persons encountered in the dreamtime, without exceptions, are separate entities and not figments of one’s imagination. END.
When I was being bounced by her, I was so stunned, upset and humiliated. Had she not explained as she had just done, I would have awakened from this dream with a totally different perception of events.
I had also no way of knowing that she was having an allergic reaction to the juniper which, at the time, I found so wonderfully soothing. What’s more, I hadn’t a clue that I had thrown the Chi of the place by having disrespected protocol.
I would never have thought that my nosebleed was due to her singing. In fact, it is possible that I could have awakened and not recalled that, indeed, I had had a nosebleed which I had totally forgotten until she had mentioned it.
Jessye Norman has indeed straddled, with great élan and diplomacy, many a dimension with great frequency and fluency.
I then began holding her hand and told her that there were times that I had dreams of her, in which there were sometimes cetacean-looking creatures that came and did formations around her as she sang hyper-dimensionally.
She was just enthralled and pleased. She squeezed my hands and laughed a healthy, really wonderful laugh. She was quite smitten by me and encouraged me to write it all down.
Her eyes here were so very large, soulfully dark and focussed right into me. It gave me a high just to have experienced them.
I was wearing, when close to the stage, a satin merino-like shirt. So at the time of being bounced out, I had passingly thought that I had been dressed too scantily for her liking.
In any event, it was quite interesting.
This third dream was truly hysterical. It seemed like on Eglinton Avenue East, between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Road. It was at nighttime. There was a lot of goings on.
Shirley MacLaine was there, Warren Beatty and Madonna Ciccone, as well. Warren Beatty was the man of the hour and the centre of everybody’s attention.
He had a great deal of sexual energy and magnetism. He had been performing for the camera and for everybody around. It felt very staid to me though.
One very interesting thing that happened was that he had been heavily drinking and, whilst laughing, had bent forward. He then began uncontrollably coughing and was holding his chest and faking a massive heart attack.
Next thing you knew, we were in a very crowded area and it turned out that he had not been faking the heart attack. He had a very, massive, massive heart attack.
He was dead just like that. He was gone within moments. It was just incredible. Shirley MacLaine became utterly hysterical. Her bawling was like from some Greek tragedy.
She went into a trance-like frenzied state and began calling on astral guides and her Pleiadean guides. Pulling out a very impressive clutch of crystals, she threw herself onto him and tried healing him of death.
She was placing them all over his body – at the chakras and elsewhere. It was too humourous for words.
Meanwhile, as Warren Beatty died, Madonna came rushing up to the scene. It had all been too late and they couldn’t rush him to a hospital. There was no way that he could have been revived.
They had been out in some desert area having a big party; there were no doctors around. There was nothing that they could do; he couldn’t be saved. He was dead… he was gone.
Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying,
“This is so unfair.
“He hasn’t even been able to make the sequel to Dick Tracy. And right when he’s at the top of his career this is happening?”
“Well you know this will really immortalise him now. Definitely, this is great publicity, right at this point in his career.” someone had dryly said who was not attached to his whole entourage.
I had heard this but Shirley MacLaine hadn’t heard it. Madonna came and whatever she thought about I could telepathically hear it. Her immediate response was,
‘Oh shit! This is just going to fuck up my goddamn career.
‘If only I’d gotten a child by him. Shit why did I have to have that abortion of his child. Shit!’
She was thinking fast. She was someone who knew how to manipulate the media. She was really pissed off because it would have meant immediate Hollywood sainthood for her, were she to go on and have Warren Beatty’s only child, after he had tragically died.
She was really pissed off because this was media manipulation beyond her wildest schemes,
‘I’ve got to get him out of here. I’ve got to have the best genetic engineers flown in immediately…’
I was stunned when I read her thoughts because, of course, she intended to harvest his seed and impregnate herself and then have a premature love child of Warren Beatty’s.
I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania.
‘During the autopsy, I’ll have his sperm taken out and I’ll have it copyrighted. It’ll be my possession. I’ll have it engineered so that I’ll have a child… a son. God we can even have twins…’
She, all the while, was cowering over his face… kissing him and doing the wailing widow number,
‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’
She privately squealed to herself – unaware, of course, that she was broadcasting to someone like me. She was so triumphant at having had that idea because all she knew was that people who so loved Warren Beatty would take to her now.
She was insecure as to whether or not she would endure through time. However, with this, she knew that she would automatically become iconic. She would become truly the virgin mother!
She would be actually giving birth to some dead man’s child – he of course being, Warren Beatty. It was destiny. After all, she was ‘the’ Madonna.
She had this flash that this was why she had always been so drawn to crucifixes. She was going to capitalise on the whole drama by making sure that it would be a son.
Of course, not to be outdone by that old, other Holy Mother with the virgin birth, she would eclipse that Madonna by having twin sons. Again, La Stupenda squealed with delight to herself.
I passingly wondered if I were the only one to be privy to her thoughts. Then I realised that from my detachment, as everyone bawled and was truly horrified as though these were Olympians and not mere mortals, that I was the only one.
‘What could be better than having two Warren Beatty lookalikes crawling around the planet and who were his twins? And his only heirs! With today’s genetic engineering it will be a great coup.
