Celebrate: Frank Sinatra 100 Years!

Chairman of the Board Frank Sinatra

Whilst the Moon transited both Taurus and my twelfth house, I would dream the most lucid astral plane dream in long ages.  At the centre of that dream encounter was the man of the hour, the newly refocussed, Frank Sinatra. 

Over the years, I have had very few dream encounters with this man.  As befitting his Michael Overleaves, I found this man to be rather arrogant and abrasive. 

*Frank Sinatra’s Michael Overleaves were channelled as those of a young soul sage.  END. 

This for me has always been an indicator that one is dealing with a young soul.  They are just so damn impatient, arrogant and socially aggressive – sorry but these spiritual boors just bore the living shit out of me. 

Prime example of the young-souled zeitgeist is deftly validated in the dream encounter with the quintessential young-souled female of the 20th century, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  Add to all that animus-charged angst is the fact that she also happened to have been a young-souled king. 

Her effect on me during the dreams of December 30, 1992 – which in this blog are entitled: King Holding Court – are the dynamic of a late mature soul (self) being socially shunned by a young soul (Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis).  These persons, for me, are extremely enervating and real crushers of my aura. 

Although, to be sure, when Merlin was incarnate I would have suffered much with regards socially aggressive young souls, now I simply do not suffer.  I simply walk away – life is too fucking short to suffer spiritually dense-energied boors. 

In any event, the dream was of Frank Sinatra being feted as the arrivé astral plane habitué that he then was.  This was one of the most beautiful, healing and lucid dreams imaginable. 

Well you can bet your bottom dollar that I spent the next several days saturating the walls of my Montréal home with Sinatra’s sublime soulfulness.  I have chosen to include all the dreams had that day as they allow me to fill the spaces between with another YouTube video of Sinatra’s shamanic wizardry. 

At the time, it was Sunday, May 24, 1998 and the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape CCXLVIII and are to be found in Volume XXV of the 25-volume dream opus.  Be well and as ever, know that the love you afford me by being herein focussed is relished with every fibre of my creative soul and, in turn, is returned to you tenfold. 

Sweet dreams – for we are, you and me, marvellous shamans.  I love you more! 

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A room, where there was a tall countertop, proved the setting for the first dream.  Two large books were sitting on the countertop whilst a fat Jewish man was putting on a play.

I too was supposed to have been putting on a play.  Going to one of the books, I opened it and looked inside.

A black-covered book, it contained fascinating information.  For starters, it stated that on June 5th, I had tested HIV+.

On learning this, I remained rather detached.  I was not in the least bit devastated by the news.

I thought that, perhaps, this had likely occurred when I had been off being frisky in Vancouver’s Stanley Park.  Being blasé about the news, I shrugged saying aloud, “Oh well, that’s life.”

Next I was naked and squatting.  I looked back over my shoulder at my body and thought that at some point my body was going to become excessively skeletal.

Honestly, I was not upset to have learnt this news.  Later on, I would get together with Xerxes Hamelin who was seated on a bunk to my immediate left.

Turning to look at him, I told him the news and adding that he needed to go and get tested.  He, too, was not especially upset and remained seemingly resigned to the ramifications of the reality at hand.

Holding my hand, he said that it was okay with him and that we would move through this together.  Furthermore, Xerxes said that whether or not he tested HIV+, we would remain together.

He assured me that we would go through it all.  I was reminded of how fiercely loyal an individual Xerxes Hamelin is.

The Jew was stout with curly black hair; too, he had a bit of a receding hairline.  He was most intent on putting on his play and was quite passionate about it.

Myself, I had lost all focus with being creative.  I knew that it was going to take me some time to adjust to experientially being in this new space.  There would be a lot to have to assimilate.

At the time, I had told Xerxes Hamelin that I was already taking a whole battery of pills – vis-à-vis being HIV+.  Seemingly, among other things, I was also taking AZT pills.

So far, none of the drugs were proving toxic which was nice to have known.  I was wearing a black jockstrap whilst seated on my folded legs and looking down at myself.

Looking at the outside of my left thigh, I was inspecting myself with visions of what aesthetic horrors laid up ahead.  There was a moment there of chilling terror.

The interlude was, though, brief as I realigned my energies by starting to do deep yogic breath exercises; thus, I eclipsed all negative thought processes.  Quite simply, there was no time to be negative as nothing was to be accomplished by being thusly focussed.

