Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill

Rudolf Nureyev

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lee2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

verandah2

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well wha ah goin stop fa?”

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

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

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

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

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

I enjoyed listening to them noisily.

NEO SHINTOISM

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

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

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

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

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

barre2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rudolf Nureyev in Louvre apartment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lee Radziwill by Andy Warhol

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lee and Rudi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rudolf_Nureyev_Paris Louvre apartment

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

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

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

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

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

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

skytrain2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

jetty2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

plane crash2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

donna summer2

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

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

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

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

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

“Boy, hush yu damn ass!”

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

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

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

“Watch your fucking mudderscunt!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was rather officious and adroit.

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

Past-life Dream Set at Spencer House.

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These dreams are from the upcoming third volume of my dream memoirs.  I share them here and now as within there is at least one dream which is set at Spencer House, which I finally visited in this lifetime on the occasion of the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing.  

The dreams were recorded on audiocassettes over the course of a decade following Merlin’s passing as he had requested that I stay tuned on his passing as he intended however possible to get through to me from the other side.  250 audiocassette tapes later, at the end of that decade in among them were the most glorious dream encounters with Merlin on his passing.  These dreams in their rich pandimensioality were dreamt in lucid astral plane realism in late October 1991.  

As this is an excerpt from the as-yet published third volume all the dreams are in italics and everything else in normal script.  Observations after the fact about dreams are not in italics and conclude with END at the end thereof.  At the time, though I did not know it, the dream was set at Spencer House.  

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Before ecstatically flying off in search of lives up ahead, it is oftentimes good to know where one has been.  These next dreams occurred during the second or ‘B’ cycle of sleep and dreamtime that day.  Prior to sleep, I had been meditating with crystals in the pyramid and was inordinately focussed in my intention.  After having adequately fortified myself, I was clear in my intentions to dreamquest in search of past lives.  Thus, I would vicariously revisit two past lives which were complementary.  During the first life in question, I was male and Merlin was then present with me and female.  We were musicians at the court of King George III where also present was the Prince Regent and future King George IV.  The second life seemed to have been longer-lived and in that one I was female.

The dreams of both lives overlapped and it was good to have acquired the past-life information of those lives through Michael channeller, Sarah J. Chambers.  Of course, there was a dream of a third past life, it was that of my immediate past life.

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This having been the first dream, it was an extremely involved odyssey.  A dream it was in which I had gone off to a performance, at nighttime of course, but it was as though it had been onscreen.  Before the performance had begun, there had been a comedian onstage.  There had been many wings to this performance because it had been set in a house.  In fact, it was a period piece.  The people who had been watching this had been, as it were, very much so out of time.  This was set in the late eighteenth century.  There had been a very nasty racist, in fact, send-up of ‘the savages in the jungle’. 

This was all in British accents and very eighteenth century language. 

*As I had meditated before sleep, I had opened myself up to experiencing insights into past-life reincarnational monads.  As it had turned out, I would end up gaining much insight to my reincarnational past.  This was set in the parlour of a very affluent Georgian residence.  There was a white comic onstage, not unlike Tom Kneebone — who was possibly one of the most loathsome pieces of bigoted shits that I have ever met.  Otto Dix arsehole that he is; Tom was a vile, pinched, sphinctered nobody-arsed faggot.  Whilst looking at the comic onstage, I realised that one of the reasons why I loathed Tom Kneebone — on meeting him — was because he bore such strong resonance to the past.  The comic was uncannily like Tom Kneebone.  By that I mean that my visceral connection to the very racist performer was because, he was me in a former life in Britain — lived at court as a white male performer.

Of course, it was not Tom Kneebone but he had the same racist, pinched, WASP lack of tolerance and awareness as the Otto Dix arsehole — such an ill-evolved piece of shit that one.  END.

The comic was entertaining the guests in this salon.  He was doing this whole thing about, ‘the Pickaninnies’, ‘the darkies’.  Also, he had had to have an accompanist to show the ‘natives’ and their gargantuan, elephantine dicks.  Clearly, from the way that he had been holding it, the cock had not even been yet erect.  He was all bulging eyes that had rolled with wide-opened mouth.  Everyone was just spellbindingly charmed by his wicked witticism.  I, however, had not been in the least entertained by it.  In fact, I had felt greatly embarrassed to have seen him. 

This was like having to have faced embarrassing skeletons in one’s reincarnational closet.  After his routine, it then led into this performance that they had been putting on.  In point of fact, the performance actually was quite funny.  Everyone would leave the salon and then come back in but they would all have on Regency dress and wore makeup specific to that era.  At one point, all the women had come back in.  From where I had seen the performance, through an open door, there were people off to the left in a smaller room who were not performing.  They were crowded around on divans.  There was a large open space on the floor where the exquisite rug sat. 

There was one woman there who had had a bad sniffle; she had kept on sniffling and was near consumptive.  Why does she not just get up and get lost?  I was quite impatient with her.  At the time, I was closer to the main players.  These were people who had been sitting in the salon in front of me.  There was a whole cluster of them immediately before me and to the immediate right of the large white doors that led you from room to room.  Exiting that particular room into which I had looked, where the performance was taking place, were more doors.  The door half, which was close to us, was open and served as the wings to the stage. 

