Sigmund, Lucian, Carnivorous Lilies & Freudian Overleaves (Redux)

Lucian Freud sleeping nude

*Since these dreams were first published two years ago, I have since had Lucian Freud’s Michael Overleaves channelled.  Naturally, as I have dreamt of him with inordinate frequency, the possible links needed to have been explored.  

As it turns out, Lucian is an entity mate of both Merlin’s and mine.  These were rather good dreams and I am honoured to gladly share them again.  – July 2016.

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reflection_self-portrait

These next five dreams were lucidly lived with every fibre of my ensouled being on Tuesday, August 24, 1993.  At the time, the Moon then transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house – wherein is posited my natal Moon sitting opposite Mars and simultaneously squaring Pluto and retrograde Chiron as it is. 

In any event, the beauty of this dream could never be adequately conveyed by mere words.  Whilst in flight in this dream, I experienced nothing short of rapture.  Dreams are so very empowering. 

To hell with what Freud thought; Freud and his opinions are those of a younger soul than yours truly.  Besides, truth be told, Freud’s relevance in the culture has more to do with the need to messianically self-anoint rather than anything else.  Sheer folly it is for any one human to preposterously claim to know the meaning or the value of another’s dreams. 

There is no such thing as dream symbolism as dreams are lived.  Surely, it is not as though each night on taking to sleep, one ceases to exist and dies.  One does not; one continues one breath after the other until wakefulness on the other side and therefore, all experiences whilst being focussed away from the waking state are about being alive, perhaps, even more so than when awake. 

Dreams are part of one’s spiritual journey; they deftly reflect where one has been on one’s reincarnational journey and, as such, can never be analysed, studied and fathomed by mere professionals who seem more concerned about their career advancement and socio-economic status than knowing anything about dreams themselves for having shared theirs – if at all they actually recall their dreams which I highly suspect not to be the case – materialist boors as most such persons appear. 

I will, though, say this much for Sigmund Freud, the only purpose his having been iconised served is that it made it an easier journey for his grandson, Lucian Freud to have achieved his fame – which, alas, is always more desirable than infamy. 

Indeed, Lucian an icon, Sigmund, however, definitely not the genuine article.  For all the sublime art that Lucian Freud has afforded human civilisation, therein lies the value of Sigmund Freud’s worth… and nothing more. 

I have been places and done much reincarnationally, hence, I use more of my brain for being an older soul.  Likewise, that I have been around the block reincarnationally and am an older soul is reflected by the maturity of my dreams and the absence of fear being focussed at the core of my dream experiences. 

Here’s to your own spiritual journey and may these dreams richly inspire you.  Remember, religion is politics; it has nothing to do with spirituality.  Since religion is not sublime art, great food, company or banging sex, let’s not be charitable.  Religion is bullshit.  Cue the music,

“Straighten up and fly right!  Weee shabadoobe do wee yeah yeah… shabada doo ya… poom poom yeah… bada ba doo ya!” 

Now catch the groove, push off and start flying! 

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In this the first dream, I happened on a large body of water which seemingly was a pond.  This pond was quite beautiful, serene and inspiring.  Placidly nesting on it were the largest lily pads imaginable.

This did vaguely seem like the pond before Pogson’s Hospital in Mount Idle, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  Yet, here in the dreamtime, it would have been up on the hill before the clinic and across the main road from said hospital.

Large enough, this pond was about 40×60 feet.  Though teeming with an abundance of lilies of several species, the water was extremely black and murky.  There were so many life forms in this water; some of them looked like tadpoles, perhaps, they were incubi.

One species of water plants looked remotely nothing like lilies.  They had two large thick leaves that came together.  Where the stems came together, it left them with a shape that was not unlike that of ginkgo leaves.  They both joined the stem exactly as the ginkgo leaves do.

There was a little aperture around the juncture where the two stems met.  These water plants turned out to have been carnivorous because the apertures would be slightly ajar then when the creatures would come around their mouths, they would quickly move upwards clear of the water and closed in the process about the tiny creatures.  They thusly ate the tiny tadpole-like creatures.

I had arrived at the pond whilst in flight.  Very slowly, after having been more rapidly in flight, I had willed my way through the air.  On seeing the pond way up ahead, I had slowed down considerably and glided in so as to be unobtrusive to the activity there.