After having known so many people who have passed of AIDS, I had to be accepting of the inevitably of Life.  In the end, I chose to be philosophical about this change in my life experience.

I must say that one had to be more positive about the inevitable.  After all, death was merely a transition into the greater community.

Indeed, more persons have died than have lived.

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Next, in this the second dream, I was in a salon where on one side there were large floor-to-ceiling windows.  This was a long salon and 18th century in style.

The style was decidedly French and the colour a soft, soothing blue.  Lots of chandeliers dominated here which were pear-shaped.

Lots of persons were here and everyone sat on Louis something-or-other chaises.  The chairs were white with gold filigree.

Down the centre of the salon ran a plush-looking red carpet.  I sat, down in one corner of the room, being none-too-loud-personalitied.

There were all kinds of famous persons scattered about the salon.  Too, there were non-famous persons none of whom I recognised.

As for the famous persons, some were no longer incarnate whilst very much so alive at present.

A door stood off to my left across from where I sat.  Though I was with someone, I cannot now recall who exactly it was.

That particular door opened and revealed an incredibly intense blue light.  The light flooding into the room was also the same intense blue and, by far, was more than sunlight.

Nor was it platinum-hued or matted as if the Moon’s light.  The light flooding the room through the opened door was incredibly intense.

The large regal-looking double doors had opened simultaneously from outside.  Goodness, I could not believe what next happened.

Into the stately salon walked the recently discarnate Frank Sinatra.  Quite simply, this man exuded power itself.

God… I simply had to sit up, straight-backed, in my chair.

*I can’t recall ever having had a dream encounter with this man whilst he was incarnate, though, I may have.  Too, I have never really paid much attention to his musical career.

Certainly, I was not anticipating a dream encounter with this individual.  Indeed, as it is, I am loathed to have to admit dream encounters with famous persons.  END.

Straight away, I stood up in deference to the elder creative statesman.  Quite obviously, Frank Sinatra had now awakened from the so-called ‘soul sleep’ to being an astral plane habitué adept.

After having completed the transition to being no longer focussed on the physical plane, this was a coming-out party for the much-loved entertainer.  God, it was good to have been there in the salon.

Frankly, I had no clue why I was there.  Way down the exceptionally long hall were Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr..

The latter two, of course, are older astral plane habitués than Frank Sinatra.  Too, the comic genius Charlie Chaplin was closer to the door with Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. to greet Frank Sinatra.

All the stellar personalities, who had already passed on, were closest to the door through which Frank Sinatra entered.  Next in line, were the incarnate celebrities who were familiar with Frank Sinatra at the time of his passing.

Jay Leno was one of the incarnates present at the astral plane salon.  He got up and nobly walked over to greet Frank Sinatra.

Jay Leno had been the one to usher Frank Sinatra into the room and was quite an affable easygoing host.  Frank Sinatra was so fuck-all fantastical and magnetic.

What was most extraordinary about this dream was how undeniably Alive Frank Sinatra was.  He looked no more than fifty years old.

Above all else, Frank Sinatra looked well-rested.  There is simply no other way of describing how he looked and energetically felt.

There was such an abundance of love in this room – even more so than outpoured at his passing.  Truly phenomenal was it to have been in this salon.

What remained with me, long afterwards, was what an honour it was to have experienced this transcended being’s awakening.  Truly uplifting an experience it was for me.

I think that I may have been with Xerxes Hamelin.  In any event, as we stood there clapping and cheering, excited to see him, the arrogant one simply turned his back on us as though we were so much uninvited guests.  At the time, I had been thinking that he was going to make his way over to us and whilst en route he would be shaking hands with everyone.

Alas, no such luck.  He did shake hands with some long-dead celebrity who remained seated on the ornate-looking chairs.

I believe that it was someone whom he had known earlier in his career and who was a record or film producer.  Someone, it was, whom one would never have known for being a member of the public.

I was left with the impression that Frank Sinatra was not only difficult but arrogant as all hell.  I for one was not put out by his behaviour.

I was thrilled to have seen him awakened, as it were, into the light.  This was not about gawking at celebrities but, rather, I was there to salute his just concluded and quite accomplished life.

After all, he had creatively achieved a fantastical amount.  Truth be told, 200 albums is nothing to sneeze at.

My companion and I had been the first and, it turned out, only ones to have gotten up and clapped.  This made us look that much more out of sorts.

As if to show his disapproval, Frank Sinatra had suddenly turned his back on us.

