Anointed by Merlin; A Dream Like No Other.

 

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As the Moon progressed through the early degrees of Gemini, transiting my first house, I would on taking to bed, slip up past the folds of restfulness.  There, I would awaken into the most lucid dream experiences had in long ages.  It was Saturday, July 25, 1992 – long after Merlin’s passing.  

Regardless your combination, there is no greater gift to receive than the love of another to whom one has chosen to completely give of self.  There is no greater validation of love’s superiority than to experience love from another, who has transitioned onto the next octave in that soul’s maturation, in a lucidly awakened dream as this shared between Merlin and me. 

We have all loved and been loved and may you dear dreamer, by opening yourself up, experience your own moments of rapture as I did in this rhapsodic astral plane encounter with the one, the man, the elfin, the fuck-all fabulous, the ganja-smoking, groovy shaman from Babylon, Merlin! 

The mark of a truly great love affair is the fruit it bears… dreams. 

Sweet dreams you, I love you more!

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The first dream was set, at nighttime, in Sandy Point, St. Kitts where I had spent my childhood.  I was playing in the street, well past midnight, with three local youths.  All Rastafarians, too, they were all in their twenties.  I was my present age – thirty-one.  They were younger.  Everything about them was very real.  There was a direct focussed tenor to their gaze; they looked into you.  I felt very edgy with all this probity.

We had been acrobatically playing, in the street in front of the church, in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  Of course, that same church Harella had built twenty-two years prior in the waking state.  I tried not to outshine them, with my leaping tumbles, for fear of escalating the tension in the air.  There was an edge to our interactions.  It was a tension born of my having been so long off-island and their being suspicious, I thought, of my outré sexuality.  

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Just then, I noticed a light streaking across the star-punctured sky.  In a bid to diffuse the tension between us, I drew their attention to it.  However, I soon noticed that its progress was unusual.  There was also something distinctly different about this light.  It caused me to recall similar icons in dreams past – each had presaged rather momentous visions.  Like all those before it, this streaking light seemed a silent observant probe.  Immediately, I became open to what this comet-like streaking star could later reveal.

I began to explain to the youngest Rastafarian who was an impish, sexually-dynamic beauty – he was not the least bit self-conscious of his missing front teeth – that it was no doubt a very high geostationary satellite that had bombed and was now crashing to Earth.  Further, I speculated that it was no doubt an orbiting space shuttle presently reflecting Sol’s intense light.  As I spoke, I knew that I did not really believe either explanation but I thought that the ideas were a good way to ameliorate my position in the dynamic.  The ruse failed to have done the trick.  On returning my attention to the group, I was sent bolting – the leader was menacingly lunging through the air towards me, with a raptor’s ease, in eager flight.  

 

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Soon I also was in flight being chased through the streets of a Sandy Point, St. Kitts which quickly morphed and shifted becoming, more and more populous, like parts of old Havana.  I was not certain which city this was but I was definitely still in the Caribbean.  

I managed to escape into a house where I very energetically fought off their advance, securing the locks to the front door, thereby shutting them out.  I climbed up the narrow and steep flight of stairs, in near-darkness, to the safety of the second storey.  Winded and more enraged than stunned, at their behaviour, I took the time to gather my breath.  I briefly visited with my aunt Pilar do Aragão† and Pandora – the latter whom Merlin favoured the most of my siblings.  They were unaware of the tumult that I had just endured.  

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I took refuge in the darkened front of the house’s second storey.  Next I found myself, in one of those rare dream moments, actually falling asleep whilst lucidly dreaming.  I nodded… on recovering, I found that I had come to in an apartment.  It was one more opulent than the one in which I had just grown suddenly drowsy.  On a red antique chaise longue, in the most beautifully dark, wood-panelled, high-ceilinged digs that I had ever seen, I was now seated.  Across the room was an open door that led out to a veranda.  

