Maurice White 19/12/1941<O>3/2/2016
Sweet and blissful dreams be yours… thanks so much for the joyful uplifting magic you weaved in song. I love you more… A final breath wearily collapses, focus turns inward and into the sea of wonder you fall, flying upwards to heights previously unattained. Fly! Fly! Fly!
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©2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
*After having spoken to WordPress, I was assured that they did not delete this blog post of dreams and commentary which was originally posted on February 20, 2015. Again, if you find anything herein objectionable just move along because, just so you know, apologies and obsequiousness are both foreign to me. Again, if you follow this blog and believe in an artist’s right to be free from all forms of terror and censor please do reblog this post. END.
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Dreams involving travels in consciousness to anchor point metropolises are always welcome. These next dreams represent just such travels to far-off distant worlds as transported to via the astral plane and through the expediency of the dreamtime.
At the time, it was Monday, September 4, 1995 and the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape number one hundred and ninety-eight. As such, they will yet be found in Volume XX of the XXV volumes of dreams. The Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house.
As has been previously stated, my Saturn retrograde is posited in the eighth house which, in concert with my Venus/Uranus conjunction in Leo, afford me this commendable facility which I would trade for no amount of platinum on this or any other world!
Speaking of worlds far-flung or otherwise, what a maudlin little backwater world of a planet we’ve got here. This past Tuesday, February 17, 2015, I was well aware that it was an 8 day and with a life path of 8, there are times when on such days it is best to stay indoors and avoid it all. This past Tuesday was just such a day, nonetheless, I elected to head out into the big bad world.
As I am never late for any of the three jobs at which I income earn, I had headed out 1.5 hours before start of shift. Before leaving my Jazz saturated home, I had mapped out how best to do my banking whilst en route to work. Off I went through the icy streets of Toronto where there a few water main breaks which left spots of the route an icy mess.
Luckily, I had long weeks earlier switched to my steel-studded winter bike wheels which when partially soft make riding on ice or in snow feel as though riding on sand. Alas, no need to go slipping and crashing for no good reason. I rode along the bike lane on Wellesley Street East, hung a left and headed south down Sherbourne Street.
The major water main break just south of Dundas Street East had me abandon the bike lane for the street where the single southbound lane was an icy slushy mess. I was rather impressed at how well my steel-studded wheels navigated the thick ice without incident. The past couple of days have been the coldest, snowiest, iciest and windiest in long memory.
At Shuter Street, I hung a right and headed westward to Church Street where I made another left and headed south to Queen Street East. There, at the southwestern corner of Queen Street East and Church Street is a Scotiabank in one of those old buildings which has been around since before the start of the last century; however, this being Toronto, it is highly likely that in 1.5 decades it will have been gutted to form the podium of yet another condensation-prone glass and steel condominium; these gems are readily gobbled up by offshore investors and soon infested with parasitic parvenu dreck that have neither class nor intellect.
As all the bike stands on Church and Queen Street East close to the bank were buried in at least 1.5 feet of frozen-solid snow to make a path for pedestrians, I ventured into the large-interiored structure which I have always favoured. A few years back, when I worked in the neighbourhood fundraising for the Royal Ontario Museum where I brought in three times as much money as the second best in sales, I loved frequenting the lovely building to do my banking.
Having safely left my bike in a corner where I could clearly see it, I progressed south down the length of the narrow bank and waited in line where there were two female clerks attending to the male and female customers. I smiled and readily turned off the front light on my helmet when the teller on the left whose hair was a hennaed affair, much reminding me of Québec, dramatically frowned and covered her eyes.
Since I noticed her from time to time looking away from the dumpy Sri Lankan female before her at the counter, I made a point to avoid her and use her blonde coworker when the other customer took his leave. I had left the light on the back of my helmet on – as for that matter the lights on my bike on, one in back and front.
Even though this was a less frequented bank, I had a good view of my bike and kept on looking at it. Back in late 2011, whilst riding westerly along Carlton Street and coming up on Jarvis Street where to the right in the low-rise condo the actor, Gordon Pinsent resides, I had a man in a black Ford F-350 with monstrous tyres open his door without looking whilst talking on his phone.
I went flying and nimble soul that I am I got from the streetcar track and scurried me and my trusty bike to safety. I then watched a grown man with the softest blues eyes become a nervous wreck as he cried and profusely apologised for having opened the door on me without first looking. I had actually clearly seen him in his side view mirror and he honestly hadn’t been paying attention. Though I had cautiously rung my bell, I was just as surprised as he would be after the fact when he opened his door.
Since then, I have worn lights on my helmet and kept them on regardless the time of day – you can never be too safe; besides, vehicles sport lights all hours of the day so why not bikes.
As I can spot a racial predator from here to Times Square in a heartbeat, I elected not to go to the teller on the left as both customers simultaneously took their leave of the tellers on concluding their business. Approaching, I watched the menopausal woman with a bit of darkened fur on her upper lip leaning to her blonde coworker and say something.
At the time, the blonde was busy finishing up the paper work from her last customer. I approached and avoided the faux redhead whose looks were hostile and predatory. Leaning in, she said something to the blonde who immediately looked up as I approached her. She was both startled by what the faux redhead said and the sight of me wearing two balaclavas, a toque and earmuffs beneath my helmet – being in motion on a bike in -37° Celsius.
As I have several times over the years frequented the bank and in past winters entered said bank in my winter face bike gear, I specifically chose it as branch into which I could slip where it would not be too heavily peopled and therefore would not have to take my balaclavas off and all that head gear – the nylon balaclava is a great fit but it is the most bothering thing to both put on and even harder to take off when sweat sheened.
Though I had not paid the faux redhead any mind and was now standing before her blonde coworker who fixed me with a cautious smile, old dry-pussied, displaced lazy haus frau just had to prove my instinct for spotting racial predators to be still sharply focussed. Again, though I was not at her counter – why would I? – she spoke up stating,
“Please remove your mask, we feel threatened by you?”
Imagine that, the racial predator has now evolved to the point of being telepathic even empathetic… NOT! Of course, it does go without saying that many of the university-educated other bank employees who were comfortably seated in their offices to my rear had seen me whilst I waited and some I recognised and they too recognised me from my many visits to said branch.
However, our estrogen-challenged faux redhead just had to go proving that yet again when you assume you make an ass out of you and me. At no point did the blonde utter a word; frankly, I rather suspect that she was more in shock by having been prompted into fearfulness by her coworker faux redhead than anything else.
Meanwhile, one of the bank managers, a jovial large-bodied fellow, left his office and walked past me to go and speak to a contractor in blue uniform towards the back behind the tellers. I had seen this man before on prior visits to the bank and naturally, I should think that if he found my attire threatening, he would have approached me and said something.
In a cool but civil tone which readily betrayed my loathing for having to deal with bullshit of any kind, I graciously greeted and informed the blonde that I would like to deposit my pay cheque into my account.
“Remove your mask; we do not have to serve you. You are threatening us with your mask.”
My god, what if I were carrying a gun and intent on holding up the bank? Did this dumbass think that she would be the first to deflect a bullet with her stupid insolence?
“You have no such right to tell me to remove my balaclavas. When was the last time you asked a Muslim to remove her burqa because you found it threatening? That’s right, you don’t find that threatening but strangely enough you find me threatening.”
She began mouthing off yet again at which point I interjected, “Tell you what, I will just go to the main branch where they know me. Happy Black history month to you, too!”
I took my red Scotiabank card and cheque placed them in my red Metro Toronto Convention Centre marvellously waterproof, wind and winter jacket all-in-one and began the long stretch of the bank to my bike. I was not surprised, on turning back, to see old hirsute-lipped monster come into the aisle to approach me.
That’s right, the same one who claimed to have been so threatened by me, leaving the safety of her counter to come address me. She looked down the way at me with that vapid smugness her ilk owns so well when letting me know that she was putting out an alert on me so I would not be served anywhere.
Regardless of the fact that on the video any Legal, Human Resources, Public Relations professional at Scotiabank would readily conclude that this faux redhead did not provide their customer with good service. What could possibly have possessed this supposedly threatened woman to come from behind her counter to face down the aisle at me as I got my bike to leave the branch?
Again, whilst she called out to me that she would alert the other branch, I wished her a happy Black history month to which she callously laughed after replying, “Yeah whatever, same to you!”
I got from my bike and left the branch, headed down Church Street and made my way westerly along King Street East crossed Yonge Street and headed a block still westerly for the main branch at Scotia Plaza’s gaudy, blood-coagulated-maroon, 68 storey marble edifice. I got in line as I had many times before in the same winter gear. This time an Indo-Canadian teller turned around when free and noticed me. I could not make out if she had gestured for me to join her or not. As my bike was locked outside, I carried both bright yellow paniers in hand.
As I watched, I noticed the same teller saying something though she was alone; perhaps she was speaking via intercom to someone. Again, she gestured, this time her motion was less confusing; she really meant to invite me to join her. I walked around the circular island and said hello and placed my card in the handset and entered my PIN then signed my cheque whilst sharing that I would like to simply deposit it.
Whilst finishing my signature, along came another Indo-Canadian female. The look on her face was rude, ugly and confrontational. Right away, she launched into her racially predatory assault, “Remove your mask or leave the bank. We are not serving you until you remove your mask.”
Again, as elsewhere, I informed the ignorant boor – whose clit failed to have fully descended leaving her, for all intent and purpose, a lifelong-frustrated pussied man – that I had no intentions of inconveniencing myself by removing my balaclavas which were not a mask simply because she said so. Too, I pointed out that there was no need for me to remove my balaclavas when she would never make any such request of a burqa-wearing Muslim.