We had made embarrassing arses of ourselves; his reaction was, more or less, “Shut up and sit down!”

Way down at that end of the salon, there was a great deal of laughter as he, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr. got reacquainted.  Frank Sinatra looked so incredibly on; he was so in tune with his very soul itself.

He was in total command of the situation.  He knew where it was at.

There were no misconceptions as to what was going down.  After having moved on from a rather accomplished life, he had just arrived in grand style.

Power to him!

*I think that it should be stated that part of the reason for Frank Sinatra’s arrogance is owing to the fact that he was authentically channelled as a young soul.  Furthermore, this was a young soul sage which means that he would be possessed of much dramatic and aristocratic airs.

With such Michael Overleaves, at the very least, Frank Sinatra would definitely come off as acutely arrogant.  As a recent astral plane habitué, Frank Sinatra could be expected like all young souls to be arrogant, blunt and frankly rude.

Either way, that does not detract from his stellar creative accomplishments.  Certainly, I was not going to hold it against him being merely human even when an astral plane habitué.  END.

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I was working in a corner, in this the third dream, at the offices in Vancouver.  Whilst walking south, I was looking for a place to sit and work.

Rashima Mittal was trying to pre-set something on the seat which I wanted.  Calling out to her, I let her know that I had already taken the seat.

There were no hostilities between us; in the end, she ended up taking the seat ahead of mine.  At the time, it was nighttime out.

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Whilst in another office working, in this the fourth dream, I noticed at the supervisor’s podium writing away was none other than Kari Laitinen.  He was writing on a writing pad.

On noticing me, he blushed – he was being shy.  Going over, I warmly greeted him whilst marvelling at his handwriting.

He remained shy as we warmly visited together.  For most of the conversation, he shyly looked down and not because he was trying to avoid or shun me.

Initially, I had been standing before him and then moved around to the side of the podium.  By so doing, I ended up standing on his immediate right.

What struck me most was that he was not writing in French.  Rather, he was using a language of symbols which seemed more so Middle Eastern; possibly, it was Arabic if not Hebrew.

Though there were others around, they didn’t factor into the scheme of things.  What struck me, too, was the fact that aspects here were set simultaneously outdoors.

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© 2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Look Who’s Coming To Dinner!

A Cheesecake 2015

Recently, I caught up with old friends; a bunch of Leos all, we decided to get together and share our birthdays which all six fall within an eight-day period.  I still have yet to actually meet someone born on August second, my actual birthday. 

In any event, there just had to be that dinner guest that made a point of being a dumb-as-fuck catty fag who spent most of the dinner trying to throw shade my way.  Bitch please, I long ago turned in my Gay card – why be a card-carrying member in a society which is marked with intense racial animus towards Blacks?  

I simply do not play.  Go be Gay and all that that stands for.  I don’t lisp and I especially do not suffer anyone who does. 

Naturally, there was overlong discussion of that silly White male dickless wonder-looking attention whore whose appearance on the cover of Vanity Fair was the final straw for me.  Dominick Dunne is gone as is Christopher Hitchens – what soft hands he had and such sad lonely eyes. 

In any event, the cumfarting twit was fast taken to task when deliberately regurgitating the usual media hate-fest now at fever pitch about Bill Cosby.  Well, of course, he is guilty – he is a man and a successful man. 

Which successful man doesn’t have access to readily available sex?  What the fool guest did not get was what was really at play in all this, namely why is that fugly – tell me, her retroussé-ugly face does not resemble a bat’s in extreme close-up – lawyer’s obsession with Black men? 

First it was Michael Jackson, then on to Tiger Woods and now Bill Cosby.  Better watch out Will Smith, hell Sidney Poitier is still alive… no successful Black male in America beloved and respected by the media is safe. 

Look at what a laughing stock Tiger Woods has become.  All three men, as most people and that idiotic dinner guest – about whom I coolly hissed whilst looking unflinchingly at the roast on my plate, “What is this doing out of the oven?” – fail to realise, had a legacy which was beyond the norm. 

Clearly, it isn’t about merely being Black; it is always about having ventured into uncharted territory.  Who can deny Michael Jackson’s stellar genius?  Who could have imagined anyone achieving, let alone conquering Tiger Woods’ spectacular accomplishments?  Then there was Bill Cosby, after Norman Lear had given the noctambulant masses the image of what Blacks ought to damn well be, presenting perfectly normal middle class Blacks without rage, baggage and drug issues. 