I wanted to observe the goings on therein.  My movement was as if some majestic crane that was slowly gliding effortlessly through the air.  A very beautiful feeling of abandonment I experienced at this point.

Were I to have flown any more slowly, I would have possibly fallen from the air.  I was as if a giant leviathan leisurely cruising through a dry yet aqueous medium.

After having hung back from the edge, I inched closer then directly hovered above the centre of the body of water.  Whilst looking down, I would move from one lily pad to the next by directly being over it to watch it feed.

Each lily pad was about one foot in diameter and anywhere from 10-14 inches from stem to tip.  These were quite beautiful plants that were the same hue as a green coconut’s shell or, if you like, green olives.

The blackness of the water had a deceptive quality to it.  The opacity made it very hard to exactly tell what, just below its surface, was going on.  One had the sense that it was an abandoned fountain which would mean that it could not have been very deep.

Yet, there was no water being recycled here nor were there any sculptural signs of it being a fountain.  Though daytime, it was non-too-bright here.  The thought occurred to me that if these were the incubi of mosquitoes, they would shortly be hatching and I would likely be eaten by these hungry hatchlings.

This was one scenario that I was not looking forward to; indeed, it was best to avoid the likely eventuality than to have to regret afterwards.  With that, I began flying again.  This time, I soared higher and faster in the direction of the brilliant light with Sol to my rear.

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Whilst inside a house, in this the second dream, I decided to step outside for some air.  On doing so, this was when I saw Marcel Agnew.  Here, in this dream, it was a wonderful afternoon which was not too warm; the light was bright but not too much so either.

The house was not any with which I was familiar.  I was standing just inside the doorway, to the yard, when I noticed Marcel.  He was making a phone call on a cellular phone.

When he called the party, he had had to leave his phone number as the party was away from the phone and had not answered.  His phone number was either 287 or 278 but the rest of the number was 8874.  Keenly, I had been listening to him say the number whilst simultaneously writing it into my left palm.

Then I made for the interior; there, I intended to commit it to paper.  Whilst speaking on the phone, he had mentioned that he would be coming down that way – to Ottawa.

He would then be heading down to Montréal; it was to that city which, at the time, he had been calling.  He wanted to know if he could get together with the person, on his arrival in the city, in a few days’ time.

Standing there, I was quite smitten by him.  He had never noticed me standing there and I certainly had no intentions of calling him over.  This man can be very rude and dismissive of me.

He has a marked homoerotic streak which he is rather keen on denying; at least, in his relations with me it informs his rejection – which, of course, speaks volumes about him rather than not.  After all being associated with me, could only cause others to question his sexuality.

*Of course, in time, I would happen on Marcel at a bathhouse on Yonge Street.  Naturally, after that chance encounter at the bathhouse, his open animus towards me was dissolved.  Naturally, Marcel feared me running off at the mouth to co-workers which he and I both know I am quite capable of doing.

Then again, what do I care?  Marcel is of little consequence; he is a repressed bore despite that cock of his looking like something one is more accustomed to seeing on a young elephant’s face….  END.

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I was in a doctor’s office, during this the third dream, with a female technician.  The doctor was concerned because I had turned out to be rather anemic.  There was a large black machine on the doctor’s desk which was about the height of a Macintosh Classic computer.

There was a monitor with the computer too; I guess that it was, in fact, a futuristic computer which was black.  The technician was brunette, middle-aged and stout and the one who would be running the tests on me.

All that one had to do was put a finger on a pad.  There was no longer any blood drawing done because of the risk of HIV contamination, as well as Hepatitis and other blood diseases.

What this machine did was sample some bit of skin or a hair on the back of the hand and in that way get a thorough reading of an individual’s DNA.  The information gathered was precisely what was required to make an analysis of every aspect of a patient’s health.

This was quite advanced, indeed, revolutionary medicine.  Placing my right index finger down, I felt a slight-to increasing warmth from the dark glass pad below the finger.  This laser-generated heat caused my skin to heat up and sweat.

The briny bodily fluid, which contained the DNA, they needed to analyse a patient’s thorough health.  In mere seconds, the machine gave a result which was completely impartial.