‘Think of the press! I’ll be guaranteed perpetual immortality. I’ll be iconised for all history…’
I thought then and there,
‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’
In any event, the funeral was upon us and by some strange quirk of the dreamtime, I was very much so a part of the funeral. I was as though a fly on the wall, as it were, and aren’t you lucky?
Why, was I participating? I do not know?
In any event, I was dressed to the nines. I had on a wonderful, lace outfit with a mantilla with my veil covering my face. I was part, somehow, of the funeral party.
It turned out that Warren Beatty had had five wives and, at the point at which he died, his fifth wife was a High-Yellow woman. She was part Black, part White, partly Latina.
He had had all these wives. They had always been paid and kept to remain silent. They were never brought out in the public or media. It was one of Hollywood’s biggest secrets.
People, obviously, never knew about it. It had never once been spoken about. There was an interesting turn to all of this… I had been going along Eglinton East on the south side. It was as though I was going towards Yonge Street; however, it was not Eglinton Avenue East.
Madonna was going to be late because, luckily, it was that time of the month for her. She was off having herself impregnated, by way of a turkey baster, with Warren Beatty’s frozen sperm – the planet’s most expensively rare caviar fertiliser of sorts.
I was attending the funeral with a short woman who was the fifth wife’s mother. She seemed a lot like Sybil Ben-Daniel and wore a brown coat over her dress. I walked with my right arm embracing her as she was on my right.
I had burly bodyguards all about me, before, beside and behind me. They were real Mossad-goon-cum-Wrestlemania types. My pants were those flare-legged Giorgio Armanis that allowed me to stride throwing my legs.
There was a lot of train to them and I had such utter style. I had enormous energies about me and great flare. My eyes were bedazzling even though mantilla-veiled.
They were what were, of course, fuelling my high spirits. The onlookers were lapping up my entrance; I felt wonderful.
We then went into the church and the mother was talking about,
“We want the money to go to the Church because the Church is really the staple of society and civilisation. The Church does so much good.”
I just decided to let her babble on and kept my tongue in check. However, I cussed her under my breath saying,
“You demented old fool. What Church are you talking about?”
The church had a metallic-silver front and it looked not unlike York Cinemas on Eglinton Avenue East. It was not a very big church on the inside. As we got inside, I turned around and hissed at one of the bodyguards because he had earlier stepped on my train.
Of course, we were surrounded then by the paparazzi and the little people. His Bigfoot’s footprint was there on the pant’s train. I reached back and slapped his face real hard calling him a fucking asshole.
Of course, I knew that it was safe to do it here because everyone here knew, only too well, that side of me. However, I couldn’t wreck my public image doing so outside.
As we got closer to the church, I began striding firmer with each step in anticipation of getting his oafish arse. I was really careful not to show that side of me when in public.
I started going down the aisle and there at the end was Warren Beatty’s corpse in the open casket. It was a pure black casket that glistened. It was a dark black wood and a really gorgeous casket.
Escorting the mother-in-law, I came all the way down the aisle. I decided that I would go into the first pew on the right. The first pew on the left actually went further down the aisle and did go past the casket.
It held men in white flowing robes; they were priest of whatever denomination this was – very cream, ivory-coloured and obviously very Catholic.
I went and sat down and immediately behind me was the fifth wife’s family. They were very Hispanic-looking more so than Black. They were very handsome in that family.
I turned around and smiled at one of the men and the energies coming from them weren’t as I had expected – I had thought that they would hate me.
I knew Madonna; I was apparently part of her hangers on. Somehow, I had known her through dance. I thought that, for that association, they would hate me. However, they displayed no such hostilities towards me.
Finally, the fifth wife came and was walking very slowly, regally. She carried a globular bouquet consisting of tiny, little white roses that were sprinkled in amongst some baby’s breath. There were one or two little red roses as well.
She wore a white, lace outfit. Deliberately dressed as though attending her wedding, she was not though veiled. She came down to the casket and knelt before it, like Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis at the rotunda, staking her claim on history by her performance.
She sobbed in a controlled breath and then got up and walked around to the right end of the casket. Facing the church, she was now behind it and up on the altar. She was before the pews on the left side of the aisle.
She knelt down again and this time began wailing and ululating. She was doing ritual port de bras with her torso and head as well. She kept on holding on to the bouquet.
It was a very Latin; a very emotional display; definitely, not Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. It was very soulful and moving. One really felt for her.
Finally, Madonna made her entrance and began slowly progressing down the aisle. There was utter silence in the place because everybody was thinking,
‘Oh dear, poor Madonna was slutting with Warren Beatty at the point of his death. Here is the fifth wife and is she going to create a scene or not?’
Well, of course, she is. The fifth wife is Latin so, of course, there will be theatre.
When the fifth wife had been crossing the casket, I took in her body which was very wide-beamed. I knew then, in a flash, that she was pregnant with Warren Beatty’s child and four months pregnant.
It was clearly no Immaculate Conception as per Madonna’s little trick. She was a very big-boned woman. She got up when Madonna entered the church and stopped crying.
Madonna saw her and avoided her glance as I turned and watched this fascinating bit of theatre unfold. Everyone was really excited at the potential fireworks about to go off.
She started coming down to confront Madonna. I immediately and intuitively knew that there was a gun inside the bouquet that the fifth wife so firmly clutched.
Positioning the gun, the fifth wife began holding the bouquet to her stomach. Madonna, staying her ground, kept on proudly walking down the aisle.