Up in front of the mantelpiece was where the performers had come on to perform their scenes.  They were quite funny.  There were parapluies that had wonderful little floral designs on them.  The performers were made-up in such a way that their faces looked like bouquets that resembled large English white and faded yellow roses — very oversized roses.  The faces of the persons were very much in keeping with the zeitgeist of the late-Georgian era.  This was the look that was proper in that time.  As a result, the souls that had been incarnate at that time, were wearing those faces.  At two separate occasions, everybody seated in the salons had had to get up and leave then come back in. 

The last time that they had come back in, all the women were dressed in long, flowing tangerine-coloured dresses that had dragged on the floor.  All the dresses had little flowers on them.  The tangerine colour was muted by a sheer fabric of white silk overtop the tangerine bodice.  The silk had left it a seemingly faded colour.  All along the grid patchwork were these tiny roses that were the colour of the fabric underneath the tangerine-coloured material.  The look was very beautiful.  As they had spoken, there was wonderful repartee going around the room.  This one woman was croaking away, saying, “Oh why don’t they go to church, anymore? 

“Doesn’t anybody go to church anymore?”  She had gotten up, going around the room, to make the point.  She had then come back and sat down on the arm of the chair.  Her husband was very stout and he had remained seated there in an armchair.  One chap, who was on one of the chaise longues where some of the other spectators were seated, was bantering away.  He was very dynamic, in a sage-souled sort of way.  The costume changes between sets went on almost forever; at such times, the salon would become abuzz with lively discussions about whatever socially or politically was au courrant.  Of course, that had meant anything that was superficial and that they, at their level of society, had found très amusant. 

This particular costume change was quite long and some of the players, who were going to have been participating in the next piece, were seated on that particular chaise longue.  They were talking, amongst themselves, when this one man had said, “Well, I certainly hope that you don’t go, looking like that…”  His was a very cutting double entendre because, though the dowager was quite the frump, it was really a comment on her horrid-looking face; this, in an age, long before plastic surgery could have come to the assistance of women of her class.  The woman’s face was very puffy and dowdy and, also, full of makeup. 

She, so without a clue, had replied, “Well, what’s wrong with me going like this?” 

“In a dress, there is certainly something wrong going like that.”  This was very, very witty racy banter and much filled with double entendres. 

The poor frump was daft and had not quite gotten it.  She was wonderfully being sent up by everyone.  “Oh dear me, I never quite seem to know what to wear.  The fashions changing all the time, I can hardly ever keep up…” 

This had only made for more cutting, though hushed, laughter.  I do not even know but it was at this point, as she had spoken, that I had seen her in close-up.  I had wondered if, perhaps, she were not Francesca — the name of a past-life of mine lived in Georgian England.  Just as in that last dream encounter with Francesca, during the onset of menopause, I experienced the same visceral connection with the subject.  Then, as now, I was seeing her face in keen close-up.  Now, I was experiencing her at a much later stage in her life.  She was a late septuagenarian.  Still, though, she was very much so into the heavy makeup but at this point, she had suffered from senility and was pronouncedly neurotic. 

Afterwards, everybody had looked out at me and asked me if I had ever seen the performance presented like this before.  One of the things that they were talking about was an expedition that had just returned from, ‘Deepest, darkest, Africa, in the Jungles.’  This was, in fact, a production of Romeo and Juliet that had been set in colonial Africa.  They had openly wondered, specifically of me, if I had ever seen so racy a production.  All these people were very sophisticated, sagely persons, of whom it was safe to say, they were all very much so artisan-like — in essence, they were the glitterati.  More to the point, they possessed goals of discrimination and predominantly were in repression mode. 

“Well actually, I had seen the original classic production.” 

“Yes but have you seen any modern updates of it?” she had asked, by which she meant a production from the Georgian era. 

“Well, no.  Well I did but it was when I was at school, in Sandy Point.” 

Of course, they did not get it at all and found my accent far too queer for words.  Besides, it was all very post-modern as far as they were concerned.  At that point, the lights in the salon went down, in this beautiful, large high-ceilinged place.  A movie screen then appeared and Diana Ross was going to be the mother to Juliet and the Juliet was a beautiful, beautiful, long-haired High-Yellow heroine.  She had seemed East Indian but was not.  She had gotten up and gone running to the window because Romeo was calling her.  Clearly, it was a filmed version.  She was wearing a black and white checkered dress that had no sleeves. 

The dress really was more like a jumper — an A-line dress.  She was so gorgeous; the young actress was stupendously radiant.  Presently, she was praying and the camera was a slow, sweeping crane shot that had kept on rising up and away from her left profile.  Filled with so much earnestness in her face, she was quite beautiful.  A teenager, she was quite the stunning little actor.  The actress was not Diana Ross‘s daughter, Tracee Ellis Ross but someone who had a stunning High-Yellow resemblance to Diana Ross with those stunning eyes and with very, very gorgeous long, long wavy hair.  To just above her arse, her hair was thick and beautifully cascaded down.  She was very gorgeous. 