Since it was machine and not human, there was no emotional considerations here.  This approach was strictly an academic one.  The test results indicated that I was HIV-; therefore, without the technicians having to be overly protective, I could go on with the rest of the treatment.

Jan Hartley, who was present, immediately assumed that the machine’s answer of ‘No’ meant that I was not healthy.  She took it to mean that I was HIV+.  She quickly went on blabbing away as though I were some inanimate object.

In any event, she was arguing that I had to have been HIV+ because she knew what a nasty little Jezebel I was.  She dismissed me as a flighty little idiot who no doubt didn’t use protection.

Of course, she added, I had to have been long ago infected.  She was so convinced; rather, she so wanted me to be infected more than anything else.  Truth be told, she was rather rude and abusive.

The grey-walled room was tiny as a matter of fact.  Three chairs sat on the side of the desk which was about six feet long and L-shaped.  I was on the long arm of the desk in the reception area.

The atmosphere here was rather soothing; one had no way of knowing what time of day it was outdoors.

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Whilst walking along, in this the fourth dream, Doug Addergen came towards me; he wore navy-blue overalls.  There were a couple of other people about.  As though to imply that his cock was large, he suggestively held a white ruler in his hand.

He came together with the guys, this after I had passed them, in the high-ceilinged hallway of an industrial complex.  Here, it was near-dark.  The legs of his pants were rolled up such that you could see his very shiny hairless shins.

He wore short socks (Oxfords) and sneakers.  Going down the hall, Doug had been making a number of suggestive remarks about screwing.  He obviously could tell that I was interested in him; this was why he was behaving the way that he was.  He was flirtatious and a bit of a cock-tease.

He kept on mischievously grinning at me then walked down a hall; the hall was perpendicular to the one that we were on.  When he got down a stretch of it, he looked back at me, flirtatiously raised his brows, grinned his non-too-smart-looking face off.

He was really enjoying stringing me along.  Better yet, I was simply playing him.  Of course, he in his solipsistic daze didn’t even realise to have been the case.  He was such a conceited prick.

I then sat there on a window sill where I noticed that there was all this garbage strewn about the place.  Who should come down the way, in these gorgeous bellbottomed pants, but Ghennifer Voss?  When she saw me, she casually remarked,

“Hi Arvin, how are you?”

Though she was being gracious, I could tell that she was uncomfortable.  This finally was the only way for her to have dealt with an unavoidable situation.

Clearly, she had been mindful of relations back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet School and how less-than-gracious she had been at times towards me.  Not an issue for me was it.  To put it mildly, those had been frosty times.

In kind, I warmly greeted her whilst she collected garbage from the parked flatbed.  Jumping off the sill, I did so not to go help her but rather walked away.  Then, I sat down at a work desk where I busied myself and forgot all about her.

A fat White Gay then came down and proceeded with this not atypical, snarky idiotic behaviour.  Since I neither cared for him or his attitude, I simply and completely tuned him out – to the point where I could no longer even see him.  Several persons in the meantime, kept on passing by the area.

Later on, I saw Ghennifer in an eatery where she sat at a table with friends.  Going past them, we looked at each other and acknowledged the other with genuinely warm smiles.

There was no other way to have related; there was no great loss about any aspects of how we related in the waking state that was wrong.  Besides which, it had all happened too long ago experientially to have emotionally been of import.

I chose to be my true self and generously extended of myself.

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In this the fifth dream, both Pandora and Isha da Braga were in an unfamiliar house with me.  We were getting moved into the house whilst Maxwell Bowleson was giving us a hand.

Harella da Braga, who was also present, was concerned as to how many items I would actually be moving in.  How many boxes, trunks and large items, I had, needed to be assessed.

Afterwards, there had been a lively discussion between us.  After having just eaten the chicken, which I had prepared, Maxwell was grinning away.

I was non-too-pleased that both he and Pandora had had the meal which I had prepared.  Having cooked the food, I had hoped to at least have had some of it; I really did feel cheated out of things here.

I had been so looking forward to eating that food, later on, after having toiled at the task of getting moved in.  So far as I could see, there was a great deal of politics at play here and none of it I especially liked; the politics here did not bode well in my favour.

After that, Maxwell had asked me to come accompany him down on the elevator.  I had had to help him bring up some more items from the move.  This new apartment was quite beautiful.