She wore black; it was an outfit that was not dissimilar to mine. She wore a short veil and not a mantilla like I did.
She came walking down towards the casket staying closer to the left pews. The fifth wife came around the right side of the casket and was walking down the right side of the aisle looking at Madonna.
She had a very, very vexed and determined – an almost trance-like, expression of self-absorption on her face. All the energy in her body was directed at Madonna.
When she was about five feet away from Madonna, she held up the bouquet and callously said,
“I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!”
It was filled with so much venom that it reverberated throughout the very high-ceilinged-though-tiny church. It was also very Gothic an interior.
Madonna stopped truly catatonically horrified. You could see it beyond the veil. She had no entourage or bodyguards. She showed up alone, so confident was she of the coup that she had just scored at the geneticist’s.
She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back,
“I dare you…”
She was very nervous and said very quickly with a weak, little laugh. She was also vamping à la Breathless Mahoney – the character she played in Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy film.
She was, however, visibly ashen. Madonna was visibly shaken with fear.
Those persons in the left pews automatically screamed out and crouched down for cover because the fifth wife had held up the bouquet in both her outstretched arms like the gun that it so obviously hid.
“Come on. You wouldn’t want to do that. That’s just stupid…” Madonna bravely said.
“…You can’t do that. Besides Warren’s already dead. What are you trying to prove? You can’t do this to me! Don’t be stupid.”
The woman, however, started slowly walking towards her not buying her bullshit. At that, Madonna turned around and started to bolt and she fell down over her long-trained dress.
She had already made it to the back of the pews on the left. She was much too vain, to run outside and possibly be murdered in front of the little people. So she got up and began running around the far side of the pews.
Of course, as she ran away, the fifth wife could easily have shot her in the back. Then Madonna got really pissed off, stopped against the far left wall of the church, holding out her palm at her attacker saying,
“Stop it! You don’t want to do this. This is stupid. You can’t kill me. I’m Madonna!”
She was just winded; the expression on her face was unbridled rage, fear, terror, chutzpah, all in one. Then the fifth wife pulled the trigger, which was the only sound in the place, releasing the magazine.
Madonna cried out and began pleading with her. It was truly a spectacle. It was really pathetic. The fifth wife then pulled on the trigger and there was a loud plopping sound.
Everybody just screamed and the place became flooded with blinding blue light. It turned out to have been an older-model camera and the flashbulb from the camera as it went off.
At that, the fifth wife laughed this loud, truly callous, heavy-from-the-womb, ripe, wicked, vindictive, victorious-all-in-one laugh. It echoed throughout the church.
When her echo collapsed, as Madonna stood there truly disempowered, the fifth wife uttered in a weary breath,
“I always said to Warren that you’re an ugly slut. This picture will prove it.”
At that the fifth wife turned and came and sat down on the pew next to me. Her Latina family members were just going wild clapping and hysterically shrieking.
Now that’s a Hollywood wife!
Poor Madonna was still standing there involuntarily shaking. She was holding her chest and gasping for air like an asthmatic. Her left hand placed on her chest, with her right hand holding on to the pew, thus she stayed her ground.
Although her hand was on her chest, she was being most clever. However I knew that really where it should have been was at her pussy because what the fifth wife instinctively knew, as did I, was that she had just miscarried. Madonna was profusely bleeding.
Poor Madonna was so humiliated. The look on her face was truly sad; she was sweaty and runny-nosed. She soon collapsed and had to be taken away. Of course, she would be beaten out of having Warren Beatty’s heir by the fifth wife.
The whole thing was so funny and hysterical. I was so stunned that the fifth wife was going to pull this stunt. I really thought that it was a gun; I had, at least, gotten this flash that it was a gun.
The idea to have a bolt release, affecting a gun, was truly ingenious. The picture turned out to be truly horrific. It was all a joke being played on Madonna by Hollywood’s film elites who could not have cared less about her and her parvenu ambitions.
The whole affair was so very wickedly political. The whole thing was so hysterical. I wondered as to what next was going to happen.
Is the fifth wife going to come forward and produce the first Warren Beatty heir – the true child? A child that would look like Warren Beatty – more like a child of the future being of multiracial heritage and a bronzed version of Warren Beatty would the fifth wife bear.
What then will she do about Madonna’s copyright of Warren Beatty’s sperm? Will the fifth wife, for producing the heir, win the legal rights to them and have them destroyed if she chooses to?
Will this not, in fact, begin a Pop Religion rivalling the King, Elvis Presley’s, if Madonna had won custody of the sperm and gone on to impregnate herself and bear those miscarried twin sons because of her bonds to Warren Beatty and his two pseudo-virgin-birthed children – sons at that?
Truly, this is iconography for the new millennium, indeed.
*A very, very interesting dream. Certainly, that I would be dreaming about these people is interesting enough. I don’t pay much attention to any of them beyond the passing.
I had seen Dick Tracy three weeks ago. That the whole thing would evolve the way it did was rather insightful. I was totally surprised, as much so, as was Madonna in the church.
I really did think that she was going to be shot. I thought that it would be so messy.
You know, I just did not want having anybody’s can’t-wash-out bloodstains on my Giorgio Armani pants.
*What can I say, dreams are purely experiential. I dream it and awaken, immediately bringing forth the dream experiences, committing those experiences to audio-cassette tapes.
