Dolphin House Pets and Glimmers of El Greco’s Muse (Redux)

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On the cusp of the Art Gallery of Ontario’s Georgia O’Keeffe Exhibition opening this month, I am repost this blog.  Do please enjoy.  

Whilst the Moon transited both Libra and my fifth house, these next dreams occurred on October 1, 1989.  Too, it was the seventh anniversary of that magical, and a bit cool, Friday evening in Hell’s Kitchen when Merlin and I would meet… yet again. 

Of course, at the time, he was rather ill with full-blown AIDS and horribly suffering from Candida.  However, as I have known more than 200 persons to have passed of AIDS, Merlin’s AIDS-related illnesses were mild manifestations of what can eventualise with AIDS.  I have always been grateful for that. 

These dreams – one a touchstone dream with Olaf Gamst’s old-souled son as he was during a life when he was an assistant, muse and lover of El Greco’s, the other a dream set remotely in the past on this planet or possibly on another world where the indigenous folks were decidedly extra-human though Sol III human-looking enough – were welcome inspiration. 

Too, the dreams were dreamt during the second sleep cycle that day.  Back then, I took naps as often as I could afford.  Merlin fainted several times each day and the sheer gravity of what we moved through was exhausting at times.  As he would have it, no one knew that Merlin fainted multiple times daily. 

At the time of these dreams, I had taken to the pyramid to meditate with crystals and eventually ended up privately crying at the share stark finality of what imminently loomed on the horizon.  Thus, sleep was a welcome refocussing of my energies – if only briefly.  Of course, sleep and its elixir, dreams, ever kept me focussed, inspired and aware of the macroscopic. 

 

In this the first dream, I see Eleanor Bissell – my Canadian-History and English teacher at Harbord Collegiate Institute; she was doing some gardening in a blue dress that was floral-printed.  This garden had tall old trees in it.  There were hydrangea plants – large ones at that.

I went over and I greeted her and said, “Hello, Mrs. Bissell.”

I told her who I was and she had on her glasses and her breath was short.  She was just the same as when I knew her in the waking state.

 

This dream, the second, was set in another time and another place.  I was captured by this man in a castle-like dwelling.  A very Moorish setting, like in Spain, it was; it was not Moorish architecture like in Northern Africa but it was more so in southern Spain.  Perhaps, it was Andalusia or thereabouts.

It was brown stone which had been burnt by the Sun for years and years, tens of millennia, as a matter of fact.  I got captured and I was taken back into a room with a man; he was saying to me, “Of course you’re mine.  You’re 63%!”

This percentile was supposed to signify, if you like, being bad or evil.

He was describing things to me because he was the epitome of what one would consider evil.  I was saying, “No I’m not.”

I was saying that I didn’t want to be there and wanted to be let out.

The thing is, it was not me; rather, I was the son and he was a bronzed person; he was very swarthy but not Black.  I was his offspring; I was, in fact, his son.  Then some people came in and they were all there and I asked if I could get out with them.  They, however, said no that I couldn’t because they were alright.

They said that they were all 50% and that I was not.  I supposedly had to be 50% and therefore, as I was his son, I had to stay there with him.  I was really upset and somehow I managed to be stealthily taken away during the night, after the father left, by a woman.

She wore long flowing garb and she was again very Mediterranean or Middle Eastern-looking.  She had long limbs and café au lait complexion.  She told me how it all went that I was her son, by the same man, and that she was one of his many lovers.

However, he was never supposed to have a child by her; as a result, when she became pregnant because he so loved her, he broke with tradition and he had her put up in this particular part of the castle.

It was really fortified and very abandoned-looking but she held out there.  Nobody ever came to this part of the castle and it was very terraced and had a lot of inner walls in it.

The walls here were of a slight sandy colour and we were alone at nighttime.  As we were talking, there was battle going on behind us over in another part of the castle; the battle occurred in another part of the fortified town that supported the castle.

There were a lot of cries because there was battle going on.  You could hear a lot of horses neighing and cantering, as in the Crusades, if you like.  I don’t, however, recall having heard any gunfire.

She was telling me not to worry because he would never harm me.  Said she, I was quite well protected.  He did love me in spite of his cruelty and there was no way that he could hurt me because she was fiercely protective of me.