The hallway was absolutely beautiful.  The carpeting there, which led to the elevators, was the most plush-feeling, gorgeous tone of red.  This was a very tony affair.

The elevator doors were silver and rapidly hissed open then collapsed shut, just as quickly, after having remained open for a few long seconds.

When we got onto the elevator, as soon as the doors closed, Maxwell looked over at me and sincerely smiled into me.  Reaching forwards, he lingeringly kissed me.  This was so totally unexpected that I hadn’t a clue as to what to do.

As he affectionately rubbed me on the back, the bond between us was very warm.  We got down to the lobby and, as we parted from kissing with the doors hissing open, I came to lucidly awake.

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Art: Leigh on green sofa 1993

Oil on canvas

17.1 x 22.9 cm

© 1993 Lucian Freud.

Provenance:  Private collector.

Exquisite Lucian Freud of Leigh Bowery.

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

Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

A masked ball

These rather lucid astral-projected dreams occurred whilst Merlin was still then incarnate in summer of 1989. 

I have come to realise that many of the dreams that have to do with being astral-projected to past or future lives often occur when the Moon transits cancer.  For whatever reasons, this seems to be a strong likelihood in my experience. 

I really don’t think that it matters much over which house my Cancer rules.  Rather, it seems more telling that ruler of Cancer, the Moon, is in my case found in the seventh house. 

Too, it should be noted that though much of my second house is dominated by Cancerian energies, Gemini sits on the second house cusp with the cusp of my third house being 20º of Cancer. 

Truth be told, they were rather insightful dreams to have experienced.  As such, these dreams occurred on Sunday, June 4, 1989 whilst Merlin was then incarnate. 

Too, at the time, the Moon magically transited both Gemini and my first house wherein my Mars sits nicely conjunct the ascendant.  This placement of Mars – along with its grand mutable square associations to Luna, Pluto and Chiron, tends to have me attract persons of less evolved spirituality who are ever ready to project their base emotions my way. 

Of course, it goes without saying that I am always unwavering in deflecting that dense energy with lightning shamanic speed.  Keep your dreck away from my aura! 

More than that, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on audio tapes nine through ten and are to be found in the as-yet published Volume II of the dream opus.  Sweet dreams as ever and as has been recently observed – nothing says wretched existence like bipedal canines who fixate on their quadripedal kin. 

One can only hope that most of these otiose overbred castoff humans do not eventually breed.  What do they know of either art or dreams the lot?  

*I am reposting these dreams as subsequent to having shared them in July 2015, I have since had the Michael Overleaves charted for two of the persons featured in these dreams.  To that end, at each dream’s conclusion the Michael Overleaves for the applicable person will be shared.  As ever, I am most grateful for your ongoing and burgeoning support.  Sweet dreams and don’t forget to indulge your shamanic skills: shapeshifting, manifesting one’s aura, rendering oneself invisible, walking through walls and, of course, pushing off and starting to fly!    

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A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

In this the first dream, I saw Nicole McHugh.  She was cooking with a White man in a kitchen.

He was standing around and was quite friendly so offered to help out, that sort of thing, out of the goodness of his heart.  She had these large trays of food.

She was cooking a great deal of food for a great many people.  The flame was an open blue-white one and, somehow, he put his hand over the flame to pull out a tray – yet it did not burn him at all.

He did not react to it.  I thought that he must have been cooking for quite some time, and been accustomed to these flames, to have had the flames not burn him at all.

He did go off and he had a glass of water – some of which he drank.  I went over and I thought of saying to her and did, “Would you like a spritzer or something?”

She did, in fact, say, “Yeah, that would be nice.”  She had sweat on her brow because she had been working very hard.

I then went outside to look in my locker because I did, in fact, have a locker there.  In an earlier scene, I had put some stuff in said locker.

There were some washing machines – tiny, tiny washing machines.  This place resembled a dormitory in the basement area of a co-op or building where people lived.

I was somewhat upset because my locker had, somehow, been displaced and replaced by washing machines.  They were tiny, little brownish washing machines.

I had opened the lockers just to see if maybe my lunch was inside them where, in fact, it should have been – inside the fridge.  There was, however, nothing inside the lockers.