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A dark awning provided ample shade and allowed just the cool tropical breezes to laze in satiating the spirit.  To have awakened into this new dreamspace had left my awareness more sensitised… more absorbing.  The dream became more lucid and any sense of time dissolved.  This left every moment infused with a sense of mysticism – magic even.  It definitely felt like the West Indies here, perhaps, old-money Haïti or Guadeloupe if not Cuba.

Slowly, I drank in every detail of the stately furnished room.  There were, on both walls to my left and right, floor-to-ceiling shelves which were not untidily crammed with old leather-bound volumes – some red, some brown, most were black.  Slowly, from where I reclined, I pinpointed my vision to check the titles of some of the books.  Thus I was able to see and read them, as intimately, as if I had gotten up and gone to stand before them closely peering.  They were mostly ancient volumes.  However, the script was not vaguely recognisable like any of the innumerable ones on the other, more familiar side of the dreamtime.

My spirit soared, as I felt fully relaxed, in this most bucolic of dreams.  Strangely, though not unusual for the realm of the dreamtime, I felt that for having looked at these laden bookshelves my mind had absorbed the library’s voluminous wealth.  Just then there was movement, to my right, across the room.  I saw a cat that looked much like Whoopi.  It appeared from behind one of three sofas, skulking towards another, situated opposite across the room.

Each sofa, like the chaise longue on which I reclined, had beside it a small round table.  Each table was covered in either rich, dark earthy damask or actual rugs in deep though muted red.  I was immediately reminded of the round table, across which sat the sibylline woman from Merlin and I, in the dreams of September 4, 1988.  I sat up calling her name,

“Whoopi!  Whoopi!” at which moment, the cat shimmered and became Julio – our black cat at 20 Amelia Street in Cabbagetown who, like Whitney before him, was killed in a hit-and-run as he ran across Amelia Street on New Year’s Eve, 1987.  As I watched the cat disappear behind one of the three sofas, which accompanied my chaise longue, my mouth froze open in amazement.  Whilst I assimilated that one and thought to myself that this certainly was a most unusual and lucid dream, there was utter stillness.

The cat’s metamorphosis had discernibly shifted the vibration of the dream.  Now time seemed considerably measured as compared to its usual frenetic rhythm.  The door in the far right corner then opened… into the room walked Merlin.  

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*I can’t here relay the rapture I felt on seeing him but the ecstatic descriptive of dream audio-cassette recording, for that day, comes fairly close.  END.

Overwhelmed with emotion, my body quivered throughout.  I tried to rouse from my reclining position.  My arms outstretched to him, I greeted him squealing with delight.  He stood, just in the entrance, raising his brows with the left familiarly arched higher.  Staying me with the index and middle fingers of his raised right hand,

“No, don’t get up…” I heard Merlin direct me with the quiet familiarity that our intimacy knew.

This directive I telepathically experienced as though we were squinging up in bed, in the dark, at 20 Amelia Street in Toronto’s Cabbagetown.  Our souls tickled, at such times, as we listened to some glorious thunderstorm drowning out the dog days of a too-hot-and-humid, Toronto summer.  I obliged, sitting upright on the edge of the plush chaise longue, for the first time placing my feet on the beautifully designed and predominantly red rug.  His face warmed towards me in a smile.

At once my mind expanded, simultaneously processing on multiple levels, becoming even more awakened.  Rapture… pure rapture – I was enthralled.  Here again, Merlin wore all the evolved energies that he had in that first dream encounter – that dream, of course, set in a Pacific west coast rainforest that was not unlike Vancouver Island’s Cathedral Grove in July 1978.  A dream, of course, which occurred four years before I would physically meet him in the waking state.

Slowly, he walked the short distance of the room towards me.  A breeze coming from the veranda not only cooled the place but it shifted the ambiance and made the place grow dimmer.  The dimness highlighted the definite soft yellow glow that girdled his entire form.  I sat there thinking,  

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‘My god, I can actually see your aura Merlin.’

He smiled and I was reminded that everything that I thought was instantly being telepathically shared.  I was passive… moreover I was ripened as though I had just experienced an Alfred Brendel recital.  I felt so lightheaded that I firmly pressed down both my palms, into the chaise longue’s plush red velvet, bracing myself.  Merlin came and stood before me.  He was casually dressed in loose, earthen woollen clothing.  A cloak he wore stylishly draped about his narrow shoulders with its cowl removed.