I rather enjoyed being alone and visiting with Jessye Norman in the earlier dream. Clearly, those dreams were set on a parallel Earth in another dimension and one in which the mostly Black population is differently proportioned than we humans of waking state Earth are.
On the eve of the Oscars, I thought this a fitting offering. I could never have fathomed the outcome of the fifth wife’s agendum until it unfolded. Ingenious, to say the least, was her use of the bouquet.
As ever, sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… and so what if you bump into a wall, just attempt doing so again and this time believe that you can effortless transcend the barrier. Perception is, alas, everything.
As ever my dear sweet ennobled friends, I am ever grateful for your continued support. Please do spread the word, far and wide about this happening dream joint on the cosmic wide web. Always remember to push off and start flying… I love you more.
I could never have imagined surviving Merlin by 25 years. More than that, I could never have fathomed how immensely enriched I would grow for having known and loved Merlin. Certainly, I would never have imagined that our relationship would continue, merely otherly focussed, beyond his passing. However, as many dreams herein have attested that we most definitely did and have.
I offer the links to three dreams had after Merlin’s passing – all of which are to be found in the ‘Dreams of Merlin’ category. The first dream occurred as Merlin passed, the other two dreams three and four years after his passing. Do enjoy and I trust that for your own loved ones, these dreams will inspire you to remain open and focussed on being attuned and ever in love with loved ones when they transition to merely being at a different vibration as astral plane habitués.
Incidentally, Merlin was reincarnated on December 2, 2006 as a first level old scholar in an old soul northern European country’s capital city. Merlin’s soul has chosen in this lifetime to be female and yes, I have dreamt of this beautiful-eyed young woman. Love ever endures.
These dreams, without a doubt, attest to Merlin and I having shared a most remarkable love affair. All is choice. Sweet dreams and love you and your loved ones even more!
As the stately Moon drifted on its transit through Aries and thus my eleventh house, I would – whilst I serenely slept – experience the most exquisite glimpse into Merlin’s spirit. It was one of the most lucidly engaged dreams had in long ages.
Of course, it was Monday, April 11, 1994. This was a dream encounter with Merlin not soon forgotten. It was, in fact, the second dream that day.
Next, I was ushered inside this large beautiful hall that was columned by the princely Maharaja. Here it was a cream-coloured, slightly tan marble structure.
From outdoors, wonderful streams of dappled sunlight flooded the interior. Whilst moving through the gracious palace, I passed a dozen or more beautiful saried ladies.
All of them were tall and beautifully dark – in that gorgeous Dravidian manner. However, these were more mythic archetypes than aristocrats, courtesans.
Their saris were saffron-coloured, some with hues of peach, all of them beautifully flowing fine fabrics. In what were the finest silks imaginable, somehow, there seemed to be actual light woven into the fabrics.
There was a lot of gold jewellery here, as a matter of fact, everywhere on their person. They did, though, seem none-too-thrilled at my presence.
At a low table, which was beautifully set, we were next seated on silken cushions. Lots of fine wares: gold and brass, were among them.
The light flooding into the place caused everything to become imbued, in the true sense of the word, with a glowing hue which was ethereal. Everything here seemed to zing at a higher frequency, for being infused with this magical starlight, which merrily flooded into the palatial salon.
The Maharaja, who had been our host, was immediately familiar as well as warm and good to be around. He had the most handsome, soulful smiling eyes. He sat directly across from me and we were not seated at the heads of the long table.
To my left was a very beguiling, genuinely yellow-eyed beauty. She was nubile and immensely arousing. I wanted to fuck this woman from the moment that I laid eyes on her.
She was, in fact, the hostess who sat across the table from the Maharaja – she was clearly his Maharani. Seated on the opposite side of the table the Maharaja seemed totally transcendent.
Indeed, this man was so elevated that he needn’t have eaten of the food – so long was he removed from being in the body. His was an august, truth be told, fixed gaze that was the most hypnotic.
Sitting there, he directly looked across and into me. He paid attention to no one else. I could feel the warm caress of his mind’s touch as he became telepathically harmonised with me.
He knew exactly everything that was going on in my mind. He was a most utterly beguiling man. His were the energies of a truly evolved individual. He had a large robust, though softening, body which was rather Zen-energied.
Too, the ease with which he had slipped into my mind bespoke a great intimacy which we have shared over several lifetimes. Whilst he sat opposite me, grounding me, on his side of the table were all the other mythic-looking saried women along with some truly princely-looking gentlemen.
The one feature of all these persons was the beautifully haunting silence in which they sat here whilst we took a meal in their presence. Seeing the Maharaja reminded me of Merlin.
Observing the maharaja was akin to when looking across the magic carpet-like platforms, as we sat in lotus position in a circle, during the final dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. There was no getting around the fact that the maharaja bore a connection to Merlin.
Meanwhile, the Maharani was graciously lowering her beauteous head just-so. At the time, she was eating and had done so in order to whisper instructions to me.
She discretely shared the finer points of dining etiquette when in their rarefied milieu. This meal involved a great deal of ritualised behaviour throughout.
I was astounded by the array of gold being used here: the goblets, jugs and plates. This proved to be one of the most lavish multi-coursed meals that I had ever partaken of.
Lots of beautiful blooms dreamily floated, perfuming the air, in gold bowls of water. Some were purple, others yellow, whilst some pink blooms; they sat in bowls which were placed along the centre of the table’s considerable length.