When she had run to the window, she was as if a ballerina by the way that she had held out that beautiful, delicate tiny face.  An exquisitely beautiful face it was that sat on that long neck of hers.  Looking out the window, she had dreamily called down, “Oh Romeo.  Romeo.  Romeo.”  Truly, it was sheer spellbinding magic. 

A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama                                       

In this the second dream, I had gone off and was walking in Crab Hill, Sandy Point.  Whilst there, I had seen these unfamiliar persons.  One of them had had one of the most interesting faces.  She had a very unusually large face and very beautiful teeth that were somewhat compacted.  She was very lovingly dark-skinned.  She was unusual-bodied; her head was very, very large and her body, in comparison, very squat – unusually so.  To be precise, her body was like a dwarf’s.  Her legs were very stubby and bulky. 

My goodness, this woman could run.  She had had a great deal of physical power.  A lot of Earth planets that were fixed, to be sure, were part of her makeup.  I found it very, very interesting to have watched her.  On having passed her, I had said hello and noticed that she had shut her eyes.  That was when I had realised that this woman had almost never looked at anyone.  Then, finally, I had commanded her attention and directly looked into her eyes.  To have looked into her eyes was tantamount to looking into her soul. 

Her eyes were so large.  Hers were as if seeing, up close, the eyes of a giant cetacean.  Yet, these stellar eyes were on a human face.  These eyes were extremely large with the lids half-collapsed over them.  The brown of the eyes was dappled and mixed in with some blues with little streaks in the blues.  Talk about beauty.  Nonetheless, they were very, very old-souled and very, very powerful eyes.  At the time, I had thought of how much they reminded me of the eyes on the totemic cranes that I have seen throughout my life. 

She had just laughed and turned her head away.  She was a woman of substance and great grace; not unlike Jessye Norman°, in that sense, was she.  I had specifically focussed on her right eye.  Hers were not unlike the dappled blue-green colour that Owen Hawksmoor°‘s eyes take on, of course, when he is wearing his coloured contact lenses.  However, her eyes were quite gorgeous.  Predominantly brown but there were lots of brown and red streaks in the white of the eyes.  These were from very large bulbous blood vessels.  The whites of them were very white, almost caramel-coloured on closer inspection, from the timeworn passage of their agedness. 

Boy, this woman had a lot of strength of character in that body.  Hers was a solid, solid body.  Following after this guy, I had then come back over this little barbwire fence.  We clearly, I realised, cannot go getting ourselves scraped.  As we had been passing, there had been a window to our right that had looked into a house.  Whilst looking at the screen, on which Romeo and Julie was supposed to have been playing, we had gone and sat down.  Protesting, I had said that this could not have been the case because it would only have meant that I had missed so much of the performance.  In all this time, of having gone and wandered off, one would have missed too much of the production. 

At that point, there had been someone on the screen performing a Shakespearean soliloquy.  This clearly was an updated version of the text.  I had started watching it and got back into the film.  The one thing that I had not liked about it, was that there had been lots of flies on the set.  After having been made uneasy by the bugs, I had gotten up and walked about for a while.  When I had gotten back into looking at the production again, it was as if looking at it from the Georgian salon again.  However, now it was slightly different.  To myself, I had remarked that it had seemed so much like Toronto. 

That was because this production, like Toronto does in summertime, had all these damn flies.  All the people around me in the Georgian salon had not gotten what Toronto had meant at all.  As well they understandably would not have, they had looked at me very strangely.  There were flies in the air which I had kept on swatting out of the air.  There was a whole scene in progress, when I had decided that I would just have to have seen the production again or, perhaps, get it on videocassette.  At that point, I had simply missed too much of the production.  I had realised, too, that I could easily have seen it when it made it to the Revue second-run cinemas about Toronto.  At that point, I had turned and left. 

*This heavy-lidded young girl could well have been me, Theresa, in my immediate past life.  That life was lived in Brazil and I had a goal of dominance.  Of course, on Tuesday, September 17, 1991(39), I would dream of Theresa in her adult years.  Similarly, she also could have been Merlin reincarnated.  In December 2006, Merlin was reborn female in the Netherlands; however, at the time of the channelled session, the female reborn Merlin’s ethnicity was not shared.  Thus, this could well be Merlin reborn in early 21st century Netherlands about whom I was dreaming.  END.

I had next, in this the third dream, been up on this rise with Isha where she and I had been doing something.  We had discussed the fact that I had needed more money.  I had told her that my PIN number, for some bank card that I had had, was 8411.  She had called up the bank and was being pushy with them.  Isha was telling them that she had been very ill and incapacitated.  For being bedridden, they would therefore have to let her have the money in cash with me acting on her behalf.  She had assured them that I would be right over and to let me have the funds.  As she had spoken on the phone, this black woman and her white husband had come by. 

The man wore glasses and they were, very much so in love, embracing each other.  There was a little girl with them to whom I had meltingly said, “Come here sweetheart.  My goodness!  You have American money and you have a 10.00$ Canadian note there, I see and a 20.00$ too.  Why don’t you let me have an American bill?  And some of those Canadian bills because you’re not going to need the Canadian bill.” 