There were one or two other lockers at the end but mine was more or less in the left of centre.  There, in place of my locker, was where the washing machines now were.

Nothing was removed except the one locker.  I did open it and it wasn’t mine.

Inside were the contents of somebody who reminded me of that Black guy who worked part time at Nature’s Own.  Tall, handsome; his mother had nicely positioned him into the company.

I then went off to get the stuff when I saw a man who seemed to be Bert Jacques but it wasn’t him.  He was walking a little girl who was one of Madella Jacques, rather, Maryse Jacques’s daughter.

She was a sweet little girl who was wearing a blue dress.  She was quite light-skinned and sunny.

He was walking her outside and coming across the bridge past our yard in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I was in the yard and where the orange tree was under the genip tree, in the waking state, I was putting monies into a slot.

I remember taking money out of my pocket to put in – 50¢, I had had two quarters.  I noticed that there was a token as I took the money from my right pocket.

When I saw the token mixed with the money I thought, ‘Oh I must be aware not to do this.’  I then got the dime and I was trying to put it into the slot but it was having problems going in.

As a result, I moved away the metal part of the slot.  Interestingly enough, you could then see the tree.

I then put in the coin but you still did not hear it fall inside with the rest of the money.  I then peeped up because the slot was higher than my field of view – higher than eye level.

As a result, I had had to poke the money in; it was a dime.  However, it was sort of flat on its side; it was standing up so that the face of the coin was looking out at you.

I was poking it in to help it to fall in.  At this point, whilst I was on the veranda of the house, I was aware that Nicole McHugh was coming down the lane.

I had been looking into the garden where the curtain trees were on the south side of the property.  Here in the dreamtime, however, the curtain trees were gone.

In their place were three or four little baby curtain trees coming up.  The rest of the land was dug up and it hadn’t been watered.

The soil was drying out and so I said to myself that I would have to water it.  I thought I would have to go inside and get some seeds or plant some wonderful little flowers that were going to bloom.

Until the curtain trees grew up, I figured that they would add beauty to the place.  So on remembering, I said to Nicole, “Oh yes, let me get you the spritzer.”

So I went and I got her the spritzer.  She came and was then going in the house.

A lady then came out of their house and there was some sort of consternation.  As it turned out, a White woman had a little terrier-like dog.

The dog had a black collar and the same fur as a Calico cat.  This had been Nicole’s cat which the dog had obviously bitten up or eaten it up or whatever.

So there was quite a great deal of consternation.  Nicole was standing up outside a wooden half-dilapidated house.

On the far right side, there was a cement staircase much like the arrangement at The Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  That part of the house, the cement part, was also crumbling.

Vida McHugh was there with Nicole and someone else – a little girl.  The girl who had had the terrier was being rude.

She was cursing and saying, “Watch yourself wid me.”  She had wanted to get in the door, from out on the landing, but the McHughs were in the way.

So she cursed and carried on.  Eventually, she ended up rushing her way into the house.

Then I immediately was on the inside of the house where I watched this drama unfold.  The events were as if an Opera and I said to myself, ‘My goodness this is Opera.’

Truly, this was much as if Opera.  Then persons were coming in and there was movement – people coming down and pointing their feet.

They had on wooden toe shoes.  As the movement progressed, there was advancement then retreat.

There were different forces of people.  Like a ballet really, it was all being done in silence.

They had on long period costumes.  The dramatisation was interesting.

Next, there was a sense of seeing the same woman, and everybody else, being extremely studious.  The one woman was in a large area that had stained bronzed, clay-coloured, sand-coloured glass.

She was in the pews with the man who had been helping Nicole earlier.  This was set in a large area and she was studiously reading the Bible.

She did take the Bible to be the literal word of god.  Everybody else was more or less of that bent – I thought that it was so sad.

At this point, I was struck by the fact that this was where the Christ was going to be reborn.  London, England, in fact, was where this was going on.

At this particular point, Diego Lunamas was about because there had been lines of people who were in the balletic part of the opera.  Diego had been one of them.

At the time, he was sitting down on a set and it was lit by blue light.  He was being grilled by this asinine White guy who was talking about, “Well if you believe in oversoul 7, then you also believe in overbigtoe 7, and what about oversole 8, and overhead 7?”