This was terribly refined beyond the extraordinary. Naturally, there was no flatware which, had there been, would doubtless have been made of the same yellow-white gold. Whenever the Maharani had spoken to me, she had lowered her head and smiled exposing those beautiful compacted teeth.
Beguilingly, from behind her smile’s alluring façade, she had given clipped directives. She was never impatient with me, either. The food was spiced ever so delicately, seeming more so like Chinese – Szechuan or even Japanese cuisine – rather than East Indian.
Either way, this fare had a bite to it that was truly sublime. I had taken a bite of some deep-fried fish which had proven mind-expansive.
The subtlety of the seasonings, and the degree to which each spice had been cooked into the fish, was truly phenomenal. She discreetly told me not to get ahead with myself thereby, ending up eating the wrong dishes or at least, eating something before it was meant to be eaten.
There were lots of chutneys being used here. Goodness it is simply not possible to convey, in this medium, how utterly refined the seasonings and the overall ambiance of this meal was.
Rarely does one get to be in such refined company. Truly, these were highly evolved persons. Nonetheless, their wealth was not a mercantile state of affairs.
Rather they were wealthy, surrounded by all this exquisite refinement, as it accurately reflected their state of soul evolvement. Truly refined were they.
There was nothing classist or elitist about this august company in which I found myself. To avert embarrassment for me, she had reached forward for something from a dish and thereby cut me off in the process.
As she foiled my none-too-couth display, she had rapidly told me not to take another piece of the fish. It had not been meant to be eaten just then during the meal’s many courses.
What could I have cared? This was the most glorious of experiences. Indeed, this meal and refined company were truly music for the soul.
I had been so ravenous. I so wanted to have another piece of fish for so good was it. Seemingly, one was expected to take but one bite of each dish.
This was about showing control, about being able to then move on to the next dish, even though one was dying for more of the last dish. Control, discipline and grace – these were the hallmarks of this ritual dining experience.
Distantly, the strains of strings came wafting through the air and were laced with the sweet fragrance of jasmine, oleander and sandalwood incense. All along the length of the table, plumes of incense hypnotically danced into the air.
There were times, when it was hard to make out the eyes of my host which were so immediate and so familiar. His were eyes which had an uncanny resemblance to those of Merlin’s.
Flames also burnt at the centre of the table heating up and cooking some of the dishes. In one instance, a large flame suddenly rose up between the Maharaja and me.
As if I had not known or noticed the resemblance before now, for the first time, the magical flames caused a phantom of Merlin’s face to dance through the fiery veil. I was astonished yet not surprised.
All that I had been feeling was, in one flicker of the suddenly rising flame, being validated. The flame had served to sear away layers and dimensions, as if so many lifetimes were being wiped clean, to reveal the residue of the individual Merlin whom I had most intimately known.
Though revelatory, the flames also served as the barriers – dimensional barriers – which now separated us. Though Merlin, he was now more than Merlin had ever been.
Lifetimes and dimensions impassably stood between us. Nonetheless, there was a knowing and connectivity there which could never have been extinguished.
There was something primal, magical even, about the flames. The ever gracious Maharaja had not quivered one iota, though they had suddenly shot up into the air, when the rising plume of fire had roared to life between us.
There he sat radiant and more focussed and intense as though, somehow, he had magically affected the flame’s uproar. His cool betrayed that of only one other human being that I have ever known – Merlin’s.
Suddenly, he was illumined. Perhaps, there had been a light breeze wafting a silken curtain, just off the colonnade or even the movement of piece of polished gold on the table.
Whatever it was, the light struck him just-so. For the first time, without the flame’s effect, there was no mistaking the fact that here across from me sat the soul of the man who had recently been Merlin.
The shaft of light had fallen in back of him, off to the right and rear, bouncing off so many surfaces. The effect that it had, from where I sat, was that of creating what seemed like a halo, an icon, about the head of a princely maharishi.
Unmistakably, there was an aura of mysticism about him which clearly had been hinted at before. Seated there, my lips quivered, as I experienced sheer ecstasy for seeing the beauty of this being’s spirit.
There was no way of getting around it… this was an utterly beautiful dream. Whilst sitting there, I felt much as I had in that dream wherein Merlin and I flew together into the intense blue-white light, in an upright position and laughing our heads off.
Of course, that amazing flying dream between Merlin and me did occur on Friday, August 10, 1994. It was, by far, one of the most beautiful dreams.
The dream occurred, on Thursday, September 12, 1996, whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house.
Definitely this dream, without a doubt, was set on the astral plane. Whilst in a large house, Harella and Pandora were there. It was night time out. Pandora was aggressively trying to have a current lover marry her. It struck me, in fact, as being a bit desperate.
I took my leave from the house going outside. There, I squatted on a rock and then threw my right leg behind me. The look and feel was very à la Martha Graham.
The rock was quite large. In what seemed to be a park, lots of beautiful tall trees towered all around me. Lots of large rocks were beautifully placed about the rambling grounds.
Whilst in the partially-open, Martha Graham fourth position, I did lyrical port de bras with the right leg extended in the rear. Lunging forwards, as though I were rubber-backed, I then reached backwards with my head almost resting on the rear leg.