“Why?  It’s my money.” 

“Okay then, fine.  Come on over here and give me some sugar,” I tried charming her as she had been off to my left.  On having wrapped my left arm around her, I had kissed her on the cheek saying, “Return the kiss, please.”  We had kissed and had done so, on both cheeks, in the French style.  I had looked down at her parents and they were quite sweet and in love.  At the time, I had been thinking of Pandora.  I could not, though, have made out the mother’s face all that well from the table; I had been seated there with Isha.  A square, black metallic affair with a glass top the table proved. 

As a result, the table was covering the face of the woman and I could not make out who she was.  At the time, I had thought of Pandora and her present beau.  This child had then appeared but it was like a doll; she was so tiny and was, in fact, as if a pygmy.  She proved to be Barry Thomas‘ younger sister.  Every time that she had bawled, her neck had extended and craned up into the air and was pinkish-coloured like a white doll.  She, though, was actually a black baby — you could tell from her facial features.  She was very much so alive but she was in this rubbery body that was like a doll’s.  I had put her up on a mantelpiece to sit because she had been so damn noisy and obstreperous.  

Penina had come and disputatiously confronted me about what I had done to the poor little girl.  Whilst Isha had been on the phone, I had gotten up and gone to take a pee.  On entering into the bathroom, I had been shocked and horrified.  On looking in the mirror, I had noticed that Isha had cut my hair.  I had let out the most enraged scream, “Isha!  How could you do this to me?”  What had happened, was because of the way that I had been lying on my back, she had managed to cut off all the hair on the side of my head up to the top and on the other side as well.  This was the most ludicrous haircut. 

In the back, leaving the length in place, my hair was still long.  “I don’t want my hair looking like some bloody Mohawk warrior’s,” I shrieked.  To have seen the roots of my hair, which were unpermed, I was truly pissed off.  Having my hair chopped off, was not something that I had wanted and I definitely did not want this frigging fascistic cunt fucking with me.  I had been truly incensed at her.  Truly enraged, I returned to confront her and found her lying down in bed.  Immediately, she went on the blind defensive, “I don’t see anything wrong with it.  Besides it’s already done and you might as well cut off the rest,” she had laughingly dismissed me. 

“Isha how could you do this?  This is exactly like when you destroyed my writings.” 

Impatient with her indifference, I had launched through the air at her and begun beating the living shit out of her: hitting, slapping and kicking her.  Grabbing anything that I could find, I had beaten her with it.  All the rage that I had felt at her, for destroying my writings back in the mid-eighties, had come flooding out. 

*Back then, when she had been confronted, she had launched into a clawing defensive attack on me as we rode home in a blinding rainstorm from Solomon King‘s wedding in Rochester, New York.  END.

Earlier, I had gone to get my brush, to brush my hair and, on not having found it, had borrowed hers.  On brushing my hair, I had noticed that the brush was really scraping my scalp.  On having looked at things in the bathroom mirror, I had been left horror-struck.  On seeing what she had done, I had sucked my teeth and decided then and there to kick her arse.  I had known then and there that this would not have happened had I taken her to task, blow-for-blow, back in 1985.  Also, I had seen this brown bag, a large, black canvas bag and a shoulder bag — they were all mine.  In the travelling bag were these two tickets because I was going to be travelling.  I had really been upset and pissed off at Isha as she had laid there under green sheets. 

Penina had come into the room and tried intervening on Isha‘s behalf.  Penina had tried to get me to accept the fact that what had been done, was final and to just get on with things.  That had only more infuriated me.  Turning on her, I had screamed, “Oh Penina, why don’t you shut up?  You’re so damn stupid!  Of course, you would agree anyway.” 

This woman had then shown up who was Jewish and it had turned out to have been, Ariel Gothberg.  She had worn this dark purple turtleneck bodysuit — over that, she had worn a brown very, very thick, woollen jacket.  The jacket had lots of gold zippers that showed down the front and the length of it.  The jacket had no collar.  On either side of the sleeves, there were gold zippers that went midway up the arm.  There were two on the breast, one zipper each, over each breast for pockets.  They had little golden tassels that held the zipper.  The outfit was quite nice and was in brown and black. 

Ariel Gothberg had looked quite smart.  I had asked her what she had thought of my hair looking like that.  “Well it’s your hair and it’s natural.  I think the natural version looks kind of nice, anyway.  Well, you’ll decide what you have to do with it,” she had then gone off, up these stairs.  Yeah, right; fuck you, you bitch, I rudely dismissed the thought of her.  Whilst there, she had joined two or three other smartly dressed persons.  I had come around and begun leaving then went out into the outdoors.  There, I had stood by a shed whilst talking with somebody about things in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands.  Just then, a large plane had gone by directly overhead. 

At the time, I had thought this plane too unusually close to the ground.  We also were close to the ocean.  The building was a long white shed, like a greenhouse, beyond a sandy slope.  Generous clumps of long grass held the sand from drifting too much.  We were standing just beyond a stand of palm and sea dates trees.  The ocean was rather tranquil and gently breaking.  The ambiance here was rather beautiful.  I had then seen a large plane come by that was like an American Airlines plane; except, on the back of it, it had had this large caboose. 