You can bet she was full of more bile as she let me know we were not talking about that but I was being threatening and she would rather I left that bank than not.
The intense racial animus from this woman was so repulsive that I simply took my card from the machine picked up my paniers off the floor and said, “Hey, Happy Black history month to you, too.”
I now got from the bank feeling more than a little bit impatient. I am never late for work… ever. By now, it was within an hour of the start of my shift which for me is late. I rode along the sidewalk and turned onto Bay Street heading north for a couple of blocks to the Scotiabank on the west side of Bay Street between Queen Street West and Richmond Street West. I managed to tie up my bike atop a two-foot frozen bank of snow to a bike rack.
Once inside, I recalled what inordinate focussed grace I had had to impart when a few weeks earlier I had been to the branch to deposit another cheque and replace my demagnetised bank card. For more than 40 minutes, I had been asked a million questions and kept waiting again and again. At the end of it, the beautiful, raven-haired Muslim teller had laughed and said in a lowered tone to me, “You are a very smart man…”
She, of course, knew that the rest of the tellers – almost exclusively White save a lone Black woman who was segregated to sit by herself at a desk in the middle of the floor where the rest of the public comes and goes – were doing their best to provoke an impatient response out of me.
To say the least, it was not going to happen and did not. I got my card replaced that day, though, they made every attempt at having me return to my home branch at Yonge and Wellesley Streets and for no good reason.
Finally, it was my turn to see a teller. A tall White male with facial hair likely in corporate security and wearing a tattoo on his right forearm proved the most remarkably human and civilised interaction that I had had that day.
He very charmingly began by letting me know that he would prefer it if I were to remove my ‘balaclavas’; I replied that though he had been the most civilised customer service representative thus far, he was not within his right to ask me to remove it anymore than he would presume to think that any Muslim woman would remove her burqa when asked.
More to the point, I asked what kind of society is this when you would never think to make any such demands of burqa-wearing Muslims as you would myself being racially profiled during Black history month.
As I like giving as good as I get, I charmingly reminded him that in this Black history month, it bears mentioning that Blacks have not flown planes into buildings, shot soldiers in their backs or stormed Parliament et al. He smiled, my balaclavas remained in tack and when he assured me that if security were to ask me to remove my mask I would have to.
Cutting to the chase, I assured him that I was well aware that he was corporate security and both he and I knew that he had no legal right to ask me to remove my balaclavas as it was not summer outdoors, it was not a mask and I was protected by Canadian laws against being treated differentially with regards to a burqa-wearing Muslim entering all three branches visited in the last hour whilst trying to make my way to work on time.
Finally, he conceded and with a smile reminiscent of the raven-haired Muslim teller of a few weeks earlier, asked me to sign the cheque which already had been. Addressing me as Mr. da Braga, he asked if I would like any cash back or just a straight deposit.
Of course, I knew he was corporate security as he appeared in the teller area soon after I entered and proceeded to call out that if anyone strictly wished to make a deposit to please see him. I was the second person so inclined of the six or seven of us in line.
Damn right, it was high time I got service that I deserved.
Of course, it goes without saying that a good one-third to forty per cent of women in the workforce are emotionally unfit to be in professional life. Period. The only cause for concern either woman at both banks should have articulated is if I had presented in balaclavas whilst it happened to have been 30° Celsius outside in July. Just so happens that it was -33° Celsius that day.
Naturally, I had switched to Scotiabank close to a decade earlier when on leaving my employ as civil servant after 15 years of what was truly no end of constant workplace harassment and strife, was then made to wait for three-plus hours at the Bank of Montréal’s 72-storeyed headquarter branch at Bay and King Street West. As part of my separation, there were two settlements one was in a cheque for several tens of thousands of dollars.
When first presenting the cheque to the teller, the little silly-looking, cumfarting twit took off to go lisp and snicker to his equally otiose coworkers. Naturally, there was much snickering and giggling as one experiences of Whites when being racially predatory towards Blacks in public. This is behaviour they exclusively engage in and reserve just for Blacks.
After 20 minutes, the little cumfart – who would probably suffer a collapsed lung of sneezing and coughing incessantly from the sight and smell of pussy for the first time – approached and thanked me for turning in the cheque and asked where I had found it. Within a femtosecond the thought of pinning his empty skull beneath my booted foot and fucking his brains silly was soon dashed aside as it would be just what the little manginaed twit would hungrily, noisily crave at any of the few bathhouses left in the city.
After several hours of being made to wait whilst their ignorant staffers made calls to god-knows-whom and passed off the cheque to several of their colleagues to shuffle about whilst dicking me around, I asked for the cheque went across Bay Street to the Scotiabank headquarters and offered to start an account with them using the cheque; they were only too happy, with one look at the cheque, to have started the account.
That cheque in 2006 was the result of my travails with the same corporation which made it possible for me to continue my employ whilst living in Vancouver and Montréal. Of course, on arriving in Vancouver from Toronto, I had finally been made fulltime and sought to buy a first home. I had been looking at condos and naturally my Bank of Montréal branch on Denman Street had had to be in touch with my employer as I investigated getting a mortgage whilst looking at condos in the West End neighbourhood.
Just like that, I was thrown out of work and when returned to work five months later did so, on the proviso that at any time whilst on probation for 24 months I could be fired. Naturally, a stipulation for my return was having to see that little Egyptian Semite who told me on my final visit that Merlin, in fact, never existed that he was all, like my dreams, a figment of my imagination.
There he sat within mere feet of me pouncing and ridding the planet of him with that little blissfully smug grin on his face known only to the fraudulent few who feel themselves chosen of a fictitious god.
From arriving to work in February 1994, to being dismissed in November 1994, I was on a daily basis harassed with glaring, alarmingly perverse intensity; I was after all the first fulltime Black male in the workplace in Vancouver. On four separate occasions, I had my cheque withheld for a day or two.
This only ever happened when a former police officer who allegedly had been kicked off the force for targeting visible minorities would hand out the cheques and let me know that my cheque had not arrived. Too, it involved being constantly name-called an ‘anti-man’ – West Indian term for Gays, by a thuggish Indo-Canadian lout from the Southern Caribbean.
One Saturday morning – November 5, 1994 – whilst I worked overtime in a bid to save towards purchasing a condo, I had the usual onslaught of racial animus as two White female coworkers next to me carped on about both the Susan Smith case and the O. J. Simpson arrest and upcoming criminal trial.
Whilst I slowly did neck rolls and deep breathe – it was my first autumn in Vancouver and the constant rains were making a mess of my back and neck injuries from a decade earlier when dancing. One woman said of Susan Smith that she at least had the perfect alibi; it was too bad that she had to be found out. Meanwhile, the other said of Black men that they were all nothing but trouble and should be all put away.
Soon, the one who had spoken of Susan Smith’s perfect alibi got up and went to get the Indo-Canadian louse for a supervisor and lied when claiming that I had been sleeping rather than working. Of course, her shift never got overtime so clearly there was some degree of grudge.
After being relocated and made to stand, I then had the Trinidadian louse claim to his Japanese-Canadian manager that I had three times been to the bathroom and when told to go home rather than do the overtime was told to fuck off and that I was not going anywhere.
I stood there not believing what I was hearing. Though I protested, the Japanese-Canadian manager claimed that being insubordinate was unacceptable and for that reason, he asked that I leave. Said he, I was free to file a grievance if I felt I ought not to have been sent home. With that, I returned to my locker, which twice I had had to move – once there was nigger scrawled across one, the other had been smeared with faeces.
As I came downstairs from the lockers, there was the fat overbred swine cackling his head off with, surprise surprise, the White ex-cop. To avoid the hideous sight of them, I elected to take an alternate route and returned to the area where I had been initially working to sign out using the electronic system.
Whilst standing with my back to them at the machine when signing out, the shorter of the two women yelled, “Go home and don’t come back!”
Turning around, I spat in their direction and told them to fuck off and go to hell. Quite the little ham, the dwarfish troll screamed out, “Oh my god! Oh my god, he spit in your face!”
She immediately began calling for the supervisor who had speciously had me sent home – just like she was speciously alleging I had spat in someone’s face who was more than ten feet away from me.
As I left the area and exited the building the portly bigoted Indo-Canadian from the southern Caribbean and his equally racially predatory White male ex-cop colleague came chasing after me as I exited the building.
I got home that Saturday, November 5, 1994 and had a good phone visit with my father who promised to make a gift towards buying my first home; it was also his birthday that day. The following Monday morning, I received a registered letter informing me that I had been suspended for having physically assaulted a coworker and then leaving work without permission.
I was dumbfounded. What proceeded for the next 4.5 months was the most soul-gnawing travel through the six million levels of hell thanks to the venal invidiousness of the union rep who can only be charitably described as a hybrid bipedal bastard of Jabba the Hutt’s.
That Monday, I met with the porcine fucker at dawn at the union offices where she informed me that since I was a member of two known high risk groups: Blacks and Queers, I needed to immediately go get an AIDS test and let her know the results because my faux accuser, in whose face I had not spat, and her family were hell-bent on pressing charges and they were fearful that I might have infected her with AIDS.
I assured her that I did not have HIV/AIDS and had no intentions of jumping any hoops of hers by going out and getting tested. What business was my medical history of hers or the faux accuser? As agreed, I provided a copy of a letter to the accused wherein I apologised for my inexcusable conduct. I made it perfectly clear in the letter that in frustration at being sent home, I had lashed out her when being profane but beyond that, I categorically refused to apologised for having spat in her face when I had not.