In short order this klanswoman replete with invisible hood has devoted her professional life to latter day lynching of Black men with legacies which are too unpalatable for the likes of her ilk to suffer.  As it is, I was in no mood to suffer some lunatic Jewish queen and his need to raise his rear right leg and piss all over Blacks with smug conceit known only to the equally smug few. 

Clearly, there were no Black men in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book or by now our honorary Klanswoman would have trotted them all out by noose to that most effective of poplar trees, the television medium and then onwards to court to effectively circumcise their legacy. 

The day prior as I rode from job three en route home to take a nap using my snazzy new CPAP machine and attend one of three parties over two days, I had quite the little adventure.  Riding alongside me as I rode in the street – I never ride my bike on sidewalks, a white BMW edged next to me. 

Inside, there were Whites in back and front seats.  With windows rolled down, they cruised along to keep pace with me as I leisurely rode and enjoyed the feel of blazing sunlight on my skin.  As is customary, I wore my shades. 

“Oh look it’s Ray Charles.  No wait, I think it’s Stevie Wonder,” said the dumb-as-fuck-looking blonde in the backseat smugly looking out and grinning her more-gums-than-teeth, saurian-lipped-hideous and blissfully ignorant face at the sight of me. 

Their laughter was that hideous semi-feral clipped affair known only to the White tribe when it is enjoying being racially predatory and making sport of Black lives.  The big White male next to her who likely preferred fucking her in the arse than not, called out, “Hey bud, guess what?  No more Jell-O pudding for you!” to which there was even more wicked gales of laughter known only to Blacks when being racially preyed on by Whites who will ever swear up and down that there is no such thing as racism.  Hell, the term racial predator does not exist. 

So nice to know that by millennium’s end, this murderous Saurian predator masquerading as human will be yet hunted by an even more menacing terror – those who think nothing of cutting empty brain-dead skulls from bodies and placing them in the small of the back.  Yes dumbasses, you too like Rome will fall and you too will yet be the hunted. 

Next, the male driver who howled with wicked delight then did something that never before had I experienced, for the next block and a half – he rode alongside, matching my speed, never allowing me to drop behind or overtake his car – he turned on the windshield wiper which naturally saw wiper fluid jet beyond the car’s roof and left me good and drenched. 

I got home  a sticky, stinging ashy-white mess as anti-freeze fluids and sweat took their toll in the glaring heat for several kilometres.  Long had it been since I had been reduced to tears at having been racially attacked. 

So as this arse-eating venal swine sat across from me going on ad nauseam about Bill Cosby, I quietly excused myself and took to the host’s bathroom where I feverishly texted my delightful Panamanian-born Montréal friend, Raoul de Castro and told him where to come find me and spirit me away from this gold-and-diamond-thieving arse-eating fool. 

Returned to dinner, whilst I patiently awaited Raoul’s arrival, I began speaking of the audacity of New Jersey paying out one million dollars to Holocaust survivors in the state who numbered more than 40k.  How many were there in Florida, Illinois, Arizona, New Mexico to say nothing of California and New York?  Were they being paid for Holocaust PTSD too? 

Why pray tell were American taxpayers making any such payments when the Third Reich had not occupied America nor for that matter had the Holocaust occurred on American soil?  Funny how quickly some can go from being smug to being downright accusatory. 

Once challenged with fact, the fool began accusing me of being anti-Semitic.  Some things truly are as predictable as flies on shit as Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would ever impart. 

Our idiotic otiose dinner guest soon demanded of our host why he was allowing our dinner party to be ruined by all this slanderous anti-Semitic talk.  Grabbing my Samsung Note, I gladly shared the news article on the Jerusalem Post’s website which heaped praise on the New Jersey governor for being a good little porcine Goy and paying out needless, to say nothing of dubious, guilt money. 

All talk of Bill Cosby ceased as the subject was changed to the Andy Warhol show here in town – which I have yet to see but soon shall.  Soon enough, and well before dessert, Raoul crashed the dinner party and rescued me. 

As we left, in a manner that was crass and as can be expected of a sage soul born in the year of the Monkey, Raoul called across the room to the South African-born boorish Semite and waved at him in a gesture that was decidedly born of the Reich, “Farewell to all that!” 

Naturally, Raoul was in town because at the weekend it would be the annual Caribana or whatever it is now called.  I never attend, too much Sun and crowds – two things which cause my vampiric soul to cringe – you’d be amazed what working night shift for more than two decades will do to your reaction to sunlight. 