This was a large unusual extension that had flared out.  To say the least, this was most unusual and there seemed to have been no exhaust.  The bottom of the craft was very silver.  Also, there were the red and blue stripes along the sides like an American Airlines carrier would bear.  However, nowhere were there any demarcations, indicating that it was an American Airlines craft.  Unusually so, the craft was very long.  Long and sleek, like a Boeing 727, except that it had had no mid-fuselage wings;  way at the back of the plane, there were some smaller wings.  As it effortlessly sailed through the air, I figured, oh dear no, it is going to crash.   

As it had flown by, it had bizarrely veered off to the left and head first.  Next, it had shot up into the air and then come down.  I had screamed aloud, horrified for the passengers aboard.  Immediately, of curiosity, people had begun running towards its obvious crash site.  To check things out, I had gone running around the corner of the building.  There was smoke in the air but it was general pollution from the community; also, there had been no smoky fireball as with an obvious crash. 

“Oh dear.  I think it crashed…” I had helplessly said to a man who had reminded me much of my uncle Michel King, rather than his brother Marcel King°

 “No, it didn’t,” he had confidently said.  Another plane had then come in and that was when I had suddenly remembered that I had had a flight to catch.  At that, I had gone running, hurrying out of there, and gone around the building.  This was a wonderful large hangar-like building.  In this building, there were many persons.  I had seen several travellers there.  Once outside, I had had to go up an immensely long flight of stairs to have gotten up to where the plane was.  On the outside, it was a pure white aircraft with two propeller engines on each its wing; the propeller engines were running at the time that I had arrived. 

The wings were extended; they were actually quite long.  I had demanded that they cut out the engines so that I could safely make my way to the man who had been at the gate.  He was an older, dark-skinned man in uniform.  He could have been Egyptian, Hispanic, East Indian or Arabic.  I had had to pay him to get aboard the plane and it had come to 14.00$ for the flight.  Incidentally, as he told me that, I had recalled that the PIN number was 8411, which coincidentally does add up to 14.  I had given him a 20.00$ bill.  He had told me not to worry, that it was already running late, and assured me that I could get my change on board the flight.  I had boarded the plane which, oddly enough, was unusually low to the ground.  On having entered inside the plane, it was as though you were outside again and had to go up a further flight of stairs — just like the ones that had earlier gotten me to the tarmac. 

A truly dream surreal moment this proved.  Penina had been concerned because, on this flight that had just come in, there was supposed to have been a little boy that we were supposed to have met.  He had been coming from Nevis.  I had told her that I still was really frigging pissed off — at having had my hair cut off by Isha — and could not have cared less about any little boy.  So we had gotten into the plane and it was again unusually interiored.  There was a wide enough single aisle with all the passengers in seats that had faced each other.  This had immediately reminded me of when I was a child, prior to having taken my first flight, I had always envisioned the seating arrangement on board an aircraft to be like this.  There are, of course, no such seating arrangements in conventional aircraft. 

As we had moved down the aisle, we had passed a number of little boys.  There was a little boy on the right of the aisle and I had thought that, perhaps, that was him.  However, we had gone down with Penina having followed after me.  There were, incidentally, lots of potted plants here on board the highly unconventional aircraft.  The aircraft was white-interiored, as outside, and there was a lot of sunlight coming through the top of the aircraft which was completely glass-topped.  The ceiling was really like a long trough in a greenhouse because there was a drain in the ceiling that had run the length of the aisle.  Lord knows, we were definitely well beyond the Kansas City city limits.  Also, it had been very humid inside the craft. 

Many, many potted hibiscuses were present and some of them were in bloom.  Just where the stem had exited from the pot, one plant had fallen over and broken.  On righting the pot, I had felt for it.  The plant had sadly kept on dangling over.  I had called the boy’s name which was something like, ‘Orello’, to which he had immediately answered an alert yes.  He had been way in the back.  I had pointed him out to Penina and told her to go and take care of him.  Furthermore, I had told her to get off the plane with him because she was not supposed to have been travelling anyway. 

I had then gone up to the front of the craft and there I noticed that there was a large opening.  Here at the front of the craft, it was as though one was in a hangar or large indoor room.  Whilst other people were lost in reading, what had clearly been scripts, there was a girl doing some homework.  The studious girl was very stout and wore a school uniform.  Early teenaged and definitely black, she was very light-complected.  A tall, gangly white male had come in; this man was very much so old.  He was incredibly gentle and soul-soothingly so.  He was as if a gardener or caretaker. 

He had sat next to me and warmed me further when he asked, “Do you have piece of paper, please?  Just something to write on.” 

“Well, I don’t even know…” I had really wanted to help him out and been of service to him.  He was so sweet-spirited like Catherine Angelica (‘Lica)  or as Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon°, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother seems — that kind of evolved grace of spirit.  I could not immediately find anything and, in the meantime, the girl had not been prepared to part with any of her school paper.  There, I had told him, pointing in front of me to a little desk on which were some clothes and my bag.  I had gotten out my bag and started talking to him.  He was very, very wonderful and very old-souled in feel.  He was very healing to have been around.  He had reminded me of James Tramble or Merlin’s guide as I had seen in those dreams — the tall shaman. 