A couple of hours later, we met with the employer’s labour relations and human resources personnel plus the very two persons who had laughed their heads off whilst I made my way from the locker to sign out days earlier that Saturday.
Both thuggish supervisors sat across the narrow table from me whilst I was flanked by two union reps: Jabba’s offal and another female, also Jewish. The letter was proffered and though I was made to believe that it sufficed and that it was understood that my actions were isolated, I received another registered letter later that day informing me that I had shown no remorse and was indefinitely suspended.
For the first time, I truly considered suicide as I crumpled to my bathroom floor and came undone. Finally, pulling myself together, I decided instead to sacrifice my full mane of thick gorgeous hair and cut it all off. For the next several months the only thing that saved me was doing volunteer work with persons with AIDS and offering my West End home as a place where PWAs could stay overnight whilst they were in town for a battery of tests and appointments.
Too, during that time of unemployment, I discovered and became readily devoted to the sexual bacchanal in the deep woods of Stanley Park just a few blocks away.
For the next several months, Jabba’s Goy-hating offal lied, lied and lied with hungry relish about when I would be returned to work. Naturally, for being a unionised worker, there was no chance of filing a human rights complaint into the matter. Eventually, after someone from the union’s regional offices assured me that there was nothing to be done because, ‘let’s face it, she is a Jew and you are Black and she is just not going to be challenged,’ I knew that other avenues had to be explored.
Finally, when I told the porcine boor that I had been in touch with Labour Relations Board who felt that I definitely had a case, I was hastily offered a meeting with her at the union offices where the fugly scum proceeded to demand that I, in essence, submit the exact same letter of four-plus months earlier to be returned to work.
I got up and walked out of the union offices got home and proceeded to unload on her by phone the most violent verbal abuse I had to that point articulated. She had actually had the fuck-all temerity to huff and gag because this is truly how she breathed and talked, “You know, I do think that you are anti-Semitic.”
The next day, the Ides of March, 1995, I was offered to be returned to employment without a letter of apology as she refused to put in writing her demand that I take an AIDS test.
Too, before walking out, she had stated that anyone could have typed up a letter and back-dated it, then made a photocopy of it; this said of the photocopy to the original letter of contrition offered in an interview which was all about racial predators having a field day.
There was I returned to work then having to see a psychiatrist for 24 months whilst on probation for being an out-of-control, violent Black male in the workplace about whom people felt unsafe, unsure and uncomfortable.
During those 24 months, Jabba’s offal had cunningly provided work for a Jew with whom she was well-acquainted, she had shared in that none-too-charming way she had of name-dropping, when telling me of the terms for returning to employment. With that, the chance of buying a condo had taken flight.
Whilst in the workplace, I endured no end of intense harassment whilst the O. J. Simpson trial endured and most definitely thereafter, for such is the power of television to fuck with the sphinctered and well-groomed-into-somnambulance collective psyche.
This included having my return from breaks, arrival at work changed in the computer to reflect tardiness. I was spat on… surprise, surprise. I was pushed, twice got crazy-glued to my combination lock. Further, I had a rather beguiling-looking Muslim supervisor, who was featured in the corporate magazine as a sign of the company’s diversity – she with the uncanny resemblance to Benazir Bhutto – tell me with lethal calm, “Get out of my sight before I don’t kill you.”
She was being confronted on yet again having changed my time, though, she and every supervisor swore up and down that there was no way for them to change one’s time in the system. Of course, a Rhodesian-born Chinese coworker whose husband also happened to have been a supervisor told me that there were at least four plans in the works to have me terminated – one apparently involved me seemingly leap from the company’s rooftop.
Alas, somehow, I managed to have upped my frequency and spirited my way out of that hellhole. The day that I had gotten my transfer to Montréal, I took off a few days to pack and it was known that I would be returning to work for half a shift to clean out my locker and say goodbye; I never did go to my locker because who wants to be crazy-glued to a lock for a third time?
Naturally, as Jewish guilt knows no end, there was phlegmy Jabba’s hybrid offal standing outside the doors to the office on the sidewalk. She had actually had the guts to air out her bedsores by getting off her fat arse at the union offices to come by the workplace and gawk.
Naturally, Jabbette was standing there talking to someone or other whilst making sure to lock eyes with me as I exited the building. Of course, as I never miss a chance to give back, I paused whilst making for the attendant cab and hissed, “Of one thing you and I are both certain, you will rot in hell eating your god, Hitler’s arse.”
With that, I returned home, took a nap, dreamt my last dreams in Vancouver then made my way to the airport and caught an overnight flight for Montréal. Just when I thought Vancouver to have been a god-awful work experience, Montréal was hell-bent on giving it a run for its money.
Boy did Montréal prove a marathon and then some… Stay tuned, for as you shall yet see, until you have lived in Québec, you cannot truly claim to know Canada…
For now, sweet dreams as ever and may these dreams continue to richly inspire your own spiritual journey. For your support, I remain ever grateful. I love you more.
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This was a night-time dream and the first that was set in an amphitheatre. I had had to step-in for the host who had fallen ill. The crowd was large and this being at home in St. Kitts, to say the least, they were hostile.
Though nervous, all audaciousness and charm, I stepped up to the mic. Once centre stage, I began eulogising for Euleka Gumbs; Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s daughter.
Whilst speaking, I did see a woman who reminded me vaguely of her but I was not certain that it was so. I then went on to thank Juan-Carlos de Madrid for his work as host.
Whilst standing there looking over the crowd, I saw a ball of white light explode. This was the most glorious sight imaginable. From it shot the most joyous spray of white light sparks.
This was something that resonated with the soul itself. This was on the order of the uplifting essence contact experienced in that dream on Tuesday, September 22, 1992 – it is dream blog entry herein entitled A Rose Like No Other. The same degree of inspiration and sublime beauty was experienced again.
For having experienced this manifestation, there was no way that one could not have had an ecstatic moment of transcendence. For having overcome my fears, of going out onstage, here was I having the most blissful of experiences.
Funnily enough, no one else here experienced the manifestation. This was such a thoroughly grounding experience.
Once I was onstage, the audience soon became hushed; they were readily impressed by my eloquence and discernible intellect. I was really pleased to have seen Euleka Gumbs whom later I would learn was indeed Catherine Angelica Montpelier’s daughter.
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Pericles da Braga and I were together, in this the second dream, and I had to fast take control of the situation. He began insisting that I was sexually obsessed with him. Talk about taking oneself way too seriously.
We were face-to-face and, despite there being some serious bones of contention discussed, the energies were rather intimate. One had a true sense here of Pericles’s true nature.
There was a deep sense that he was fearful of me. Somehow, it was as though he knew at the level of soul that he had reincarnationally wronged me in past lives.
Thus he has been plagued with a sense of dread and fear of me that, somehow, I would get him. There has never been any such scheme in my thoughts. I have been keenly aware of this man’s manipulativeness and have always guarded myself against falling prey to his head-trips.
His eyes here were strong, clear, direct and shamanic.
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Sting, the performer, was backstage waiting to go out onstage in this the third dream. Goodness, this was such a lucid experience. Sting was very real with a real puckish glint to his playful eyes.
Eventually, I ended up going out and introducing him to the stage.
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Here, in this the fourth dream, I progressed up the paved incline into a large schoolyard. There were lots of Black and Hispanic kids playing here. A large glass and steel, black tower in the style of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe that was very minimalist in design looked over everything.
Sleek and nondescript it most certainly was. These were Babel-like buildings in proportion; they stretched on for some six city blocks. Easily they were, the smallest ones at least, all 100 storeys plus.
They were quite layered affairs with some storeys having an architectural theme. One to the other, the sections were vastly different. The school building had a second section that had walls which, rather than vertically, moved outwards from the base.
These sections were each ten or more storeys and maintained a single architectural theme. Even though it was an overcast day with heavy grey clouds, I could clearly detect klieg lights to the southwest.
I then asked some of the kids for directions but they were non-too-forthcoming with me. I could immediately sense that there was some danger in their being so guarded with me.
I passingly joked about gangs when next, a dark-haired guy and I were being hotly pursued by Black youths from a gang. This decidedly was astral plane an experience in its intensity.
We were then cornered on a side street before a large building. This did not at all feel as though here on Earth. What with the massiveness of these buildings, it may well have been part of an anchor point metropolis.
The Blacks here were so beauteously dark-complected that I would hazard to guess that not even Nubians closely approximate their purity of melanin intensity.
Just because they were gangsters does not imply that they were African-Americans which they certainly didn’t feel or look like. These were very strong, proud Black people who had never been enslaved nor were they dredging through life oppressed beneath the weight of that most hideous form of low psychic terror, racism – the racial predator’s birthright.
Soon, their leader stepped forward and there was no mistaking him. He turned out to have been the Rap star, Tupac Shakur. Beyond his open black leather vest, I could make out that the pock marks of his bullet wounds had been filled in with solid gold.
Seemingly, this was the fashion statement du jour, here on the astral plane, for gangsta arrivés. Throwing caution to the wind, I felt like bolting rather than having to face such hostility; I did not care whether or not I would be shot in the process.
Of course, I would not have survived. After all, this was a dream so it was not as though I would ultimately have died. I just didn’t care to be caught up in a jam like this… no how.
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A large sprawling apartment at night time, proved the focus of the fifth dream, plus a man with whom I had just become involved was getting moved in. Trying to figure out how they worked, we were playing around with the curtain rods.