As I looked up into his face, besotted by the beauty of his soul’s magic, he slowly arched his left brow in the way he had always affected when he wanted to be intimate.  Merlin’s magical expression was exactly as it was, that gibbous-Moon October night, when we met in Babylon – which now for him was truly a lifetime removed.  My face liquidly melted away in a smile.  I was warmed by the knowledge that I was dreaming and that here before me was a man, Merlin, with whom I had shared such wonderful fortune. He had shared his grace, along with his beauty and his intellect, in the most magical combination with me.

As we made eye contact, still never having said a word, he slowly knelt into the bay of my open legs.  Enthralled, my eyes slowly and unflinchingly shifted to look down into his as now he knelt before me.  He wore his glasses, his beard cropped close, his hair styled in a leonine full-bodied mane.  Moreover, I was moved by just how much this pose reflected the last night we had spent together – November 17, 1989.  With an acuity rarely achieved in the waking state, my mind lucidly assimilated this rapturous encounter.

Here before me knelt Merlin.  Merlin was the very embodiment of wholesome health, healing my spirit, releasing me from so much of the pain that I had endured.  Like that last night of his life, before dying of AIDS, I was overcome with emotion.  However, owing to the healing that this moment affected, now I wanted to melt in tears of joy.  More than that, the moment’s poignancy rose from how uncannily it mirrored our final encounter.

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About his slender long neck, Merlin wore a necklace of thick, copper-coloured coil that looked not the least bit malleable.  The coil was half an inch in diameter and set with beautiful large crystals of various colours.  The coil moved through each stone’s centre and each stone was deeply etched with golden hieroglyphs.  Although Mayan hieroglyphs bore the closest resemblance, the inscriptions resembled none in this planet’s long history.

The effect of the bronze-coloured coil and crystals was grounding.  The crystals gave off a low rumbling hum that was felt.  It was akin to the definite effect of my pyramid, in the waking state, but easily thrice as intense.  There were seven crystals in all.  Principally, there was the large, smoky rough-hued quartz set at the bottom of the circular coil.  

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Its design slowly shifted from within but its glow seemingly originating elsewhere.  It was huge and by far the most powerful.  One quarter the way around the circle, which was duplicated on the opposite side, there were three crystals.  The crystal in the middle was like nothing imaginable in the waking state.  It was a coppery-bronzed colour with hints of blue-lapis lazuli dust throughout which actually glistened.  

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With any slight movement, the dust shifted becoming copper-coloured.  When the colour shifted, I experienced a correspondingly subtle shift in the serenity that I felt.  The unusual central crystal was flanked by two small and perfectly clear crystals.  They were more radiant and powerful than any multiple-carat diamond yet found in the waking state.

It was actually difficult to sustain my focus on their exquisite beauty overlong.  They were dynamic and seemingly made of the heaviest element imaginable.  I was so pleased to see Merlin.  The necklace he wore was like a grounding conductor.  Seemingly, in order to manifest from his dimension to this dimensional dreamspace, he needed the energies of the crystals to join me.

He wore an argyle sweater that was not unlike one of the pastel ones I had bought him one Christmas.  This one though was an earthy brown which he had, years earlier, interestingly claimed to have preferred.  He effortlessly removed the crystal necklace placing it at my feet.  The humming abruptly ceased.  The crystals’ effect immediately shifted.  I actually felt a cool energy, from the crystals, buzz through my entire body travelling from my feet to the crown of my head.

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I watched as he detached the different crystals and made sure to leave the central one on the coil.  Somehow, he was able to remove the six crystals from the coil though the coil remained a perfectly whole circle.  As he kept placing the crystals, in different circular formations at my feet, he kept looking up at me with the warmest direct stare.  Each formation affected a different temporal lobe and corresponding area of my body.