He had commenced writing on this piece of paper and he had asked me my name to which I had replied, “Arvin da Braga.” 

“Oh really?” he good-naturedly replied.   

I had then given him my statistics.  Continuing on, told him that I was born on August second, nineteen sixty.  We had talked on some more and then he had asked, “And what about your friend?” 

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“Oh Merlin?  Merlin Ben-Daniel.  Merlin B.”  When he had asked me my name, I had initially said, “Arvin M.  M, as in Merlin, spelt ‘lin’ not ‘lyn’ and which, incidentally, was my lover’s name.  Merlin; spelt the same as my middle name.”  As we had spoken, I had grown more and more intensely lucid and light-headed; it was as though I was channelling.  “Merlin B.  B, as in Bechbache, which is his mother’s family name.”  We were talking about Merlin and he was doing this write-up about Merlin and me. 

He had then turned to me and said, “Well anyway, I’m leaving you now and I want you to write this down.” 

“Is it a number you’re giving me?” 

“Just some important information.  But you must remember it and you must never forget it.”  What he had said was, “Proper posture leads to purpose and prosperity in time.”  He had said it with the greatest enunciation and slowness. 

There was a woman who had stood out in my mind as he had spoken.  She was very much so like Francesca who was down below and outside an opening in the airplane.  She was inside the building at a window, looking up at me and saying, “I will be with you, don’t worry.  And I’ve remembered it.  I’ve recorded it.  And I’ll keep reciting it to you if you need me to.” 

The gracious gentleman had then left.  His was not unlike the yogic centred serenity of Yehudi Menuhin.  At that, I had had a sense of motion and that we had travelled.  The sensation was not for very long but you just knew that we had covered massive distances in what had seemed a mere breath.  As I had watched him write with the greatest of care, he was right-handed.  At one point, he had stopped and disruptively said as I had spoken of Merlin and me, “You’ve a very distinctive accent and it’s so layered.  You can see so many languages in it.” 

“Well, yes that’s because I’ve lived all over the place, actually.  My upbringing was very middle class in the West Indies with maids, in fact.  I like speaking this way because it’s who I am.  It’s about intellect.” 

“Right you are,” he had said whilst warmly smiling. 

We had then gotten to where we were going but he was no longer with us.  We had deplaned and come down the flight of stairs.  Everybody had gathered about this courtyard and was walking around.  Most people who had deplaned had been white.  All the kids were in the rear and we were separated — the kids and I.  I had then left everybody and started walking ahead because I had wanted to go and get Penina.  She had shown up and was running to go and get Orello now that he had arrived.  She had on this long, floral-printed dress that had proven to be a jumpsuit that had turned into culottes. 

Her outfit was brown, yellow and green which were all one-inch slats of colour.  The jumpsuit was a predominantly off-white, faded yellow number that had these yellow, brown and green horizontal slats that were crammed together and haphazardly spaced.  They had created a wonderful motif on the fabric.  Somehow, it seemed that I was supposed to have been deplaning.  Seemingly, I had to get aboard a larger plane and continue on with my flight.  For having interacted with Penina, I had missed the connecting flight.  This had mightily upset me.  Initially, when she had come aboard the first flight with me, I had turned to her as we had progressed down the aisle and asked if she had remembered to get all my bags. 

A second flight, not unlike an American Airlines carrier, had come in through the air and landed.  This had proven my signal, to have started moving and get aboard the initial flight.  When I had deplaned, I was supposed to have gone to another flight.  For some strange reason, everybody was marching in a circuitous route.  They had gone down this street and turned off to the right; they then had gone down this wide boulevard into another courtyard.  That courtyard had contained another plane which one had to board.  A sareed, East Indian woman had looked back at me and energetically said, “Hurry, hurry, hurry because the engine has already started.” 

“Don’t worry…” I had evenly replied.  She was a really sweet gracious soul. 

You could have seen the engine and when it had started, the wing that had been turned horizontally then swivelled and turned to the vertical position.  This was set in a compound that was surrounded by a large white fence.  Going up to the courtyard, the steps were white and the interior of the building and all the low-lying buildings around were all pure white.  The look was that of permanent whitewash paint. 

“…I’m coming.  I’m supposed to be on this flight,” I had called out. 

When I was making my way there, there was a large wooden gate that had a glass in it.  One of the things that had kept me distracted, was that I had gone into this room, where Penina had been and wanted to look at the Romeo and Juliet drama again.  Instead of having been able to get it on television again, there was a video music station on.  The music video was set in a large room.  Irene Cara was singing a song in said music video.  Natalie Cole° was there, as well, as some other black entertainers.  She was in a living room in that segment of the video, which was for a love song.  Natalie Cole was participating in the video but not singing.  Irene Cara had worn a black tunic overtop black narrow-legged pants. 