Each was four to six inches thick with vary-sized grooves for different pins. Just then, Moses Znaimer walked in at which point, I went over and introduced him to my young beauteous friend.
I then asked Moses Znaimer if he knew how the bloody curtain rods worked. Not remembering his name, I introduced Moses Znaimer as Mr. Hoffmann by which, of course, I implied to my friend that he was Jewish.
Clearly, Moses Znaimer took offense but I could not have cared less anyway. I had no desire, in the first place, to go sucking up to him.
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Photo: Toronto February 2015, Queen Street East, looking north towards Yonge & Bloor Streets.
Bubble Nebula.
Sting.
Tupac Shakur.
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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
I was in a house at night time and in a bedroom that was upstairs. It was really a lot like the house at 122 Mortimer Avenue but wasn’t that house.
It also seemed like Amie Tothmanner’s house at Farm’s Site, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. The old sprawling bungalow was elevated off the street in the front.
Isis da Braga hurriedly came to me and told me that she had seen some extra-humans outside. She was somewhat panicked but I told her not to be upset. By the news of extra-humans, I was really calmed and warmed.
I got up and was really excited but not on the verge of panic. We went back to the rear of the house and looked out. Just then, there was a beautiful rain downpour. The rain was just so heavy and so gorgeous.
I stood there drinking in the rain’s healing beauty. I loved listening to it and in time I was enraptured. It was rather grey and balmy. We waited and waited as the rains fell. It was, indeed, really nice.
She then began giving me a description of what the extra-humans looked like. They were Black she had said.
Later, after the rainfall, I went out to the street to head up towards Crab Hill and our house. It was then that I had encountered a lone extra-human in the street.
The EH was across from Amie Tothmanner’s and between Adam Procopp’s and the Sandy Point Public Market. They were of a different species from the ones that had evolved here on Earth.
Our souls had chosen to evolve here from simian mammals. However, that group of souls had chosen a totally different species into which to have incarnated and evolve.
Nonetheless, they were also simian mammalians. They had large, large, beautiful soulful eyes which bespoke the fact that they had been evolving in that race millions of years longer than we had here, on Earth, in the race of simian mammals chosen in excess of four million years ago.
They were a very ancient, very aged race. They also had mouths that were O-shaped and, when they spoke, it took a bit of getting used to the mechanics of their speech. Basically, their mouths worked vertically as opposed to our horizontally familiar arrangement – thus making them O-shaped.
The faces were extremely tiny and delicate-looking. These people were also very short – between 4.5 and 5.0 feet tall – and thus appeared very squat. Their torsos were very thick; barrel-chested, this made them appear even more so squat.
Their limbs, however, were very long and rakish. The legs were very skinny and set wide apart, at the top, in their unusually wide hips. These soulful extra-humans did not wear clothes.
The extra-human stood there perfectly naked and not the least bit self-conscious. Their skin was so very dark and rich that it did not matter that they were naked.
There were also no genitals discernible because, up past labiate folds, both men and women had their sex hidden. It was also customary, I had intuited, for both males and females to have changed their sex during the course of the life experience.
This was a process as natural as pubescence but which occurred later in the life experience for them. This sex change by the way occurred at least once.
When the males of that species became aroused then their impressive sex descended past their extensive labiate folds. I saw all this, as I had intuited, in a rapidly progressive inner vision. It was very interesting.
A great deal of space sat at the top of the legs, in both sexes, which was really unisexed when you think of it. The arms and legs were disproportionately long and sported a lot of cable-like veins.
The arms and legs were very thin and so birdlike that it actually looked like they had suffered rigor mortis and had lost all the fluids in their limbs. Very dried-up-looking, ancient and parched, they looked, as though they were a desert-dwelling people.
They looked as though no moisture had ever touched their skin. Very, very interesting arrangement their life experience was.
One other thing about these extra-human persons was the fact that they could, at will, grow these wonderful gossamer wings. Just like a spider could produce web, at will, so too could they have created a web-like wing which they could also use for transportation means.
They, too, could unfold these silken gossamer-looking wings. They unfolded from their wrists, up to their armpits then down again, all the way down to their squat-torsoed, broad hips.
Immediately on having seen the wings unfold, I realised the purpose for such squat, barrel-chested torsos. I also realised then that their thin-boned limbs were not unlike a bird’s – they simply had no feathers.
They would simply hunch their broad, bony shoulders placing the arms by their sides and begin secreting this temporary wing system. It came, on closer inner-visioned inspection, from these labiate folds.
The fold system extended the length of the inside of their arms from the wrist, to the armpits then down the torso, to just above the wide hips. I was able to get this inner vision because it was being telepathically shared with me by the very soulfully warm, male extra-human.
Using this secreted membrane, the otherworldly simian mammals were thus able to fly. Here in the dreamtime, this was a truly remarkable discovery to have made.
I instinctively knew why they were there in the dreamtime. I knew that they were not come to Earth to interfere with anybody.
“Isis, this is a dream. They are here, in the dreamtime, just like I travel to different worlds. So too can they travel, in the dreamtime, here from another world.”
Thus I was very accommodating to this extra-human. I was very friendly and nice to him by opening both my arms, lowered, in a wide-open embrace and poured a ton of love from my solar plexus and directed it right into him.
I telepathically explained to him, as he had communicated with me, that I knew that he was here because he had travelled in a dream. He understood and accepted my Love.
I told him that I too had been to other worlds myself. I assured him that he was quite welcome to be here on Earth and that I hoped he had a good time whilst here.
I was being an ambassador to him. He really did appreciate the warmth that I had extended him. I continued on and told him that he should have no trouble being here. I told him that it would be reasonable to expect some people to be afraid at the sight of him.
However, I reminded him that he was at an advantage because he could always take flight with his gossamer wings. I knew full well that, even though this was the dreamtime, most Earthlings encountered therein are so somnambulant when awake in the waking state that they then progressed into the dreamtime just as asleep.
Thus they could not have been expected to know that, whilst in the dreamtime, they too had the capacity to fly at will. He could easily escape from these people, if they were to grow fearful and were to try and upset him.
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The preceding dream occurred, on Sunday, November 25, 1990, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house. This dream is one which I refer to as a starfaring dream because it involved a dream encounter with an ensouled creature of reason, an extra-human individual, who was visiting Earth during the dreamtime.
As there are only two forces in the universe, there are therefore only one of two ways to perceive any and everything. There is also only one of two ways to respond to one’s perceptions: either from a place of love or from a place of fear.
These two forces, love and fear, are the two constants which span time and space and which resonate throughout the cosmos. Since I was fully lucid and self-aware in this dream, I fully accepted that the being encountered was ensouled and an extra-human who was visiting Earth.
Why should he not have been visiting Earth, much as I do visit other worlds, through the expediency of the dreamtime? I chose to both perceive and interact, with the extra-human visiting Earth’s astral plane, from a place of love.
Of course, for having taken the long lonely journey with Merlin, I was thereafter in a state of harmony for learning the greatest of lessons – human compassion. Had it not been for what Merlin and I had achieved together, during the long eighteen months of his end-of-life illness, I could not have responded to the extra-human in the dreamtime as I did.
I related to him exactly as I would have wanted to be, both perceived and engaged, were I an extra-human in his world’s astral plane experienced during the dreamtime’s expediency. The dreamtime has the ability to afford one a range and depth of experiences which can be had by no other means.
For having been both loving, open and accepting of the extra-human visitor in the dreamtime, as the next dream reveals, I was able to visit with this extra-human’s species on their nascent home planet. It was one of the most beautiful and lucid dream experiences ever had.
The following starfaring dream occurred in exquisite and ecstatic lucidity, on Saturday, December 29, 1990, whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house. This dream was a complement to the preceding dream and resulted after my having been open, compassionate and loving towards the visiting extra-human. It was sequential dream which was born of the dream encounter with the extra-human in the dream streets of Sandy Point, St. Kitts a month earlier.
The following dream visitation deftly illustrates that to give of self, to be open, to be accepting and acting of love is the portal to a more enriched life experience.
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I found myself very lucidly awakened in a very strange world. I was very high up on a canyon wall. On the left side of the entrance, to be exact, to the canyon was I.
There was a metropolis way down inside the abyss of the canyon. Inside, it was easily in excess of five miles deep – much deeper than anything we have here on Earth.
In the bottom of the abyss, at the centre, was a mount which itself was quite tall but from these heights seemed otherwise. What it was like, in fact, was an inverted Machu Pichu because on this mount’s towering peak was a wonderful old metropolis.
This beautiful complex metropolis was still very much so alive. Down to the left, down in the far section, was a beautiful, long landing strip. This entrance to the canyonned metropolis, way at the top, was not very wide.
At least from afar, it looked that way. The scale here was so much more massive than anything comparable on Earth that it did take awhile to figure it all out.
There were planes which did come into the canyonned metropolis. They were not like planes as we know them here on Earth. There was one that was approaching to land. It was silver and more than a block long – rather impressive.
It had a wingspan that was not unlike a Concorde’s but it was much more extensive and began further to the rear of the craft. Making it seem sentient in that sense, this jetliner was going very, very slowly.
Rather than air, it appeared to be moving through a densely aqueous medium. It seemed like a whale that was just leisurely cruising. It was very, very majestic.
However, one did get the sense that this craft had the capacity to do faster-than-light speeds. More than that, the craft very well could possibly travel intergalactically or interdimensionally.
There were, as well, other kinds of planes. As though made of cellophane, they had wings that were seemingly transparent. Some were like a dragonfly’s wings, they were also double-winged, not unlike some of the earlier aeroplanes that did combat duty during World Wars I and II.