In the front, the rock sloped down before me. As a result, this did not give my front leg much purchase. Once, whilst in the midst of another port de bras en dehors, I had lost my footing and began slipping forward down the rock.
For feeling as elevated of spirit as I was, I simply pushed off the rock and took my lyricism to its higher octave. I was flying! Knowing full well that I was on the astral plane, there could have been no better celebration than this.
Though low-level flight, it was still the same sweet languorous movement as when enjoying the port de bras. On swooping down out of the air, I flew mere inches off the verdant zingy grass.
Reaching upwards, I brought my arms up in an opening fifth position which then splayed outwards to second position. This swept my body upwards as my arms were stretched out, much like wings, with the wrists splayed back a bit to the rear.
This, of course, created greater aerodynamic ease as well as exquisite aesthetics. Legs together, feet perfectly pointed, I moved through the air like some glorious dragonfly in flight.
More than that, I had a sense of being an exotic bird of paradise with a long tail. Immediately, this brought back images of my first flying dream set in that Amazon aviary in October 1966 – whilst I effortlessly fell from imaginings into lucid dreaming when ensconced in the favourite forking branch of the genip tree, my familiar, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.
Whilst staying in that position, I was able to effortlessly fly. From time to time, I flapped my arms much like a crane’s majestic wings. Swooping around to the left, I flew in an arc, returning to where I had taken off.
Considerably higher in the air, at this point, I could see the rock way below. The rock was beautiful with an intense vibration. The trees below formed a grid of vibrant, powerful negative-ioned energies.
I could readily discern the wind currents based, in fact, on the way the crowns of the trees were being swept about. The majestic trees lyrically swayed with abandon.
Swooping further down, I flew down into the valley beyond the rock. By simply arching my back, I was able to soar back up into the air.
My head I arched upwards and back to the right, in a flying port de bras, which took me higher and to the right. This was the most gloriously liberating experience imaginable.
To help with the lift, I raised the left arm a bit. This further took the body, up and around, in a sweeping arch. Greatly inspired, I droned, besotted by the magic I creatively weaved,
“This is so abso-fucking-god-damn-assed-lutely beautiful…”
With that, I roared with laughter enjoying the abandon of spirit that I felt. Though not as if in slow-motion, my flight was rather slow. My movements were birdlike and possessed of a gracefulness that was truly rare.
Unlike that initial flying dream, set in the Amazon aviary in October 1966, there were no birds about to have inspired my splendid unfoldment of spirit – but it sure was sublime.
The trees looked not unlike American elm trees rather than evergreens local to the Canadian West Coast. There were, in fact, no evergreens anywhere to be seen.
Flying away, I swooped up again. Now I was soaring even higher. At that, I then dove down, with swift precision that took me below the crowns of the trees. Now I was about forty feet off the ground.
At this level, I went flying into the thick cover of the stand of trees that stood closest to the rock on which it had all started. Most of the treetops were higher than I was at this point.
Whilst I flew, I simultaneously became aware of both my sleeping body and my further expanded, awakened consciousness. At this point, extrasensory perception ascended to a higher octave and extended the limits of the already expansive experience.
fpDream one.Simultaneously, I was lying in the house with Harella and Pandora. We were on the bed in the girls’ bedroom in the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house.
Again, as I lay there, I was immediately reminded of the experiences on Boxing Day, 1972. Once more, I felt as dissociative as when having the OBE: out-of-body experience, into the massive greenhouse of my genip tree familiar.
As I laid there on the bed, it seemed as if my feet were placed higher than my head. I was, however, not overly concerned. Pandora, much as she had on Boxing Day ’72, entered the room walking past me.
She looked at me because I laid there loudly snoring which, in the dreamtime, was strange. I decided against awakening as I did not want to have to interrupt my parallel dreaming wherein I was blissing out whilst in flight.
I had no intentions of focussing on my snoring for it just might have awakened me. I assured myself that it was okay to be snoring; it did not mean that I was in any danger.
At that point, I knew that I was definitely astral projecting. When I became refocussed in the snoring body, I then recalled my astral self. It was a true joy to feel my body fidget as my astral self resettled into its familiar berth.
Feeling confident and cocky, I decided to have another stab at astral projecting. I wanted to fly… to soar again. Being liberated was much too wonderful to have not further explored.
Keenly focussed, I again began astral projecting. This time, as I began the cicada-like process of leaving the shell of my sleeping, still snoring body, I looked down at my body.
To my amazement I saw the astral self’s cord. It looked as if an illumined string of dental floss. However, this was a bit thicker. It was actually a series of beads that were as if strung together by an intense, though soft, white light – a most luminously nacreous string of tiny, light-emanating pearls.
The cord was attached to the body between the belly button and the solar plexus chakras. That part of my body felt expanded and wide-open. On both bodies, the cord was attached at the same points.
I chose not to focus overlong on the deeply somnambulant body below me on the bed.
Dream onex. Tumbling over on myself, I was now flying on my back. Slowly flying through the house, I was – for astral projecting – able to know what was coming up ahead.
Here, in this expansive state, my spatial awareness was much enhanced. I moved headfirst and not feet-first. Moving through the house, I headed towards the kitchen knowing that Harella was there cooking.
On entering, Harella turned around and looked up at me as I slowly flew through the room over her head. Surprised at the sight of me she said in a thick Nevisian accent,
“Buh aryu looka trouble ya t’nite. Boyh ah weh y’ar go so?”