Natalie Cole had worn black and white; they were very much so enjoying themselves.  Soon, I had caught myself when being distracted and had gone running out of the place.  I suddenly remembered the petite, beauteous East Indian woman; she had a striking resemblance to the author and socialite, Geeta Mehta.  She had been telling me that I was supposed to, in fact, have been getting onto the other flight.  So off I had gone, running down the road; it was a narrow stretch of earthen road.  Even though it had long been closed, I had opened the door to the craft.  The stewardess was slowly closing the door when I had leapt through the air and pulled it forcefully open.  At the time, the engines were already running — all of them. 

They had had to stop the engines so that I could make my way past them and safely get aboard the flight.  I had shown her my ticket and very cleverly said, “Here’s my ticket.  I’m supposed to be on board this flight; thank you very much.”  Again, the interior was much like a waiting area and a greenhouse at that.  There was a sense, once again, of light coming through the glass-topped ceiling of the craft.  The craft’s interior was all whitewashed.  There were lots of persons, mostly guys, standing about.  The first thing that I had noticed, was that they were all dressed in white and were dressed in clothing from another age. 

They were dressed as in the latter half of the eighteenth century — the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart§.  I had passed the flight attendants; they were off to my left and up towards the cockpit.  There was the familiar large open area, as well, off to the right of the skylight.  There was a narrow door that had gotten you back to the main cabin of the plane.  The 18th century persons were in the open, which had an earthen floor.  Here, it was very humid and damp.  These were all young and white males, who wore white clinging tunic that went down to just below the knees.  They wore tight breeches, really tight, with white stockings that came up to above the knees. 

They wore white shoes; large ones with white buckles.  Large-sleeved white shirts, most of them, although some wore shirts whose sleeves were those of the conventional style of the waking state.  They were, all of them, very young and very dark-haired.  These persons had the faces that were exactly peculiar to their age.  The hairstyles, the makeup and the expressionism; it exactly was what the aristocrats of late eighteenth century Vienna looked like.  On having entered this craft, I had immediately noticed that there were little rooms as in a salon in eighteenth century Vienna.  There were these white doors with glass panes for two-thirds of them.  There were little concert hall boxes that were set up; all this occurred inside the cabin of the plane no less. 

I could distinctly have heard the engines whirring away, outside the craft, whilst drinking in this most unconventional of plane interiors.  We were going to take this flight and whilst in flight, there would be a performance.  Everybody was an actor and like that man on the chaise longue, with the wicked tongue, also very much so sage-souled.  I then went and took my place.  There was a box where the performers would sit, as in an opera house, but it was on the ground.  This was not a Boeing 747 series type airliner.  The opera house-interiored craft had been lined with red carpeting and red velvet.  The seats were all one embankment and quite plush. 

There was a doorway there with a man who had been crouched down.  He was dark-haired and had a mole just below his left eye.  He was most handsome and looked like the soulfully august aristocrats, of the court of King Joseph II of Hapsburg-Lorraine, in the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart.  His face was very, very unusually large.  He had worn a ponytail that was tied back with a black ribbon.  Just inside the door to my right, he had been crouched down.  I had looked off and on having seen him, had smiled.  He had looked up at me and was quite smitten by me. 

I realised that I had found my place and had come in to the box to sit.  We were obviously about to witness a drama that was clearly Romeo and Juliet that was set, in the Mozartean era, in the city of Vienna, Austria.  I had gotten so energised for having been in the company of these people, whom clearly I had known at the level of soul, and thus had squealed and laughed aloud.  Also, my response was in anticipation of the great fun that we shortly would share.  At that, I awoke in bed. 

*I was not chagrined to have awakened at that point.  Already, I had been refamiliarised with all these persons.  There was something very much so familiar about the handsome-moled man.  We did look at each other as I took my seat and I was passingly reminded of Merlin.  Beyond the eighteenth century energetics that he wore in that life, he was familiar, intimate and a companion.  That was all I had needed of the very layered, very enriching and very, indeed, pandimensional aspects of this dreamquesting odyssey into a past life.  This was very real and I was very much so in my element.  That dream initially was definitely set in the Georgian era and the people there were all familiar.

They were all white and very much so alive.  I guess that this was an astral plane projection in time, to experiencing aspects of past lives.  I was able to have used the astral plane, to have transited the spiral arms of time and enter two different time frames in which I was clearly incarnate.  Also, it was very much so the eighteenth century and the height of the colonial era.  Here was someone who had just returned from an expedition to deepest, darkest Africa.  Down to the accent and the language as it existed then, they were very much so British.  The most important insight that I learned, for having revisited that lifetime, was the lasting effects of racism to which I was exposed, engaged in and was much informed by.  To say the least, in this life, I am truly repulsed by racism’s ubiquity and its effects.

This explains why I am so passionately impatient with and can see and understand, so clearly, my hypersensitivity to racism.  I see it for what it is and where it comes from.  The second flight’s exposé into Mozartean Austria was, I am certain, more about getting insights to a past life of either Merlin’s or someone with whom I share as strong a soul connection.  Perhaps, it was someone on the order of my essence twin.  I am not convinced that this was Merlin, in a past life, even though I did not see the eyes in close-up.  I knew them not to be his eyes.  The eyes are always the dead giveaway in these instances.  Though packaging changes from life to life, the eyes do not; except to change colour and grow older and softer with the reincarnational maturation of the soul, the eyes are always recognisable as self’s in past life dreams.