I was experiencing crystals with a potency that never before had I known in the waking state.  I felt splayed by the experience.  There were times that I felt as though my body and head were being stretched – elastically elongated with an ease nowhere else possible except the astral plane in the dreamtime.  I thought then how absolutely incredible this man Merlin was – how truly fortunate I was to have met him, to have known him, to love him.

The lights noticeably further dimmed in the room.  Next, the central large crystal grew black changing into the most unusual design.  There had been an incredible energetic drain from me – energy which I suppose was collected in the now-transformed crystal which had remained about the coil.  

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From his left breast pocket, Merlin retrieved a little black pouch.  As he looked down at it, I said to him,

“Oh my god Merlin, you are so beautiful…”

I knew that I was dreaming and I was thinking at the time,

‘…I will never be able to meet you, again.  I’ll never see you again.  You’ll never be that perfect mélange of bloodlines that created the magic that was your every idiosyncrasy.’

He looked up and smiled making me again realise that everything, we said without speaking, was so very clearly, readily known to the other.

As he opened the little black pouch, my lips trembled.  I looked at those utterly gentle fingers that, I thought in passing, were now ashes in the earth at Toronto’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery,

‘Oh yes… those fingers, those beautiful delicate fingers.

‘Oh my god, yes…’ I simultaneously thought,

‘…These fingers, I will never see; they’ll never touch me again in the waking state – they’ll never exist again.’

Then, as if to eclipse my melancholy, he gently took my right hand in his.  Merlin’s still-sensual hands purposefully began pouring the little, black pouch’s contents into mine.  The touch of him was as intimate and as gentle, an evocative memory, as absent waves heard distantly lapping ashore on the beach in Pump Bay during childhood.  How, as in the still of the night, my mind would race wondering of what new vistas I was yet to dream – when I was a child in St. Kitts.

All along, I had restrained the desire to touch him for he seemed so much more evolved.  Truth be told, I was afraid that to physically reach out to touch him would only dissolve the dream.  Naturally, for becoming emotionally overwhelmed, the fear was that I would undoubtedly whiteout.  However, his touch was so real and so very familiar that I let out a heavy familiar sigh.

Into my palm spilled a dozen, perhaps more, of the most beautiful tiny crystals that were quite powerful.  The touch of them actually made my mind further expand.  My head seemed to contort, once again, with an élan that matched the lightning speed with which I assimilated the intense energies from the clutch of crystals into me.

They were more leaden, easily by ten times, than their small size betrayed.  They glowed and they were decidedly hypnotic.  They emitted a sense of music that was more experienced than heard.  In spite of the fact that they glowed, I brushed aside the beauty of them and chose instead the real magic.  I took his free hand with mine and began holding it, rubbing it, squeezing it.

Even more intently, I looked overjoyed into his arrestingly soulful eyes.  I began groaning, moaning, I was overcome with intense emotion.  This was, by far, the most alive and most lucid dream with Merlin since his passing some three years ago.  I wanted more… I wanted no moment of this great intimacy to stop.

I asked him to remove his glasses so that I could really look at his eyes.  He obliged and when he removed them his eyes weren’t their smoky grey-hazel-faded blue.  They were brown, in fact, but they were his eyes and I thought, ‘My god, you’ve got brown eyes,’ to which he slightly blushed.

He wore a beard; it was the usual bushy affair.  His lips were so moist, I said, “My darling, kiss me.”

Taking the lead, as I had when we met, I held the bottom of his ticklish beard and reached up his face to mine as I bent down.  We kissed each other.  It readily became a wonderfully slow and timeless dance high up our entwined greenhouses.  My spirits soared to even greater heights.  It was the greatest pleasure.

It was quite simply a sensory whiteout.  We did not use tongue.  We just kissed each other on the mouth.  Throughout, until it was no longer possible, our eyes remained perfectly glued to each other’s.  I turned my head to the right to kiss him, again.  It was a soft lingering kiss; it was a kiss of complete surrender in which was communicated so much.