If he had done anything to me, she would be forced to expose him and he knew and feared that eventuality.  She told me to just go on outside and play.  So, I went out into the yard and it was a wonderful elaborate garden – very organic.

It had this pool and there inside were dolphins.  I went in to play with them.  It was a muddied pool but very large like a manmade lake.  They were playing with me as I frolicked in the water with them.

One of them had its fluke pressing down on my bum from above me.  Whilst sandwiched between them under the surface the other used it nose to push up against my breastbone and solar plexus; thus, they propelled me through the water at great exhilarating speeds.

It was a beautiful sense of motion because, of course, they travelled quite fast and they always stayed clear of going out too far.  There was a point at which they had jokingly made a fast turn and I hadn’t caught up.

So I went to stand up and it turned out that it was a very large pool and a rather deep, deep pool.  I panicked when I broke surface and they assisted me back to the shallow area.

When I came back indoors both the father and mother were there now – the swarthy humans, that is.  I said to them that there was something here in the pool a big opening, you could feel it.

I also sensed it from the dolphins as being something in the pool that they themselves feared.  The father figure was laughing and told me not to worry about that because he knew, of course, what it was.  The mother had remained quite silent and looked at me, all the time, because she was slightly to his left and behind him as he spoke.

All three of us were next in a room in the castle and, somehow, the dolphins were here as well.  There was a break in the floor, a wide open hole, and they came up and were swimming and churning up the same muddied-looking dark water.

A man then entered who looked like and was, in fact, the American actor who starred in the film, Paris, Texas.  I think that the actor’s name is, Harry Dean Stanton, but I am not certain of that; he is a scrawny, hard-faced, thin-lipped man.

He came in and had a gun and said, “I want to get paid.  I’m doing work in this building and I’m not getting paid.  I’m tired of being held up here.  Deliver!  Or else I’m going to take you out and shoot you.”

It was an interesting-looking silver gun.  I was standing up on a cabinet and he went to shoot me but I knew that he wouldn’t shoot me.  He had, in fact, turned the pistol so that the two shots rang off to my right.

What surprisingly came out, when he fired the shots, was water; however, it had light in it.  It was like lasered water and it shot out in a large chunky jet and went almost instantaneously to the wall and crashed there.

He shot rounds of it and both parents remained absolutely icy cool; they paid him very little mind.  Later on, the mother telepathically told me not to worry because he couldn’t harm me; too, she telepathically shared that I was not to move and give in to fear.  I was not to show any signs of panic.

*This was clearly a civilisation which was set here on Earth long millennia before the current ape-central, fear-ruled madness we now know.  This was a time long ago in human history when there was contact between both humans and cetaceans.  Telepathy was de rigueur; too, psychic abilities were more evolved then.

Perhaps, this was an Atlantean society or some other civilisation which predated the Atlantean.  The persons were seemingly of Mediterranean extraction and it was, however, definitely not Egyptian.

I would guess that it was post-Egyptian – the latter having occurred easily more than 60 thousand years ago; although, Europeans in their racist elitism – never having had anything to rival pyramids in Europe – reworked the agedness of Egyptian civilisation to their ends.

**I am now left to believe that this was in some way an Extra-Human civilisation where the humans closely resembled Earthly humans.  They were, however, swarthier and were archly telepathic.

Too, their foreheads were also considerably higher and had a slight concave look at the top.  Dolphins, it seems, were kept as indoor pets – just as cats and dogs are for humans.  Hence, there was the watering hole, which led to a vast underground network, where the animals could come and go from the fortified castle to the ocean, however far off.  END.

 

Almost instantaneously, in this the third dream, I was in another scene; it was one in which I was playing and my companion was Lars Gamst.  We were drawing, in fact, we were painting.

Lars said to the same actor, Harry Dean Stanton, who was now with me in this new dream – both the parents, incidentally, were no longer about.  Lars wanted the actor to assist him by editing.

The guy misunderstood him and didn’t know what was what.  What Lars was doing was covering the painting with a black wax and, later, he was then going to strip it off.  So he needed the actor to go and get the chemicals and equipment to go and strip off the wax.

He was somewhat impatient that the guy was so stupid and didn’t understand; Lars had had to spell out what he wanted.  I was trying to explain to the guy what to do and what Lars meant, as well as, the process involved.