Raoul was in town because like me, also leonine, it was the annual fest of big Black American cock.  Can’t never have too much of a good thing indeed! 

Alas, drink of my spirit and savour this truly beautiful dream where I dined on the astral plane with my task companion and then astral plane habitué, Merlin.  Now there was a true Semite; above all else, he was a remarkable human being. 

As Raoul and I rode by cab from the horrid dinner party in the Beaches, I remarked how rare a light Merlin was to him.  During those seven years that I knew him, Merlin never once referred to himself as a Jew. 

He was not ghettoised, he had nothing to prove.  What was even more remarkable in those seven years, Merlin always referred to everyone whom I had yet met as ‘my friend…’  So it was that on Halloween 1982, we went to ‘my friend Joe’s’ pumpkin kill party and pleasantly surprised was I when we got to the 12th or was it 14th storey apartment in the upper west 90s and his friend Joe turned out to be Black – of course, that friend Joe is the actor, Joe Morton. 

This was the most remarkable thing about Merlin, meeting all his friends over the years, was like being at a reincarnational ball, you were ever surprised when the door opened and you finally met ‘my friend’ so-and-so only to discover that they were Japanese, Chinese, Jewish, Black, Armenian… whatever.  No wonder I have never had patience for ghettoised fools like the boor at the abandonned dinner party in the Beaches. 

The dream was lived in telepathic lucidity befitting not merely entity mates but task companions no less.  At the time, Luna did as is her wont, she grooved through Leo and thus my third house like Sarah Vaughan some lazy, syrupy scat. 

That Wednesday, I was coming near the end of my stay in Vancouver as it was April 16, 1997.  Too, the dream was audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and twenty-nine and is yet to be found in volume XXIII of the twenty-five volume dream opus. 

Say what you want but intellect is the most beautiful flower on this world or, for that matter, any other across this vast universe.  Befitting a late mature artisan of pronounced scepticism, aren’t you glad that that I can readily see through any shabbily concocted fraud?  

Yes, indeed, Vanity Fair has no time to report on Ferguson or the #BlackLivesMatter issue, any more than it cowardly avoids reporting on taxpayers’ money being brazenly scammed in New Jersey – about which you can damn well bet Vanity Fair and its editorial staffers are cognisant.

On one thing I am uncompromising: If you don’t like Black people…  Fuck you!   

Life is but a dream and sweet it is when you fear nothing and no one.  Sweet dreams, you are more magical and beautiful than you know.  For being focussed herein, I am both grateful and honoured by your patronage. 

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a stag light arrangement

A rustic restaurant at night-time, which was wide-open with lots of exposed wooden beams, proved the setting for this dream.  Seated with my left side to the aisle, where the waiter came and went, I was at a table for four.

There were persons, across the aisle from us, to whom I really did not pay much attention.  Who should though be on my right but Merlin!

Whilst interminably waiting to be served, we silently sat there.  Before being taken, our order took almost forever.

Leaning forwards from behind us, a waiter finally did appear.  Smiling, he asked us to come with him as he now had a table for us.

So, we got up and began walking back with the waiter.  We were as though going to the back of the restaurant.

We moved through a beautiful interior which was nicely, dimly lit.  The flames here were live flames in glass beaker-like vases.

Too, there were the most spectacular antlers and horns displayed high up on the walls.  Some of the horns were on the ceilings about the light fixtures.

All in all, it was a beautiful ambiance here.  Too, there were rustic paintings on the walls that I paid little attention to.

The seats in this section allowed you to face out into the aisle with your back against the wall.  I had been concerned about our not having been served for so long.

Though we were not saying anything to one another, I was not concerned about that.  There were no doubts that Merlin wanted to be there with me.

We passed much of our time together, lost in a silence which was born of our being communicatively engaged, on alternate levels of reality which precluded speech.  We were being exclusively telepathic.

We sat side by side, facing out to the dining room, which gave us a commanding view of the persons on display.  The atmosphere here was very nice.

I quite enjoyed being with Merlin.  There was nothing more sublime than our silently sitting there, whilst together taking a meal, by candlelight and some mellow Jazz instrumentals perfuming and further intoxicating our very souls.

*Christopher Hitchens’ Michael Overleaves now to be found in Michael Overleaves Appendix.

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Photo: White truffle chocolate strawberry cheesecake from Daniel et Daniel

Antler/horn lighting fixture.

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© 2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.