As though he and I were two leviathan creatures swimming together in a sensual medium of liquid blue light, our intimacy was pure movement.  This aqueous light medium was immensely heavy and inhibited our progression to a slow-motioned crawl.  Progressing playfully, as though so many nanoseconds were deleted from each time-stretched moment, we effortlessly danced alone.  We were together and enraptured in a universe just for two – Merlin and me.

It was such great pleasure that, in its shared intimacy, it reflected the idiosyncrasies that we had known so well.  It was a continuation of the dance we familiarly had always intimately known.  It was such incredible intimacy that when the kiss was concluded the dream dissolved…

I sighed, on a deep sustained breath, besotted with the beauty of Merlin’s spirit.  This was a most rare dream, a most soulful of dreams, with the dream magus.   The sound of my breath was so loud that I actually felt the weight of my high-dreamer self as I crashed back into my body from, being astral-projected, high up the astral plane.

I felt fatigued, I felt spent, as is customary with such dream travel.  Whilst remaining still, I kept my lids shut.  Focussing on my weary breath, I allowed myself to drift upwards again.  This time, I melted into true sleep where I could rest and recoup my energies.  I awoke, about an hour later, in the nearly dark room of my tiny Queen Street West apartment in Toronto.  Rested, I was truly rejuvenated after all that astral projection in the first sleep cycle.

As is customary with reparatory sleep, there were no dreams recalled of the second sleep cycle.  I cried…  I cried for joy.  The realness of Merlin was so intense that after crying, for the first time since his passing, I grew aroused after dream contact.  I savoured the beauty of this man, Merlin, my elfin-dream magus.

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Pulling the black, satin blindfold back over my eyes, I slipped onto my stomach between the red satin bedding.  Tightly holding on to a pillow, my left cheek pressed into it and the bedding drawn up over my head, I withdrew into a sweat lodge where I could continue communing with Merlin’s very soul.  

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My right knee drawn up, I allowed my rock-hard cock to ride up against the bedding and away from my tummy.  Slowly, kneadingly, I ground my winding pelvis into the luxury of the bedding.  Ploughing away, beyond its wet folds, I massaged my lusty thoughts deep and high up into the magical greenhouse.  Whispering his name, my lips, my abs and body quivered.

From time to time, I managed my way up onto my toes.  This allowed the exquisite play of cock and bedding to draw out greater pleasure.  My abs ached.  Whilst sweat sheened throughout my shivering body, I shuddered as the inside of my thighs violently tremoured.  Merlin still knew how to work his magic on me.

Losing myself, my breath collapsed in repeated noisy, exhausted, shuddered grunts and groans.  I whispered his name proclaiming my love to that point.  In no other way could I have celebrated this truly profound astral plane encounter with Merlin in the dreamtime.  As ever, hands-free auto-eroticism resulted in a most profuse and exquisitely pleasurable orgasm.

So richly deserving was I to have lost myself this way – beyond the usual daily auto-erotic ritual.  I needed to savour this momentous dream encounter by making a solemn ritual of pleasurable thanksgiving.  I had been moved anew by Merlin’s magic.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support.  Plié, push off and start flying whether awake or dreaming cause this dance called life is the most goddamn beautiful dream.  I love you more.  

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

Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill

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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.  

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*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.

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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.

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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.

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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.  

great_room_primary

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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.

painted_room

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

Overleaves Validation and All That Jazz!

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In the lead up to the annual Jazz Festival here in town, I decided to seek a bit of inspiration and take in a couple of documentaries.  Both proved rather satisfying.  On a temperate Wednesday midday in June, I made it to the Bell TIFF Lightbox building, to which I had never been before to indulge.  

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Relaxed in my comfortable seat whilst waiting interminably through too many ads, I focussed on the latest book on my KOBO being enjoyed to the hilt.  Just then the lights began going down and I was about to be wowed by Grace Jones in all her fabulousness.

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Without doubt, Grace is a force of galactic dimensions and thoroughly absorbed and entertained was I.  There was no getting around the fact that she felt like family in her West Indian realness of essence.  Of course, she also happens to be a cadre mate of both mine and Merlin’s.  