I paid her no mind and pretended to be asleep – I was after all lying on my back. The sink was by a large window that was framed by natural, exposed wooden beams.
Harella, however, was not standing by the sink. There were a few flowers on the windowsill. On moving towards the pane of glass, I told myself not to worry about striking it.
With that I began increasing my vibration such that my projected astral self became a body of intense white light. Effortlessly, at the same rate of slow flight, I travelled through the thick pane of glass.
Thrilled at my accomplishment, I devilishly laughed enjoying myself. This was just as thrilling as that sublime dream encounter with Merlin, when he passed me the Sunday New York Times whilst at a café, where we had sat at a deuce having brunch on a glorious, sunny Sunday morning.
*That particular dream was had, on Wednesday, December 1, 1993. END.
With that, I was outside in the dark whilst still in flight. The window looked out to a ravine way below. The drop below was considerable, with me in flight, high above the valley way below.
Adjusting, I tumbled over onto my stomach in order that I might meet the demands of flight at such heights.
Using sweeping motions of the arms, again much like a bird, I began flying. Such utter abandon it was, too. I was so pleased that I had decided to leave my body and have another round of astral projection.
I flew as if a bird of prey and the feeling was positively delightful. After awhile, I returned indoors but soon enough decided to again go outdoors. All I wanted to do, once more, was to pass through the thick pane of glass in the kitchen.
Again, I upped my vibrational frequency and allowed my body to effortlessly move through the thick pane of glass. It was as though I were passing through the Chinese glass-beaded curtain, that Merlin so loved, which hung in the door to our 20 Amelia Street, Cabbagetown Toronto home’s bedroom. Once again, I was flying facedown above the ravine.
With great speeds, I began flying; this time swooping down lower into the depths of the ravine, I further explored whilst in flight. The thrill of speeding past the vibration of the treetops below me was exhilarating.
*It had much the same effect as, when joining Merlin on that magic carpet-like transport, in the august dreams of July 9, 1993. END.
Soon, I arrived at a village which seemed as if somewhere in Africa. Since I knew that I definitely was on the astral plane, I sought to explore the environs by alighting in the middle of a narrow street.
Straight away, I kept up a leisurely pace when moving through the village and drinking in everything about me. There was a lot of lush vegetation, all around, wherever you looked.
As I came on a bend in the earthen street, it was nighttime here. There I saw some of the villagers in the most colourful African costumes imaginable. These were the most exquisitely dark-skinned Blacks that I had ever seen.
Yet, there was something about these Blacks that was different to their waking-state human counterparts. They were so very exciting to be around that they simply radiated life and light energies itself.
I was thrilled to have encountered them. They were playing the music which so richly informed my childhood. This was the music of ‘Sports’ and foreday morning at Christmas time whilst growing up in Sandy Point, St. Kitts.
One of the instruments that they played was heavy-looking brass cymbals. They banged them with great gusto. As well, there were myriad drums on which they beat a frenzy that was truly admirable.
This was truly the most frig-all glorious music heard in too long. There was no other way to have responded to this music than to have danced. Here I moved as if truly possessed.
As though alighting into my body to vicariously experience the joy of being ensouled in a body anew, I truly felt that I was being channelled by a host of spirits.
Indeed, my very soul itself was moving in on the cicada-like shell of my projected astral self. I threw my head back and howled with delight at being so richly empowered.
For the most part, these regal Blacks seemed to be troubadours who were part of a travelling circus. There were jugglers and acrobats. The cymbal players were low to the ground and in back of them were the drummers, on a float, where they were some four levels high.
They were quite a sight to see. Yet, I still couldn’t quite fathom what it was about them that proved somewhat slightly different. Then when one of the cymbal players took off his instrument, I noticed that their arms were differently proportioned to humans’.
Basically, there were less than three inches between their elbows and their wrists. The distance from the elbows to the shoulders was the same as for a human from wrist to shoulder. Indeed, we were clearly not in Kansas anymore…
This was a very energetic, high-frequencied race of Blacks. Though small in stature, they were not pygmies. However, goodness, this race of Blacks had such incredible presence to them.
Theirs were the most beautiful smiling eyes imaginable. The closest one could think of is the beauty of the eyes of Blacks from Fiji – whom racially obsessed foreigners would like to believe are not Black. Absurd!
For not having been enslaved and subjected to the prevailing Western, absurdist, racially predatory animus, Fijians are a people whose spirits were not broken. These astral beings were a wonderful people whose spirit had not similarly been broken.
These astral plane Blacks were a people possessed of the most beautiful-sounding laughter. It simply tickled the soul to hear these people laugh. These people were very serious about their music; it was on the order of high spiritual contemplation.
At one point, they arrived at a spot where they set up what looked like a drum that was made from metal. Cone-shaped, it looked like an oversized toy top with four layers of circular steel which were separated by two or three inches.
Naturally, the smallest circle of steel was at the narrow bottom of the instrument. Once set up, they began directing energy from the other drums which conversely caused the large metallic drum to spin.
As the top-like drum spun, the winds passing through it created a sound that was akin to an engine with a high-pitched whir. As the sound progressed, the pitch kept on rising higher and higher whilst soaring to stratospheric octaves.