When he did go away to get the things, I came over and approached Lars and assisted him in the painting of the work that he was doing.

*A rather insightful dream this one and the energies with Lars were, as ever, pleasant and sublime.  I find this a rather telling dream too because, in later years, on having Lars’s Michael Overleaves charted, I would learn that not only is he an old soul – first level old slave and entity mate to his equally old-souled father (Olaf Gamst) and sixth cast artisan like myself but he was the favoured muse of Doménicos (El Greco) Theotokópoulos and his chief assistant.

Naturally, for Lars to be so immersed creatively in a painterly fashion – in the dreamtime – was truly about revisiting a skill and time in the past which brought him great fulfillment both spiritually and creatively.  This was so clearly an astral plane encounter between us.

Being in Lars’s presence was quite expansive; you could actually feel his soul being deeply creative.  So fully dilated were his pupils, Lars’s eyes were almost pure black.  He was terribly eccentric and clearly there was much bleed-through from his having been greatly inspired in that lifetime by El Greco.  He worked feverishly with great attack.

He quite appreciated the fact that I was not a dolt and could be of able assistance to him.  This was such an astral plane encounter that it was as real and connected as that time we rode the subway together and the connectedness we shared blew my mind.

Incidentally, in that sixteenth century lifetime, Lars was much younger than the great artist and they did have a passionate relationship.  I have a distinct impression that there was a bleed through of what Lars looked like, in that lifetime, as his features were not as they are now; he was more Latin and darker, strong-nosed.

It was an aquiline nose.  Too, he was robust-energied and had massive hands like those of a sculptor’s.  Terribly expressive and passionate, too, were his hands.  END.

 

I was on the phone whilst speaking with Owen Hawksmoor, in this the fourth dream, and I could see about his apartment as we spoke.  I was calling him because I wanted to get laid and I was really raunchy and stir-crazy but he was not up to it.  I start calling him on it and I told him, “Oh yeah, why don’t you get up and go to the bathroom?  And drop your teeth in the glass of water, on your way, before you come back?”

In a very sarcastic manner, I had laced into him to which he responded by being coolly dismissive of me by broadly laughing at my desperation.

Somehow, Pandora da Braga was part of this dream and she had an awareness of my play for Owen and my resultant rejection.

 

*Featured art:  Santiago el mayor by El Greco.  At the time of the dream, Lars appeared as he did in a past life; his was a strong aquiline nose in the dream.  This look features prominently in many of El Greco’s works.  In that past life, Lars was a favoured muse, assistant and lover of El Greco’s who was in a recent incarnation the sublime American artist, Georgia O’Keeffe. 

As Lars is a slave soul, the look of St. Francis and also the look of Christ carrying the cross are those of a slave soul; at least that’s my impression.  Since, Christ was a seventh level king soul on his last life, the El Greco Christ of the aquiline nose is decidedly not a king soul and more so a slave with priestly airs.  Perhaps, this is how Lars looked then. 

What I also love about this particular El Greco painting is that the green draping proves an evocative prelude of things to come, as it were, with regards Georgia O’Keeffe’s sublimely sexualised flower paintings. 

For that matter, I love how Georgia O’Keeffe’s sensual masterpiece, Jack in the pulpit No. IV is a reanimation of El Greco’s Christ on the cross which is in the National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Japan

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Art:  Santiago el Mayor

Oil on Canvas

97 x 77 cm

1610 El Greco

Provenance: Museo del Greco

Christ on the Cross

Oil on Canvas

95.5 x 61 cm

1600 El Greco

Provenance: National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo, Japan

Jack in the Pulpit IV

Oil on Canvas

40 x 30 Inches

1930 Georgia O’Keeffe

Provenance: National Gallery of Art, Washington D. C.

Grey Lines with Black, Blue and Yellow

Oil on Canvas

48 x 30 Inches

© 1923 Georgia O’Keeffe

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

Crawl the Fuck in your Casket!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah whatever, get out of here!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was one of the most pleasurably rapturous experiences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that, I took my leave of them both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Art:  The Mary Rose and Fleet

Artist: Jean Walker

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved

HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent.

(c) Peter Elwes (son); Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Oil on Canvas

99 x 85 cm

© 1932 Simon Elwes

Provenance:  Library and Museum of Freemasonry, London, England

Without doubt, the most fascinating member of the House of Windsor in the 20th Century.