He was making fun of the philosophical concepts by way of the anatomy because oversoul could have been spelt, as though ‘sole,’ as in the sole of your foot.  He was really stupid.

Diego was saying, “I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.”  On Diego’s behalf I interjected saying, “Through my experience, I’ve read the Seth Material which I find far more well put together an idea construct.”

At this point Seth did, in fact, come through and began channelling.  His voice was booming and it shook the entire place to the beams.

This was happening outside in the street between the McHughs’ and our houses in Crab Hill, Sandy Point.  A stage had been set up in the street – a bluish-white lit stage.

I thought about Diego and the guy who, was in front of him, wore a blue-white costume.  The booming voice was coming from behind the McHughs’ house.

Everybody was absolutely scared because here were these god-fearing, fear-obsessed people.  Totally dismissing them, this was a booming voice which claimed to be Seth; the channelled voice then began calling them fools.

They were very fearful.  I thought that it was absolutely great.

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Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from 'Les Orientales' by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo)
CHT163698 Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from ‘Les Orientales’ by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo) by French Photographer.

In the second dream, I was in a wooden dance studio.  The floor was wet because, in place of resin, they used water.

I had a sense that it was in the past, however, I seemed to be my present self.  Even so, there were aspects of me that were different.

I remember the way that I postured and used my face; I knew that I had very Caucasian features.  I could see the tip of my nose and yet I felt like I do now.

*I was not so much Caucasian-featured, if there’s actually such a thing – frankly there isn’t.  I was, though my present self, actually Caucasian.

I was present in the exact same body and I was my usual-personaed self.  However, the body was no longer Black but White.

The packaging had changed but nothing else had.  END.

Ahead of me was a guy in black trousers – nylon stretch trousers.  He was, in fact, the reincarnation of Vaslav Nijinsky and again male.

Again, he had very mercurial energies and he was a mover.  He had exceptionally large thighs.

He could phenomenally jump and leap about.  He was just incredible.

When at the barre, I was directly behind him and then just behind me was Pandora.  Although, truth be told, it wasn’t Pandora herself but an aspect of Pandora’s.

I never really had made eye contact with Pandora.  I remember after we had finished the barre, Nijinsky went and laid down on his stomach – in the frog position to work on his turnout.

The girls then went and they were feeling his muscle tone because it was quite unusual-looking.  His feet were so pliant and flexible as well as his calf muscles.

He had eventually turned over because Dannie Cyrta, who was one of the instructors at the head of the class, was saying, “Guys, just leave him alone.”

When we were then doing the grands battements, I remember being really elongated and holding my port de bras.  You had to do it turned out, doing grand battements, turned out to the front.

You had to do it out, towards the centre of the room.  Also, then in second position, you were facing directly ahead of you.  When doing grand battement en arrière, you did it out again.

The arm positions were up and in second position.  When you did grand battements en arrière, you would put your arms up again as though you were peeping under your arm – when you were in arabesque doing the grands battements.

I remember before I was doing the exercise, whilst I was doing the current exercise, I was thinking of how I would do the position and how I had to use my port de bras.  So I remember standing there in développé and you had to do these grands battements in plié and, somehow, I was in plié and I was holding my back up in port de bras.

My back was absolutely perfect; my port de bras and torso were perfectly open and I wasn’t sticking out my chest.  I was thinking, ‘This is so improved.’

I remember my neck being quite elongated, with head held high, as a result.  I was wearing a navy blue woollen set of tights and white dance slippers.

My feet were beautifully pointed.  There was a sense of looking up.

Interestingly, my whole sense of self – attitude and posture was all about looking down my nose.  This was when I realised that there was something about me that was Caucasian – physiologically.

*There was a half-mirror across the room and I was never at the front – the girls, of course, of custom were.  That was when I looked and found myself, I was indeed Caucasian more Tartar than not – dark-haired.

I had a strong sense, for looking at myself in close-up without moving, that my eyes were smoky-green-coloured.  My nose though aquiline was flared in the Tartar style and my teeth were gap-toothed.

This is not uncommon a feature when someone is currently Caucasian but was Black in their immediate past life – in fact, I was told by Sarah J. Chambers that it is always the case without exception as she was instructed by the Michaels.