I was about to take my leave of them, on discovering their outré-proportioned bodies, when the sound of the set-up drum pierced through me. So, with that, I turned around and headed back to investigate their ritual.
There, on the street, I saw the halved corpse of a White male. Dark-haired and square-jawed, he was not remotely familiar. I then noticed that, as he lay there, there were tiny lights along his jaw line.
So right away, I realised that he was an automaton and not someone who had been killed in a freakish accident. I couldn’t quite figure out what was going on here. I thought, perhaps, that this was some sort of strange, astral plane voodoo doll.
Of course, it more than likely wasn’t. Obviously, they were engaged in some form of channelling and these accoutrements were what they used. Thus they were able to affect communication with other planes and dimensions.
Now the musicians came off their float and formed a circle about the whirring, rotating metallic drum. There, they beat a frenzy like there was no tomorrow. Still, their playing could not drown out the high-pitched whir of the massive drum-like instrument.
It seemed as though their playing aided it to soar to even high planes of intensity than before. I couldn’t believe that such sounds were possible. However, its intense pitch was clearly able to affect the manifestation of something or other.
At this point, the rest of the villagers began flocking to the centre of the village. They gathered about the circle of drummers as they ecstatically performed. In a bid to get a good view of things, as events unfolded in their village, they were excitedly rushing in.
They struck me as being on the verge of expecting something momentous. They were familiar with this ritual; it would seem that this had something to do with death. This process revealed who had recently died or, more to the point, who was about to die.
Many of the villagers, who had rushed in, were villagers from Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. Among them, I saw Maudie Hazel and several others from my childhood who looked much as they did then.
I figured too that most of these persons had already passed on in the waking state and, therefore, were currently astral plane habitués. As someone from Sandy Point was about to die, this ritual was being carried out.
Here on the astral plane, this was how the announcement of an arrival was made. Thus the predeceased would rush in, as it were, to find out who was about to crossover.
Too, they were there to serve as a welcome committee and help the newly returned habitués become adjusted. Obviously, for some, there needed to be some getting used to being dead and returned to the astral plane. The mood here was incredibly celebratory.
The new habitué was thrown an energetic party where the music was that of the most glorious time in the village – Jouvé morning. Many were quite eager to meet old friends and get them oriented to their new realm of beingness. It was all great fun.
What was a big item here was that the predeceased villagers were always eager to let the newcomers know who had killed whom, in some unsolved and highly-suspect, mysterious death or murder.
It was so akin to the richness of emotionality which village life in Crab Hill had been during my childhood. It was great to be here.
Maudie Hazel was a real noisy, gossiping firebrand. She wore a soiled white frock; it looked as if it had been her favourite, for years on end, when she was alive.
Looking as though she hadn’t done anything as momentous as died and left Crab Hill, her head was tied up in a kerchief. She stood to my immediate left.
To have looked across to her strong warrior-spirited face caused me to well up with loving pride and laughter. This woman was so lived-in and soulful that it nourished the very soul to have seen her – again.
Eventually, the steel drum came to a rousing climax. At that, one heard a voice that sounded like a recording. It was the voice of someone on their deathbed, giving their last words as they bade farewell to the world, before shutting down a life.
However, this was a recording that the person had made knowing that they were going to die soon. To my way of thinking, it was clearly a suicide. There was no mistaking the fact that it was David Templeman.
His voice was not unlike that of Pericles da Braga’s. A very articulate and erudite register it was. At the end of his speech, there was a succession of long, weary-sounding breaths which was customary of someone taking their last breaths before dying.
For all gathered, this was the most beautiful sound; they hung on to it and drew on heavy breaths themselves. They were just as celebratory as if they were persons attending a birth – which, in essence, it was. A rebirth it was, too, back to being an astral plane habitué.
By their pleasurable expressions, they were validating that it was death. The return to the astral plane was a labour of sorts; it was being facilitated by others who had headed out on the journey earlier.
This, indeed, was quite the revolutionary discovery. Needless to say, this left me wondering what exactly I was doing there. There were no doubts in my mind that I had stumbled onto the astral plane.
These villagers were distinctly African in nature, even those who were familiar to me as being born in both St. Kitts and Nevis and whom I knew when growing up in Crab Hill.
Some were exceptionally long-limbed but possessed that unusual arrangement to their limbs that was decidedly not earthly human. Long-legged too, they were all long-torsoed. Their torsos were so long that they seemed as if possessed of more vertebrae than humans.
These people could dance with an electrifying magic that could, any day of the week, dance circles around Michael Jackson. It was quite something to see this group of Blacks in another dimension. Theirs was a very vibrant culture.
More than that, I was really keen to learn exactly how David Templeman had died or how he was going to die. Either way, this ritual presaged his arrival onto the astral plane as arrivée, astral plane habitué.
The halved corpse that lay on the ground, which was clearly an automaton, was the channel that brought through the voice of David Templeman as he passed on.
There was a bit of chatter as a few astral plane habitués, who had lived in Crab Hill, were discussing exactly who David Templeman was. It seemed that someone had not remembered who David was as the astral plane habitué had moved to America decades earlier.
Many of these Sandy Pointers, I did not myself recognise. This I think was due to the fact that they had died when I was a child or long before I had even moved to St. Kitts from Nevis.
I must say that it was really good to have been around them. It was all very interesting and made me feel as though I was in St. Kitts. A thoroughly pleasurable interlude this was for me.