And now for a little All Hallow’s Eve yarn-spinning:

Forget about HM King Edward VIII and HRH Diana, Princess of Wales; although, what with his interrupted life at 39, and Diana’s at 36, it may well be that HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent was reincarnated as Diana, Princess of Wales.  An interrupted lifetime is always followed by another shortened lifetime – a tying up of loose-ends incarnation.

Certainly, there is matching charismatic charm that HRH Diana, Princess of Wales (2nd level mature artisan soul) bears to HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent.  Why was HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent when he violently died in a plane crash in Scotland handcuffed to a briefcase full of Krona?

HRH Diana, Princess of Wales died violently involved with a lover of foreign nationality/currency.  Alas, this Hallow’s Eve, it would do good to remember that both HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent and HRH Diana, Princess of Wales’s deaths betray some degree of foul play.

If, indeed, this is actually true, it would mark that soul having been a member of the House of Windsor in consecutive lifetimes without ever becoming monarch, though, in both cases, was well within line to have become monarch.

Sweet and blissful dreams to the astral bodies – which survives reincarnations and endures across time; thus making it possible to have access to past-life arcana – of them both… and all of us who have ever lived for that matter.

Queer isn’t it – and there are no coincidences – Diana’s stepmother, Raine Spencer was – according to her mother, novelist, Barbara Cartland her lovechild with HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent, who was also said to have parented Michael Canfield, first husband of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’ (young soul sage) sister, Lee Radziwill.  Truth be told, the Raine/HRH Diana, Princess of Wales connection is most intriguing.

Of course, outdoing both HM King Edward VIII and HRH Diana, Princess of Wales, HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent was the lover of Noël Coward.  Now that… was a rich life in full and definitely he was possessed of a goal of Growth.

I have always loved this portrait; look at the power and elegance in his hands.  I also happen to think that he is the most handsome male to have been born to the House of Windsor in the 20th Century – his grandson, James Ogilvy running a close second!

I wish that someone had penned a really juicy biography of this truly fascinating man…  Was he a spy?  Was he put to death and why the briefcase full of Krona?  Intriguing!

Perhaps, someday, Lady Colin Campbell – whose Empress Bianca I paid a handsome fortune to acquire at the time that it was pulped – will use her skilled pen to paint a rich portrait of HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent.

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

Portrait No. 3.

i2852-wd

Oil on canvas

© 2005 Li Dafang.

Provenance: Uli Sigg Collection, Switzerland.

Sadly, I couldn’t find the dimensions of this exquisite gem anywhere on all that is Google…  I oftentimes reflect on how bedazzled Merlin would be, had he lived, to be in the age of eBooks, Google et al… scholar soul to the core as he was/is.  Naturally, as he read multiple books daily, I am sure he would have owned a Nook, Kindle, KOBO, of course, and others.

Then again, I do believe that he would also want to have the tactile bond that actual books represent: the smell, the weight – the way he would slightly squint when getting ready to lick index finger to turn the page.  There is a certain ritual to having a book in hand.  Too, I remember, even now, how he would peer over the rim of his gold-rimmed spectacles to leer at my seductively writhing body…

I love the artist’s use of light and colour; too, the muse’s cool gaze as it pierces straight through to the soul of the observer… masterful.

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

Ball Game.

Ball-Game

Oil on Canvas

36 x 36 Inches

© 2013 Wim Heldens

Provenance: Private collection

http://www.wimheldens.com/

Love Wim’s masterful sensual use of light and colour.

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Twenty years ago, when flying in to Manhattan from Vancouver to be with then lover, Mahattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem, I would meet Wim.  As all I ever do is sense energy and think of anyone encountered as a Michael Overleaves puzzle – is this a warrior or just a cynic? – I knew without a doubt that he was an old soul.  Like every other old soul encountered whose overleaves I have done, I felt a sense of home, acceptance and harmony for being in his presence.

At the time, Wim was sick in bed with the flu and so I went out shopping and got him some Campbell’s soup – what  do I know about making homemade soup? –  and spent part of an evening hanging with him.  The interlude was truly memorable; it was like being in a dream which, incidentally, is also another hallmark for me of being in the presence of an old soul.

Wim is a truly great human being.

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