Jones, Grace 19/5/1948 Spanish Town, Jamaica

Michael: This fragment is a seventh-level mature warrior – first life thereat.  Grace is in the power mode with a goal of dominance.  A sceptic, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Grace’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary greed, is fixated on accomplishment. 

Grace’s body type is Mars/Saturn. 

The fragment Grace is second-cast in third cadence; she is a member of greater cadence two.  Grace’s entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – yet another cadre mate of Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

Grace’s essence twin is a warrior and her task companion a sage. 

Grace’s three primary needs are: power, freedom and adventure. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin. 

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The weekend prior, I decided to drop everything and go catch the André Leon-Talley documentary.  I knew that it had been playing, Juan-Felipe de Castro — a most exhaustingly funny sage… no, they are not all funny — had raved about it and insisted that I go.  In any event, there was I, playing femme au foyer with my Swiffer and came across the coffee table gem: ALT 365+ and immediately took a shower, booked a ticket, opted for some Tom Ford Black Orchid eau de parfum instead of patchouli, hopped on my bike with my Dorothy Grant messenger bag and my snazzy Wellingtons.  

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I got to King West and John Streets, opted to lock up my trusty bike on John Street and dashed across John for the 40 storey plus condo.  There are too many of these damn hideous things and more people jump from them than one would care to have to admit.  That aside, I made my way inside, for the first time — I never do TIFF — and was wowed by the place; seriously, though, what’s with having to climb stairs when your bladder is about to give out?  

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Comfy, the beautifully interiored salon’s lights went down and thus began the pleasurable and immensely enlightening adventure that is, The Gospel According to André.  Great it was to see the grand dame, Diana Vreeland.  Of course, I was reminded of the summer of 1983 when working in the garment district, running errands for milliner, Frederick Jones; these were all persons whom he knew and with whom I became briefly acquainted for tagging along with him to some mid-afternoon or mid-morning meeting after which we would be off to buy fabric.  Frederick had actually taught me how to block hats, which gladly I did as he feverishly worked away in his West 43rd Street Studio/home.  

Talley, André-Leon 16/10/1949

Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature atisan – third life thereat.  André is in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance.  An indealist, he is in the emotional part of intellectual centre. 

André’s primary chief feature is greed fixated on satisfaction and the secondary, arrogrance.  

André’s body type is Jupiter/Venus. 

The fragment André is fifth-cast in the first cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three.  André’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 414. 

André’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a sage who is known to him. 

André’s three primary needs are: expression, expansion and communion. 

There are 14 past-life associations with Arvin and 10 with Merlin. 

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Last Saturday feeling deathly exhausted and suffering from allergies — my sneeze is phenomenally loud — I debated whether or not to make the Liona Boyd concert at Church of the Redeemer, on Bloor Street West at Avenue Road.  

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Slipping inside the pyramid, I grabbed a clutch of crystals, intently focussed on ridding myself of this allergic morass and dosed off for a spell.  When I came to, sneezed louder than normally I would then found myself nose-blowing and ejecting a pond of phlegm.  At that, I felt grounded, focussed and as though I had never been in the throes of allergies.  I took a cold shower, in my perpetually freezing apartment, the AC is always on at 61° — I cannot abide heat… to say nothing of summer.  

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With unassigned seating, I went and sat at the edge of the last pew in the stage left transept.  No sooner than having taken a seat that the smell of the persons to my right precluded remaining where I was; they, frankly, smelt like burnt flesh which also had a melange that was not dissimilar to the loud smell of a long-haired dog when wet.  Who knows what Canis Major world from whence their hybridised alien stock originates but I always find the smell of such persons off-putting.  

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Thus, I opted to stand for the performance’s duration and a gloriously magical interlude it proved.  This was billed as a celebration of Yorkville in its 1960s heyday.  After the youth choir had opened, out walked Liona Boyd in a flowing white and blue gown, looking positively ethereal.  