These wings were whirring, actually creature-like, flapping so rapidly that they almost seemed not to have been moving. This was how these planes propelled themselves rather than by using propeller systems.
What was interesting about this was that there was some sort of wind disturbance in the canyon. This was what presently prevented the planes from properly approaching to land.
Even though it was very large because it was still a confined space – canyonned – the canyon was closed off at the other end. Thus the wind currents that came in, deep down inside, made it possible for the planes to move quite slowly and as if at will gently riding the air currents circling all the way down to safely land.
As that location of the near-sealed canyon best facilitated liftoffs and landings, the landing strips were off in that corner. Deep inside the canyon, the trapped winds always circulated in a set pattern and rotated always in the same direction.
However, here in this dream, it was dark and moist. The sky, which was very distantly removed, was overcast. The entrance was wide but from the distance, as I had made my approach in flight, did not at all seem that way.
My approach was in a small, glass-fronted space shuttle that could easily have been an interstellar craft. It was not unlike the space shuttle I took with Pandora da Braga in that interstellar flight, on September 9, 1989.
On arriving, the entrance was actually quite wide. It was colossal, in fact, and could easily have accommodated the Concorde-like craft that I had seen way down below. The entrance was a few blocks wide but from afar it did not seem so at all.
This very impressive entrance, to the canyon, was in excess of twenty storeys probably closer to fifty. To get to this entrance, I had been travelling in a little gorge which seemed very deep.
There it was very lush, wet and a riotous tropical forest. Lots of impressively massive arboreal species were present there. Very intensely alive and richly hued, of various tonalities, were the arboreal gems.
However, that was not even the half of it. As soon as one cleared the seemingly narrow entrance to the canyon, one was posited into this beautifully breathtaking panorama of the canyonned Metropolis.
It was a drop that was miles and miles down to the seemingly tiny, little mount, with the Machu Pichu-like metropolis, which was very much so alive and occupied.
Here the race of sentient beings was dark-skinned and long-haired. They were jet-black-haired like the Amerindians of Machu Pichu. These, however, were a very, very black-skinned and tiny people in stature.
This was very much so a living civilisation. As we had approached, I noticed that on either side of the colossal entrance to the canyon was a boulevard of stately landscaped trees.
The canyon’s rock face was quite carved out with a lot of architectural leitmotifs. There were hieroglyphs as in Egypt but in an altogether different sensibility.
The sweep of the architecture was very organic. As if massively pressurised and moved during glacial activity, it was essentially the multi-millennial motion of stone.
It was the capture of the perpetual, timeless slow movement of stone which, somehow, this august civilisation had managed to have captured and quite ingeniously so. For looking at this architecture, one had a sense of movement.
All in one inspiring movement, it was very magnetic, gravitationally-oppressive and groundingly uplifting. In fact, this movement was still discernible in the lines of the architecture.
One had the sense of this architecturally being more so along the lines of Antoni Gaudí† in a Gaian reference.
Next I was outside of the craft, on the left bank or chasm of the canyon. It proved, in fact, to have been the left wall of the canyon. I had looked to my left where the stone was grey but, somehow, it seemed to have been that colour because it was reflecting the clouds in the sky.
Here it was very windy, wet and very turbulent. This was why, in fact, I had gotten out of the craft that I was in. The craft had circled a couple of times but we weren’t able to land.
There were some other travellers, aboard the shuttle craft with me, none of whom I knew or recognised. Thus we had been dropped off, up near the entrance, to wait out the turbulent windstorm which was definitely not a rainstorm.
I had managed my way onto this little ledge and noticed, more closely, that the rock was inordinately sculpted. There were lots of intricate architectural designs, even here at this nondescript-seeming ledge, which was a mere outcropping in the canyon wall.
At this intimate proximity to the architecture, there was a greater sense of the sweeping motion of this rock. It was not just intricate curved architectural shapes that were simply vertical or arrested as in classical Greek or Roman architecture.
This was, in fact, even beyond the aliveness of Gothic architecture in its superior spirituality. It was truly living art. It was Gaudí-like but more than Antoni Gaudí’s style.
It would seem that Antoni Gaudí was, in the dreamtime or at a deeper level of the soul from past reincarnational cycles, impressed by this living architectural style.
Antoni Gaudí was impressed by this style but what he was able to have realised, in this dimension’s waking state, was a feeble emulation of this style’s superior refinement and movement.
Nonetheless, at least Antoni Gaudí was able to have developed or bring forth these ideas and moved them along parallel to similar lines here on Earth.
This was clearly in a different dimension so that it was more alive than Antoni Gaudí’s creative genius has realised. It was simply living architecture.
On having precariously found myself out on a limb, as it were, I began growing fearful. I had noticed that the reason why we couldn’t have landed was because of the very turbulent storm, which churned at breakneck violent speeds, dizzying miles way below at the mount’s peak and even further below that.
It turned out that because there was nothing but wind currents in this canyon, the civilisation was subjected – from time to time – to these incredible windstorms. During these times of great turbulence, it was impossible to have gotten out.
Luckily a man came along and came to my rescue. He had been part of the travelling party with which I had arrived. Although I can’t now recall his race whether human or not, however, if he had been then I am certain that he was White.
He was ridiculously tall and Nordic and decidedly hyper-hirsute, on the arms, which I had noticed as he had reached out to me. Not unlike the claims of the Nordics, extra-humans who currently frequent Earth, was he.
There were some persons aboard this craft who did not fit either the human or this civilisation’s notion of the familiar native beau idéal. In other words, this was a very cosmopolitan, interstellar travelling party.
He was an older man who was tall, lean, rakish and very noble of spirit. When extending his hand to me, he had sought to draw me away from making a mess of things. For having noticed the violent storm way below, I had become focussed on my fears.
He was concerned about me for having been seated alone out on the tiny ledge of outcropping rock. Even at this level, so high up, it was already getting increasingly windy.
There were constant gusts of wind, out of the cavernous canyon, making their way up. These winds only kept on getting more and more powerful.
It was actually possible to see the currents’ advancing ascent because of the way that they barrelled over all the signs of life in their path.
Though this was a barren-walled canyon, on which the civilisation was principally centred, the mount was covered with lush vegetation. There, it was very terraced and beautifully landscaped.
All around the mount, which was sunken in an inner gorge, were mountains with lush vegetation and they towered even higher than the central Machu Pichu-like peak.
It was this encircling mountain range that concavely sloped up about the central peak, to eventually meet the sheer rock face of the canyon, which had served as the agricultural belt of the civilisation.
It was a totally self-perpetuating biospheric system. The plant life, on the encircling mountain range, was a very lush rainforest that was always mist-shrouded which teamed with dense, self-perpetuating life.
In essence, it was the lungs of the civilisation. The mountain plants provided all the fresh oxygen that the entrapped metropolis, buried way below in the belly of the canyon, so desperately needed. This organic encircling mountain range was what kept the air, in the canyon, from becoming dead and stale.
It recycled the air at those depths and kept the civilisation and its extra-humans alive. It was a warm, moist, very humid rainforest. This was a very healthy, densely oxygenated, clean civilisation. Very organic and in tune with nature was this place.
It was a temperate humidity with a fine spray of mist that was humid and as cool as, I suspect from what I have heard, Hong Kong is in its cooler months.
All the way along, above the vegetation line where the encircling mountains sloped outward to join the rock face, I noticed a series of wonderful portals that seemed haphazardly placed.
They were these O-shaped openings which led inside to the living quarters of this civilisation’s citizens. Just before crawling into one and to safety with the extra-tall, White extra-human male’s kindly help, I had noticed this.
They were a different species altogether. These portals were quite unique in design. They had the same swirling sense of motion to them as the rock face and architecture. They were opal-shaped with some larger than others.
These were incredibly beautiful yet simple abodes. They were as if an air bubble that had been halved, when someone had archeologically sliced through the rock, creating the canyonned wall.
Thus the portals had created the effect of air bubbles, in motion, in any direction that the rock’s pressurised motion had taken them. There was a lot of bas relief around the portals to the abodes’ entrances.
The face of the canyon was brown-to-grey-coloured and very much so totally, architecturally designed. What was very interesting here was that, when the man who had come and given me a hand as I had been clinging on terror-struck onto the large sculptural stone pillar, those pillars were much like those oversized pillars in the film Legend, starring, Tom Cruise.
He had guided me around two pillars that were similar to those in the aforementioned film. As I had been quite close to falling and perishing, cause for concern was understandable.
At the time I had thought,
‘My god, what if I fall? I am not like the citizens here in this civilisation of their dimension.’
This, I thought, even though lucidly aware that I was dreaming and therefore imbued with the ability to fly in the dreamtime. The fact is that these citizens, though simian-stocked like we humans are, were shorter extra-humans.
It was the same extra-humans race, one of whom I encountered in the streets of Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts, in the interspecies, starfaring dream encounter on November 25, 1990, which inhabited this far-off civilisation to which I have starfared.
As a result, here was I paying a visit to the home world from which that dreaming, spacefaring extra-human had originated. It was as though, for having been accepting of this interdimensional, ensouled dream traveller, I was then welcome and open to have made the transit to his dimension and reciprocally experience his world.
Indeed, the simple eloquence of causality validated here. For having lovingly accepted this visitor’s soul quality, I would have the universe repay me with a voyage to his home world’s richness of spirit. This world seemed to be situated in another dimension.
Perhaps, it may even have been here on this particular planet in another time. Perhaps, this extra-human civilisation predated us – here on Earth – by some three million years or one and one half million years ago.