**Further insights that I would like to add at this time, I do believe that the latter dream of the Mozartean era, harkened back to when Merlin and I were incarnate together, again lovers, and were court musicians.  This, however, was during the court of one of the English rather than Austrian monarchs.  During the reign of George Hanover, King George III, which was during the 1700s to early 1800s, Merlin and I were then incarnate.  Also, the Prince Regent and later King George IV was also familiar to both of us.  The latter monarch would have been instrumental in the flourishing of the arts, which is why Merlin and I had creatively blossomed in that life.  King George IV, when the Prince Regent and during his brief reign, had been a great patron of the arts — life at court would have been artistically fulfilling and that it clearly was.  In any event, I also sang during that life.  Usually, my performances were to smaller audiences of aristocrats; Merlin, then female, played the harpsichord and was my accompanist.

I guess that the Francesca lifetime could have been a complement to that lived at court during King George III’s reign — whose father was rather German and caught up in the Austrian succession intrigues during the early 18th century.  There was a late Georgian to early Victorian sensibility to the first dream; it featured a septuagenarian Francesca who rather than me in a past life, was Merlin when a harpsichordist and my then lover.   These are insights gleaned from Michael Overleaves by Sarah J. Chambers who, prior to passing in 1999, channelled the Michael.  What’s more, at that time, also present and likely participant in this dream was the Duke of Bronté.  Of course, said duke was also the 1st Viscount Nelson, none other than Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson.  Naturally, in the late 18th century, Horatio Nelson had spent much time at court whilst trying to get  himself positioned after the American war of independence, which left the admiral and many others out of work.  At the time that he spent at court, both Merlin and I, knew and socialised with the young, dashing admiral – the 2nd Earl Spencer was the Lord of the Admiralty, which would have made him an invaluable contact to Earl Spencer and a frequent guest to Spencer House.  No doubt, it was his tales of his adventures and especially his time spent in Nevis that served as a source of wonderment for me.

As Merlin and I were then cohabiting as lovers and professional associates, it is likely that I then expressed some interest in going off to an exotic isle like Nevis.  Indeed, perhaps, the reference to deepest darkest Africa was really to the West Indies.  Either way, it is obvious that the fascinating Duke of Bronté, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson planted a seed, which would lead to my choice to reincarnate three lifetimes later in Nevis.

***I should also think that the man with the extra-large head and the striking, large mole below his left eye, should have been more readily discerned.  Merlin’s dear friend, the actor, Joe Morton°, is the one who would fit this bill.  Indeed, Joe does have just such a large mole below his left eye.  The only difference between these two — Joe Morton and the moled actor in the dream — was their disparate races.  The white male’s in the dream was the exact same large mole at the exact same position as is Joe Morton’s.  Further, this Caucasian male’s teeth exactly were like Joe’s as they are in this lifetime.  Again, apart from their disparate races, there was one other difference between Joe Morton and his past-life counterpart.  Joe’s mouth and lips are bigger and fuller respectively and Joe’s comparably was, to say the least, a more elastic and expressive face.

To say the least, that was rather insightful a past-life dreamquest.  Joe, of course, is in the fifth/sage position in his cadence which not surprisingly would leave him inclined to being so sage-like and regal in essence.  Naturally, this regal energy is due to the power mode energy, which innately infuses all fifth-cast fragments, especially in cadences 1, 5 and 7.  Joe, of course, is in the first cadence in his greater cadence.

****I should also like to add here that the large-moled gentleman may well have been in London; at that the time of mid-to-late 18th century, there was a large Austro-German community in London.  King George III was, of course, German.  At that time that Merlin and I were then incarnate, we were rather familiar with one such German patron who happens also to be an entity mate, Arianna von Reinhard.  Wealthy, the German patron of the arts very likely could have funded a trip to Austria and German, during which time Merlin and I could have been on a concert tour to royal courts of those countries.  Who knows, perhaps, at that time, we even met and attended concerts for stellar creative genius, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart§.  END.  

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At the conclusion of audiocassette-recording these dreamquests to past lives, in late October, 1991, I got about the business of choosing an appropriate musical complement.  Naturally, I would end up playing some Joseph Haydn° symphonies.  Back in 1987, whilst being a muse to Olaf Gamst, I was introduced to Joseph Haydn in great detail as he was a composer whom Olaf favoured.  When sitting for the artist, often were the times, when he would play selections from his formidable Haydn collection.  Without doubt, I would come to favour Haydn’s London Symphonies.  That is why, I had crawled through a couple of secondhand record shops in a bid to build my own Haydn collection.  To that end, I got out an old recording from 1977; it was still in fairly good condition.  Released on the Philips label, Neville Marriner conducted the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.  

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For the rest of the day, I repeatedly listened to Symphony No. 104 in D Major Op. 21 ‘Londoner’.  This symphony truly made my spirit soar and allowed me to remain resonant with the past-life to which I had so lucidly dreamquested.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, sweet dreams and my dream memoirs, the first in recorded human civilisation can be found online at Amazon and wherever discerning bibliophiles satisfy their insatiable need.  

ASVMOA II

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