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This performance for me was just as bucolic as when passing late afternoons in childhood high up my favourite fruit tree in St. Kitts and being swept along by air currents as the branch on which I would be perched, rocked and swayed, taking me higher as I blissed out to the magic of Beatles’ tunes from the neighbour’s radio; naturally, no such ungodly music was ever allowed in our household.  Great fun it was to hear Liona’s recollections of Gordon Lightfoot, Leonard Cohen, John Denver and others.  For the first time, after her anecdote about working in a London, England studio where also John Denver was working, Jet Plane proved a most poignant moment in the concert.  

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There was a hush after we all sang along to the John Denver tune, with Liona on vocals and guitar, that moment was simply rapturous.  This performance was just as intimate as if we were merely a few persons in a backyard, hanging out by candlelight after a fine meal, good wine and having a sing-along whilst some august soul strummed on guitar.  A truly soul-stirring adage, the evening proved.  I was only too happy to grab my autographed copies of her memoirs — which I have yet to devour.  One had a true sense of communion when singing along and afterwards when briefly chatting whilst she signed both memoirs.  I really didn’t need the overleaves to have validated the connection; quite remarkably she felt solid which is how all soul connections register… at least for me they do.  

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Boyd, Liona 11/7/1949 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature sage – second life thereat.  Liona is in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth.  A pragmatist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Liona’s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary, self-deprecation. 

Liona’s body type is Lunar/Mercury. 

The fragment Liona is fourth-cast in fourth cadence; she is a member of greater cadence three.  Liona’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – Liona is an entity mate of both Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

Liona’s essence twin is a sage and the task companion an artisan who is known to her. 

Liona’s three primary needs are: freedom, adventure and power. 

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvn and 12 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

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Naturally, no trip to the Royal Conservatory of Music’s Koerner Hall would be complete without crossover from the hall to the old majestic red-bricked building that faces onto Bloor Street West and pay a visit to the Bella Bartok statue.  Vibrationally, I don’t know why, but I am always reminded of Leonard Cohen when looking at this statue.  20180626_194633

Settled in comfortably and it was time to be wowed by Savion Glover and boy did the old shamanic griot deliver!  Never had 1.5 hours of dancing been so phenomenal.  This was sheer uneclipsed beauty of spirit.  Whilst I sat there waiting for the house lights to go down, I poured through photos to include in my instagram account.  

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Just then, I came across the account of someone met days earlier whom I had added to Instagram but who has yet to follow in kind.  Naturally, this lost soul claimed to be impressed that I knew of crystals and had a pyramid but like too many Canadians, he was really big on letting me know that he was too busy to check  his Instagram account.  To look at it, it is the most flaky, crowd-following, lost soul bullshit imaginable.  Of course, this clown is too busy dropping whatever to even know that there is a Jazz festival afoot and likely would dismiss it as not evolved enough.  

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After having been wowed by Savion’s sheer genius, I stumbled out onto Bloor Street West lightheaded both from the performance and the fact that I was quite frankly hungry.  There had been no water in my building all day; not able to cook, I sped to the performance by bike and soon realised that I was more famished than I reckoned.  Throwing caution to the wind, I poured into the revamped McDonald’s across from the ROM (Royal Ontario Museum) — wouldn’t like to be a homeowner in the swank new condo only to have the smell of French fries night and day permeating your tony Yorkville digs?  

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After having repeated my order three times to the vapid-looking but shade-throwing Southeast Asian server, I finally spoke up 15 minutes later, demanding to know what was taking so long.  As the order got to me, I was so bored of having to look at stupid, overbred fools, I took the food said my best “fuck you/thank you” and departed the store.  When finally, I opened up, glad to be able to dig into my two McChicken sandwiches, the above is the sight with which I was presented.  Inside the clear top of the container, which would normally hold eggs, pancakes or other breakfast fare, were two greasy, deep-fried patties that for all the hell I could have cared might have been dog as it certainly was not chicken.  Not in the mood to row with anyone just then, I ubered some Jerk chicken and some coconut water.  20180626_194039

Almost an hour after initially I had ordered food to address my hunger along came my order.  Sure enough another overbred fool presented with the most god-awful malodorous bouquet of smegma, dirty arse, armpits, curry and bad breath that suggested that he had at least half a dozen cavities.  Right about then, I was one none-too-thrilled and hungry motherfucker.  So repulsed was I that I simply tossed the food in the fridge and had one of the coconut waters.  How unaware must one be that you are going to have the fuck-all temerity to serve the public and smelling as unhygienic as is humanly possible?  