It was, however, an evolutionary path along which humanity branched off or one in which humanity exists pursuing a probable reality – one wherein we have the capacity of flight. Here was I enjoying a visitation dream to this wonderful lush, lush world of theirs.
Merely all that the people had to do, who lived in these portalled abodes in the canyon wall, was leap from the portal entrance of their caved dwellings to take flight. As a result of the constant wind currents, inside the partially sealed canyon, they were able to ride the circulating wind currents down to the rest of the canyon-city below.
For that matter, they could just as easily ride these wind currents, back up to their dwellings in the canyon wall. It would not have been difficult for them to have ascended from the metropolis mount way down in the canyon.
They simply glided when in flight, for the most part, since the winds here were so heavy and controlled. When they wanted to ride a particular wind current, however, they would have to energetically flap their wings to get into the groove of the particular current.
There was a great sense of beauty to these creatures as they were constantly gliding when in flight. Wherever you looked, there were extra-human persons effortlessly gliding through the air in winged flight.
The air currents that circled on the periphery of the canyon were the cooler currents. Those air currents were exclusively used when descending from the dwelling portals down to the mount, the valley and agricultural encircling mountains below.
Near the centre, above the agrimountains and the central Machu Pichu-like mount, the heats generated enabled the winged simians to ascend and circle upwards – like soulful eagles coasting upwards in circling flight – en route back to their portalled canyon dwellings.
They were simply majestic, when in flight, like a race of ensouled cranes. Each much resembled an eagle, with its wings spread, slowly soaring through the air.
There was such beauty to their movement for it was so slow, timeless and graceful. You could keenly sense them navigating their way through the crosscurrents and constantly measuring the wind currents.
Going up was simply beautiful because all they would have to do was arch their backs. With wings not fully extended, pulled forward towards and ahead of them, they would ride one of the warm air currents. They would be arched up and back. It was simply incredible to have witnessed this.
There was such utter beauty to their graceful lives. I was simply inspired and moved beyond belief.
At the entrance to the canyon, there was always a fierce, cool wind current that came in off the lush, canopied rainforest. It then spilled into the canyon and fell, immediately circling the periphery of the near-circular canyon on its way to the bottom.
It was interesting to fathom how these wind currents were used. If one wanted to get to the very built-up metropolis, at the peak of the Machu Pichu-like mount, one had to ride the winds down further than the top of the peak.
One then moved away from the periphery of the canyon, which at that level was the sloped up encircling mountain range, thereby entering the warm updraughts. Thus one was then able to soar one’s way back up towards the central mount’s peak or anywhere on its incline to the top.
Conversely, when returning from the peak way below to one’s portalled dwelling in the rock face, one rode the warm currents for considerably higher than the level of the portal to the desired dwelling. Then, as below, the shift was made circling outwards to catch the downward circulation of cooler winds.
Thus one got down to the desired portal on the periphery of the counterbalanced wind currents. This was a truly marvellous and orderly mode of travelling. Everywhere that one looked, there were innumerable winged extra-humans gracefully circling. They were either going upwards or flying downwards.
Looking down to the canyon floor below, I could see the effects of the turbulent storms from the way trees on the central mount and mountains were being swayed and effortlessly snapped. This awareness arrived at after having noticed that, all of a sudden, there were not as many of the winged simians flying through the air.
It was a really violent storm that heavily imprinted on the lush rainforest way below. At one point, looking down, I got the thrill of my life on seeing this particular giant mango tree.
I was immediately energised by it. It so reminded me of the mango tree that I had planted. It made me wonder if, in fact, this experience was not inspired by that wonderful act of selfless sharing that had moved me to have planted that mango seed from Nevis which resulted in the mango tree.
It was quite beautiful to have seen and it proved rather calming in the process. These extra-human little men kept their long black hair tied back in ponytails – both males and females actually.
The women carried their young on their backs during flight. It would seem, from the commonality, that they bore twins each pregnancy. There was a lot of screaming and screeching – their screeching, interestingly, sounded like that of birds of prey rather than a humanoid register.
Rather high-pitched were their cries. This was the case for both sexes. The screams occurred when, sometimes down close to the canyon’s bottom, they would be caught in a violent gust and sent crashing through the air. The winds, during this storm, were very, very turbulent.
They never did crash to the ground but the initial displacement elicited the piercing screams. They would then quickly recover after a sudden drop of a few hundred feet. Then again, this could very well have been a form of sport to ride the stormy winds – akin to surfing the waves during a hurricane.
This was the initial reason why I had become terrified because, on having witnessed this, I had suddenly become aware of my own vulnerability. Although I knew that it was a dream and I therefore could fly, I was still afraid to have possibly found myself caught in one of those violent gusts that slapped one into an air pocket.
I had freaked out when thinking that it was soon enough going to happen, up here at these heights, yet here was I without wings. If I were to have attempted to fly, this undoubtedly meant that I would crash to the ground.
It was at that point that, as my fears were unwittingly telepathically projected, the unusually tall, White extra-human male had come and lovingly extended me his hand.
The height of this man suggested that, although he looked human-enough, he just may have been like all others aboard the arriving shuttle not human but an extra-human.
He had courageously taken me by the hand, around the corner of the massive stone pillars, to the safety of one of the many portalled abodes’ interior.
On entering, it was as though you were inside a building. The cave immediately sloped down with the cool stone wall concavely carved out to the floor that was some feet below. There was a gangplank walkway, directly from the perpetually open portal, to the main floor sunken a bit lower than the entrance.
This feature was so that when the perpetually cool winds entered the portal they would then, following the line of the sloping interior, fall into this deep trough that encircled the entire parametres of the dwelling.
Somehow, the wind would then be used here, to create circulation and was recycled inside the dwelling. All throughout, the walls of the dwelling as well as down in the trough, there were tiny swirling-looking portals in the rock which allowed for the winds to be released.
Excess cool winds from unusually strong winds entering, like at present during one of the canyonned metropolis’s fierce storms, were readily dispersed through the tiny swirling-looking rock portals. In this way, you would never have the dwelling inundated by gale force gusts.
This was a very, very intelligently evolved civilisation whose dwellings were very intelligently, functionally designed. It made such perfect sense, on entering, to have seen the trough system.
This was again repeated, at the centre of the circular dwelling, such that you had the creation of counter circulating wind currents indoors as outside in the canyonned civilisation. This was so revolutionary – practicality and functionality perfectly harmonised.
There was a central column on the inside of the dwelling thus making it tepee-like or tent-like, if you like, though it was a pure rock interior. In this particular dwelling whoever the host family was I did not see.
The extra-human man, who had extended his arm to me, was very much wrinkled and very, very skeletal. He was much like that race of people was. I knew it was the same extra-human race as I had encountered, a month earlier, in the dream streets of Sandy Point, St. Kitts.
However, I never did have a face-to-face encounter in this dream as in the first encounter weeks earlier. Nonetheless, I was able to recognise this EH species from the earlier dream.
During the dream, I had total refamiliarisation with the dream – on November 25, 1990 – a month earlier. I was warmed by the remembrance of the lone extra-human’s soulful warm eyes of a month earlier.
Though this was not the case during the course of the dream, I had the sense that from time to time – either seasonally or at controlled times – a mighty river was allowed to enter the canyon by way of the entrance that I had used when in the shuttle craft.
The waterfall would be quite massive and would fall the five-if-not-more miles to the slopes below that formed the civilisation’s agricultural belt. I can’t imagine how beautifully thunderous the sounds of such a towering waterfall would be. This was a truly magical world.
The waterfall would provide added moisture and a fresh clean source of water for the entire canyonned civilisation. I would imagine that during the waterfall the mist it created also would generate temporary cloud systems within the canyon.
This was a most beautiful civilisation.
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Photo: Machu Pichu, Peru.
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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
This dream took place, on Wednesday, December 1, 1993, as the Moon transited Cancer and my second house. It was the fourth dream that day.
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Whilst I was in a restaurant eating, next door and upstairs, a very noisy aerobics class was underway. Merlin and I were together seated, alone at a deuce, by the café’s large storefront windows.
To protest all the noise that was coming from the class upstairs, he got up and went next-door. I had been with Merlin, admiringly looking on, as he tucked into his food.
Whilst it struck my right, the light flooding in through the window struck his left profile. He had also been admiringly looking at me as we both ate.
It was so warm between us. Very lucidly, I could see his left eye being wonderfully illumined by the intense sunlight.
Immediately outside the door to the café, where we sat at a deuce, was a large awning such that the light striking our faces was being reflected up off the street. The light was so gloriously soft and soul-caressing that it made Merlin look as if ethereal.
I suppose it is an apt descriptive of where he is in his discarnate, between-lives state as an astral plane habitué. He was not wearing a hat.
Merlin was beautifully coiffed with a handsome healthy moustache and a full beard. His hair was so clean. The lighting left him looking as if porcelain-skinned.
Goodness, this was such a clean and wholesome image of Merlin. What was really coming through, however, was the purity of his soul itself.
When he returned, he had a book with him as well as the Sunday New York Times. Before coming back, as he passed outside before the window, he warmly smiled in at me.
Then Merlin did the most magical of things… he extended me the paper. Whereas I thought that he was simply showing me that he had gotten the newspaper, a copy of the coveted Sunday New York Times, he simply pushed the paper through the thick pane of glass.
Until then, the pane of glass was a very real and solid barrier to the outside. Whilst moving through the seemingly immalleable medium, it slowly did so as if in slow-motion through a stilled, aquatic medium.