Case in point, Madonna Ciccone, the Pop icon, who in her immediate past life was Black American entertainer, Bessie Smith – she has the same gruff raunchy persona.  Prior to that, though not immediately before that life, her soul was then incarnate as Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

Vis-à-vis Madonna, her life is a completion of the agendum she set out to accomplish, in her immediate past life.  She thought that it sucked being Black and a woman in showbiz.

However, her immediate past life did give her an understanding of the way the world works.  So she decided to take the world by the balls, a ‘give-me-what’s-mine’ approach, as it were, this time around.

Madonna, as per her immediate past life has the same talent, same drive, “Now give me what’s rightfully mine!” Power to her!  END.

Dannie Cyrta was, unusually so, very nice to me.  She was saying, “Yes, yes Arvin.  This is perfect and is much improved.

“Everybody look at Arvin because this is the way it should be.  This is as close to perfect, as you can get, in the way your torso ought to be.”

*Imagine that – the Mormon princess, Dannie Cyrta, being remotely civil towards me.  She even feigned to pretend that I was not a strongly projecting phantom as she treated me back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s School.  END.

I remember the Nijinsky-like character, coming off the barre to look at me.  The other people who were behind me were peeping around to look at me.

I felt very open and joyous.  Mine was a really good, good feeling.

When we were doing the exercise and I was holding my torso, Dannie Cyrta and the rest of the people were discussing and saying, “This time he’s really ready to go out and perform and he’ll be okay.”

I felt that way too and I knew that I was going to be okay when I went out and performed.  My body was quite together.

I was prepared within myself to face an audience.  I felt really good for being in the studio.

*Dannie Cyrta’s energies were extremely unusual and contrary to what they were during Winnipeg days.  I felt there was a good feeling in this class.

What was really sad, though, was that Dannie’s behaviour had much to do with the fact that I was not Black but Caucasian.  In that sense, she truly was ‘the blind’ because she still did not realise that it was me.

To her, it was someone named Arvin but more importantly it was someone who was White.  More than that, Vaslav Nijinsky is a mature sage entity mate of Merlin’s and mine.  END.

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A green-eyed tartar

In this the fifth dream, I saw a beautiful hairless White boy who seemed Tartan.  He was dark and handsome.

He also seemed to be a mélange of White, East Indian, Oriental and Black.  He could well have been one or any of all those ethnicities because he actually had a bronze or even Hispanic look.

He had a bronzed hue to him.  He was not however, for being so hued, extra-human.

Such that he seemed somewhat High-Yellow, he had taut smooth skin.  He was extremely good-looking.

He seemed like a male prostitute or a gigolo.  He was half-naked and teasingly aroused.

I was quite attracted to him.  I made a play for him.

He seemed to be in the lane up by ‘Aunt’ Edith Dean, outside by Beryl Babbin’s wall, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts.  I made a play for him but he dismissively brushed me off.

He then moved off and went along his way.  I felt quite rejected and naked really.

Afterwards, I was thinking that perhaps I should not have made a play for this person.  Nonetheless, I had and I was not fulfilled in my desires.

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

*What’s really interesting, too, is that he was basically a younger version of the Tartar, green-eyed, ‘Arvin’.  So, in essence, though in the body during the dance class, I would see myself at a younger age.

At that time, however, I was outside of my younger-future-self’s body.  I was resoundingly rejected by him – that is precisely what I would have done at that age.

Later on, of course, I was taking class with the reincarnated, Vaslav Nijinsky.  A class it was which was being taught by Dannie Cyrta.

I shudder to think that in my next life, I will be a male prostitute, gigolo.  Then again, it would not have been the first life passed in the much-maligned profession of providing succor to the sexually-repressed and the sexually-obsessed.

Long after this dream, I have since learnt that my essence twin is now reincarnated.  He is male and was born during the second decade of the new millennium.

He is born to German, Japanese parents and lives in Germany.  Our overleaves are quite similar though he is a realist.

They are, in fact, rather writerly overleaves.  Too, one or both of his parents are artists; I believe that the mother has been a dancer and the father a portrait painter.

Perhaps, I was picking up on him in this dream.  If not, it may well be me in a near-future incarnation.

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Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

Sandy Point, St. Kitts seen from Brimstone Hill Fortress.

Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.

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