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Another day and another church for sinner man moi to grace.  The Jazz festival this year was missing its usual verve as the concerts would usually be hosted by on-air hosts from Toronto’s JazzFM.  Since a couple of months earlier, the absence of Garvia Bailey from the airwaves on her morning show and I began counting down the days to her return from holiday.  Of course, this being Canada, I always worried when Garvia was away from her show as being Black in this country means that job security is as rare as pussy at a bathhouse.  

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Never before had Garvia been missing from the airwaves this long; heck, I had even called the station one Friday to ask when she would return and was told that she would be back on Monday.  That Monday rolled around and Mark Wigmore, who had previously worked at the city’s Gay radio station, was still hosting and now there was no more mention of Garvia Bailey.  Now I was beginning to get more than a little bit pissed off.  Was she ill?  Had she quit?  Had she been fired?  At least, Garvia was still there on her twitter account.  Then one day, I looked at the JazzFM website on-air host page and Garvia’s name was gone.  Wow, I would really have to start rethinking my support.  

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Then the unfathomable unfolded as I opened the day’s Globe and Mail newspaper to read that five on-air persons had been fired and there had been a string of sexual harassment allegations against Ross Porter.  Brazenly, he was still on-air and the station, which relies on listener support, had the gall to keep Ross on-air.  Regardless, there is nothing more odious than having to suffer someone who has been the focus of sexual allegations, true or not; it is just immensely disquieting. 

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So there was I to see Cecile McLorin Salvant weave her indelible magic.  I sat in the back pew in the balcony which afforded a commanding view of the stage and in particular the very engaging drummer.  Cecile was in superb form.  Next to me sat a couple, who clearly did not care to be there; one had to buy tickets in blocks of three concerts — at least for that venue.  Naturally, the night before conflicted with the Savion Glover concert at Koerner Hall.  The third concert would be the day following and as life is about making the most discriminating of choices, I had positively no fuck all intentions of time-wasting seeing another fraudulent arsed Canadian ape black culture and turn Jazz singer because, let’s face it, there is no such thing as a viable pop music career in Canada especially if you don’t stand a chance in hell of crossing over to the America market.  Besides, from my years of crawling the halls of the CBC when Merlin worked there, being the product of the moneyed classes and being able to buy a career does not a Jazz singer make.  Besides, ain’t nobody gots time for chit the day after Cecile’s held court and wove her magic.  

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So as I bobbed and weaved, enjoying the soulful groove that is Jazz — black high art — the Indo-Canadian couple next to me could not have been more disinterested.  She, seated closer to me, kept her hands clasped at her cross-legged knee.  He on the other hand kept on slamming his back into the pew as protest for my enjoying myself.  I think she might have clapped once or twice.  What really struck me as the couple next to me engaged in the usual passive-aggressive BS that one fully expects to manifest partout from tout le monde , is that as JazzFM restructures and returns with new on-air hosts, it’ll doubtless be persons of their ilk who will be the chosen replacement hosts; god only knows, the landscape has been deftly rid of all semblance of blackness in the television medium of late.  A true mystery to me how Canadians can so blithely whistle Dixie whilst purporting to be enamoured and passionate about Jazz, all the while slowly but irretrievably excluding blacks — whatever did we black have to do with Jazz; surely, we must be mad if we so much as entertained the notion that we could have done something so phenomenal as having invented the art form and that there is anything remotely ‘black’ about Jazz.  Indeed, the Canadian way…  That aside, I really missed having the on-air hosts from JazzFM being part of the hosting lineups during the annual Jazz Festival which was exquisitely memorable.  

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 Until next year, as the full moon in Capricorn climbed high in the sky above Yorkville, I say, sweet dreams and as ever thanks so much for your ongoing support.  

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

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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