*Merlin, the shaman, was weaving his magic yet again. This was such a sublime moment. Here, he was exerting that formidable will of his and impressing me with his magic.
How could I not have fallen in love… all over again? I sat there being totally blown away. I knew too that Merlin’s reason for doing this was how very much he simply loved being with me.
As we had been sitting there together, he had warmed me throughout with the same familiar quiet glow that he exhibited each time – in the waking state – that we had taken a meal together. Now here was he repaying me with this gentle loving caress.
I immediately realised that he had used the excuse of going to complain about the noise, from the aerobics class upstairs and next door, to weave his magic. He had stopped off to get himself a book but also to present me with the one gift that I loved having, on Sundays, when we lived together.
To really impress how much he truly valued our love, Merlin weaved his magic by shoving the paper through the fabric of space – matter, dimensions. It was much like that sword which made its way through into my solar plexus in the dreams, of Sunday, September 4, 1988VIII.
This is how Merlin chose to impress on my memory, how very real and very important, his being there with me was. Merlin loved me and from time to time, just as he had promised prior to passing, he chose to send me some soul-warming postcards from the voyage up ahead on which he had set out before me.
Merlin was intent on getting through to me and how handsomely he succeeded in doing so. How utterly sublime this moment was.
It was such a wickedly clever and sly bit of magic. All that I could do was dissolve in soulful laughter, accepting and solidifying my love for him, whilst gladly taking the paper from him – gladly accepting the gift of his love for me.
Of course, Merlin knew that I would not be taken aback by his shoving the Sunday New York Times through the thick pane of glass. After all, many were the dreams that I had shared with him when incarnate of myself effortlessly moving through walls, panes of glass et al.
Naturally, this ability of mine is readily validated in the dreams of both Thursday, September 12, 1996(29) and Saturday, August 10, 1991(23). In said dreams, I was able to effortlessly move through walls and panes of glass thereby betraying my own magus abilities.
He was one magus betraying his confidence and knowledge of my own magus nature. It was a most beautiful way of validating our being kindred spirits. END.
I sat there eating, becoming more lucidly awakened, realising the impactfulness of what Merlin had just done. Seated there, alone, I waited for him to come back through the doors and join me.
By now I had stopped eating, whilst presently he returned and sat down slyly glancing across at me. Merlin wore that same self-deprecating, though precocious, grin that had won us all over his lifelong in the waking state.
Joining me anew, he directly looked into me, he did nothing but smile. It was the most serene smile. It was the conspiratorial smile of the magus, the transcended… Merlin.
Merlin and I share a connection that is born at the level of soul. This much is true, we know each other. He looked at me, as if to say,
“I really know who you are, kiddo….”
Alas, that truly was a very warming, beautiful and marvellous thing. He was contented because whatever he has since learnt, for being in the discarnate state that he is in, has validated what he has always privately declared that he has suspected about me.
It was a great intimacy that we shared.
We sat there making love and dancing soul-to-soul. Merlin and I knew that no time and no one could eclipse a love so real. Ours was love born of the soul and the love of two trusty, companionable old friends.
*Strangely enough, with the passing of this dream, I did not awaken as is customary.120
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Photo: The New York Times.
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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Each time one makes the choice to walk, to become removed from it all, signals a new plateau in one’s spiritual maturation. This next dream betrays just such a new plateau ascended to.
The Moon was then transiting Pisces and my tenth house. It was Saturday, March 12, 1994. The dream in question was the first one that day. It proved a most illuminating and thus transformative dream…
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I was in a tiny wooden house at night time looking outdoors. The tiny log cabin was quite cosy and ancient. Pandora was in the cottage with me.
Lots of Black, wonderfully-spirited playful children were about enjoying themselves. They were so sweet and refreshingly grounded. I did so notice that they were exceptionally tiny and looked almost like Pygmy children though not.
Their heads were unusually large with that extended skull in back that’s decidedly African – much like Pharaoh Akhenaten’s was. They wore pyjamas. Some of the children were already asleep.
I gathered up the children who were awake and got them readied for bed. When I was done, I returned to the large window. I looked outside the window enjoying the platinum moonlight.
Just beyond the lone log cabin, large, soulful moss-covered cedars were everywhere. In addition, there were thick-leaved trees that looked cactus-like.
Clearly, they were fir trees of some sort. They were strikingly beautiful. Too, there were lots of large ferns which looked like they were from pre-historic times.
To the left of my field of vision, as I looked out the window, I noticed the Moon rising. This was obviously to the east as I faced due south. When close to the horizon, the Moon was massively oversized. It was a most beautiful mélange of salmon and pink tonalities.
To have experienced the Moon’s slow hypnotic ascension was the most rapturous adage. It was as though hearing Richard Strauss‘s Viennese waltz being played considerably slowed down. It was the most sensually exquisite sensation.
This was not unlike the slow-motioned suspension, when he was on morphine during points in his end-of-life illness, that I witnessed Merlin experiencing. I was left feeling as though on the edge of where time ceases to exist.
Rapture! I was experiencing fusion with nature. I was experiencing love.
I was as if outside of myself and at one with the soul aspect, which the august Moon represented, in this very totemic dream. With the Moon’s ascent, my senses became oceanic and expansive. I was psychically blown wide-open and receptive.
As Luna rose in the sky, I could see that in through the trees its size did not really shrink. As it climbed high in the sky, away from the horizon, it did not seemingly shrink to its usual size.
There was definitely something quite different about this moon. As it approached the zenith, I increasingly felt more grounded. I felt, in fact, splayed in place by its massiveness.
I felt no apprehension, however. The massive Moon’s warm face seemed to be intimately smiling at me. It had a great deal of presence about it.
Straight away, I was reminded of the Moon’s ensouled quality, as I experienced it in the dreams of early September 1983 whilst living and not very successfully pursuing a dance career in New York City.
There was no mistaking the fact that the Moon, here in this dream, was an ensouled entity with a presence all its own. Ascending higher still, it lost its fiery tonalities and eventually became a blazingly platinum orb.
It was a beautiful full Moon. Whilst standing there, I watched transfixed as it began expanding. On having crossed 45 degrees of arc, it lyrically inched towards the zenith and seemed to wax larger even more.
Instead of seeming to diminish in size, on moving away from the horizon, Luna began growing pregnant. There was something creatively fecund about Luna with each degree of arc to which it ascended.
The closer to the midnight position it grew, the more pregnant it became. It was so beautiful to have experienced, yet, I was still surprised at how very large it kept on getting.
Goodness, when it was at 60 degrees of arc, it had grown at least four times as large as the normal full Moon. I was completely in awe of its beauty.
I was spellbound; my soul itself was lit up by the intense, though soft, silver-white light that drenched the entire area. Consequently, the log cabin’s interior was being soaked throughout by the intense flooding light.
At about 80 degrees of arc, the massive beauteous Moon came to a stop. For an infinite pause, Luna hovered in the sky. Totally enraptured, I reached out my soul itself to dance with this beauteous Moon.
Suddenly, my slow dance was abruptly ended when the Moon novaed. It was the most incredible, beautiful mind-expanding experience.
This was not a case of the Moon exploding. It was a spiritual birthing. It was an unfoldment in which the mind and spirit were harmonised to experience a transformation that was truly transcendent.
This was so unexpected that it was liberating to have experienced it. The Moon’s quiet seduction had been so complete that, when it novaed so entranced was I at that point, it proved not to have been a traumatic experience.
This was sheer bliss. Luna, goddess of the night, had novaed. More importantly, the soul aspect – which the Moon here represented – was directly manifesting to me.
I was reminded of the enlightened face that I saw, when pulling back from Merlin’s head in my cupped-handed embrace, in the lucid vision on July 23, 1988.
I was so lucidly focussed that I experienced the nova in exquisite slow-motion. As a matter of fact, I think that the Moon’s nova may well have been in slow-motion. Looking on spellbound, I watched as the fragmented Moon radiated outwards… all 360 degrees.
As a result, pieces of the novaed Moon were directly headed towards Earth. Resultantly, it seemed that there was one large piece of jettisoned Moon meteor directly headed towards me.
Now everything resumed in normal waking state time. The intensity of the shift was overwhelming. Too, the breakneck speeds of the Luna fragments were phenomenal.
The impact of this astrophysical episode was devastating. The spatial flux created by Luna’s nova was, if you like, tantamount to a localised solar system tsunami.
The fabric of space about Luna, as it were, became suddenly warped. This resulted in a rippling magnetic wave from the nova’s epicentre.
The jarring intensity only lasted for a moment, however, before that I had experienced the nova in timeless slow-motion. I was so detached and expansive that I began lucidly experiencing the event, to the point where I was able to isolate each moment of the event, simultaneously viewing it from various perspectives.
Again, to the analogy to the Viennese waltz, it was as though I were able to experience a fugue within each note of the slowed down waltz. Mind-alteringly intense this was. This truly was bliss.
This was, for me, absolute fusion with the soul of self – plain and simple. It was truly a sensory high.
Next, the whole place became totally flooded with pure white light. Never before had I seen or, more to the point, experienced white light of such an ecstatic intensity.
The light seared through all of nature. Everything became a sponge which it flooded, soaked and arrested with its aqueous beauty.
Nature became sodden and expansive. I could feel the arboreal giants about the log cabin respond. They were as if soaked by a perpetual downpour, for the last few days, as a result of being exposed to the Moon’s novaed light.
Even the log cabin had become x-rayed, as it were, by the light’s intensity. Too, my body – indeed my entire being – had been infused with the light’s unstoppable power.
That power unmistakably was Love. To have experienced the light, flooding through my body, was akin to flying at great speeds whilst standing erect.
Whilst standing legs akimbo, all that I could do was hold on to the window frame. I braced myself against being overwhelmed by this tsunami of love.
As the experience grew in intensity, I was slapped from my inner rapture by the sound of everyone screaming aloud. All across the globe, humanity was being displaced by the effects of Luna having novaed.
Rushing through the tiny house, I went to look after the tiny kids who were understandably afraid. As they had been asleep by that point, they were not aware of what was taking place.
Soon Pandora joined me and together, we went about busily gathering up the kids. Some of the kids had even been sleeping in cupboards, which Pandora had reminded me of, inside the tiny cabin.
She had yelled at me to go get the kids in the cupboards. When we went to look out the window, I now saw that the one-hundred-foot-plus redwoods were being effortlessly blown over.
It was as though they were miniature trees on a scaled version of the town. As if it was a movie set that was being filmed, it looked as though the trees were experiencing a great storm of violent magnitude.
Of course, in such a situation, the trees would have been scaled down and miniaturised. The intensity of the interplanetary tsunami, created by Luna’s nova, began violently snapping the trees.
This was the effect when the magnetic wave had finally reached Earth. This was a truly cathartic experience.
Throughout the experience, however, I was never fearful. I simply got caught up in the rapture of the moment and allowed myself to ride the thrilling crest of intense sensations.
The windstorm, that the novaed Moon affected, was beyond anything fathomable in the waking state. It sounded as if a couple of freight trains were barrelling along, on either side of the log cabin, travelling at speeds in excess of 300 mph.
The fierce windstorms simultaneously occurred across the globe. They were created as Earth was being momentarily thrown off its axis.
Luna’s nova had created a spatial magnetic wave that shook Earth to its core. All over the planet, soon enough, there were actual tsunamis.
With Luna’s reduced size, the tides were no longer predictable. Whilst the planet rotated off its axis, in some cases, the seas became transformed.
As a result, the unstable oceans became giant waterspouts. In some instances, the displaced oceans were pulled heavenward into outer space.
This created walls of ocean which rose into the air – nothing was secure anymore – total pandemonium and tectonic instability. The Earth’s gravity had become completely destabilised.
Across the globe, oceans drastically rose. Still, in some altitudes as though in outer space, one was able to experience weightlessness.
Off in the distance, I could make out a distant ocean, shooting into outer space. It looked not unlike a giant geyser. The oceans were becoming as if reversed waterspouts. Truly fantastical!
Before being pulled back to Earth by gravity, they had risen up only so far. Even though considerably weakened, there was still some gravity. The crashing oceans led everywhere to the fiercest rainstorms.
Of course, for being briny rainwater, it meant that there would be widespread damage to most of the rained on vegetation. There was also massive flooding everywhere.
The interesting thing about the energies here was that one sensed that the lunar effects on humanity, in particular women, were now radically altered.
With Luna’s nova, I became aware that until the transformation women had been subjugated by men. This was largely affected by the influence of the Moon on them physiologically and psychologically.
Before my eyes, outside the house, I saw women transformed. They were now as if giants. They were truly warrior-spirited.
I think that the symbolism, inasmuch as I believe in such a thing as dream symbolism, of this dream was two-fold.
Not only was it about a spiritual awakening; it also gave insights to the imminent climax between male-female sexual tensions. These transformed women were now as if men; no longer were they to be physically overpowered by men.
Luna transformed allowed women, especially with regards to sexual matters, to no longer be at a physical disadvantage to men.
This does speak to a psychic revolution. Although, I do believe, the feminist movement with its mercantile edge has gone about this revolution the wrong way.
The current approach has ultimately charged women’s animus to the detriment of women’s health. There was an almost cannibalistic sensibility to these transformed women in the dreamtime.
One could easily see these Amazons, performing double mastectomies so that they could, take on any foe unhindered. This is not the psychic revolution that one would hope for.
There is little spiritual uplift, anywhere discernible, with women emerging as the transvestite’s beau idéal. These were such strong domineering women.
Each of them was in excess of seven feet tall. They were each mythic and statuesque. They appeared monstrous, nonetheless, for being so animus-charged.
It was clear, too, that women were no longer regulated by the Luna cycle. The fragmented Moon had lost much of its tidal effect on Gaia and all its life-forms.
Women were now roaming the Earth as if stark raving mad, to be sure, the ultimate feminist wet dream. One thing that I picked up on, about these women, was that they had developed large distended clits and labia.
This did, however, cause me on awakening to ponder whether what I had been seeing were not members of a new hybrid human sex. That is to say, post Luna’s nova, the human race had no defined sex.
Quite simply, there were persons with both sexual organs that were fully functional. Perhaps, post Luna’s nova, there was one or more gender changes that were naturally occurring during the course of newly hybrid human life.
Beyond all that angst, there was finally a moment of calm.
Everything simply ceased to be in a state of maddening flux. There had been incredible Earthquake activity across the globe that accompanied all this lunar instability.
To make sure that the kids were alright, I then moved through the tiny log cabin. I neither saw Pandora again nor, for that matter, the kids.
Once more, I returned to the window to gaze into the sky. On stepping before the window pane, I let out a sigh of wonderment at the sight of the Moon.
Now, the experience had shifted onto an even higher octave. By far, this would prove the most beautiful aspect of the dream.
Now, Luna was reduced to a third of its original size. It was now a much smaller Moon. Around the novaed Moon, securely hugged in its orbit in a clockwise rotation, was a Luna ring. A small number of the Luna asteroids were caught in an elliptical orbit but for the most part they were mostly in an equatorial orbit.
The ring was created from the large fragments of Moon rock which had not been lost in outer space. They had not been large enough to have escaped Luna’s orbital gravity – such as it is.
After the initial pulsation of the nova, the larger rocks fell back towards the novaed Moon. Some crashed back onto Luna’s surface but others were caught in a ring that orbited the scaled down satellite.
Some undoubtedly had fallen out of Luna’s orbit. No doubt, some Luna meteors had crashed into Earth. The Luna meteors only added to the tectonic instability here on Earth.
The majority of the lunar meteors that fell back towards Luna formed an orbital ring. It was a ring of asteroids that was held in place by Earth’s greater gravity.
The lunar asteroids that formed the ring were the most beautiful sight imaginable. Luna was, of course, still full.
The uneven, jagged Luna asteroids were now reflecting Sol light. They created a perpetually sparkling ring of light that was truly kaleidoscopic.
In its expressionism and spiritual evolution, humanity had ascended to a higher octave. It had been dramatically affected by Luna’s nova.
Humanity’s ascension was adequately reflected by the sight and harmonic vibration of the transformed Luna. It was truly musical and created greater attunement to one’s spiritual nature. It was rhapsodic.
To have experienced the ringed Luna was like the most ticklish whisper of hushed strings. Whilst each jagged Luna asteroid brilliantly glistened, each triggered a musical resonance deep within for having experienced its singular beauty. Bliss!
Just as bright as the full Moon, the orbital lunar asteroids were a blazing dash of sparkling twinkling colours. Slowly rotating about Luna, the orbital lunar asteroid ring reflected Sol’s light.
I can’t say enough how beautiful this was. Still, there was the added element of the ethereal with the twinkling ring of Luna asteroids. This created a sublime and truly hypnotic effect.
I can’t see how, if this were to happen in the waking state, we as humankind could emerge unaffected. There is no way that we would not become a better and a more harmonious people.
All this spiritual and physiological evolution thanks to Luna’s new inspiration which, in turn, would greatly enhance humanity’s more evolved qualities.
Quite simply, this was the most glorious stellar sight imaginable. It was as if there were souls dancing around the transformed Moon.
Luna, it seemed, now served as a nebulous portal that signified our passage into a new humanity. A new humanity of greater consciousness and harmony this would facilitate. At least, so I would like to think…
This was so arrestingly beautiful a sight. This paradigm shift was precisely the kind of revolutionary idea which, in one’s wildest imaginings, could not have been fathomed whilst in the waking state.
Even though it was now diminished in size, one had the distinct impression of the Moon that it had fallen from its orbit. Than previously it had been, Luna was now in closer proximity to Earth.
I wondered as to what this would mean, for womankind in particular, when Luna was now reduced and ringed with tiny satellites of its own.
I pondered whether or not this had anything to do with human sexual politics, as it were, rather than the maturation of the soul aspect on a personal level.
There was no denying, however, that this was clearly the ushering in of a new age… and high time. Certainly, all this mercantilist dreck has long served its purposefulness.
I was quite so lucid, standing there before the window pane, observing and pondering so many possible ramifications of all this exciting transformation.
On looking back up at the transformed Luna, I was blown away by this birthing and expansiveness of consciousness – this glorious paradigm shift.
On closing my lids, to better drink in the beauty of the brilliant light’s touch all over my body, I was lucidly drawn awake.
*Luna transformed was as if a much more dense satellite. Newly reborn, Luna had a halo of light-intense orbiting fragments.
These orbital lunar fragments gave the effect of them being a giant necklace of diamonds that were handsomely setting off the newest and most beauteous face in Sol’s orbit – Luna novaed and transformed. END.
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Photo: Full Moon digitally enhanced.
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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Exactly one year later, after those momentous dreams wherein Merlin imparted me his sword of empowerment, I would have dreams of uplifting grandeur. These ones, however, were of a vastly different thematic nature.
These dreams involved travels in consciousness which took me to another world. This dream further validates how lucky were Merlin and I to have found each other in this world. Indeed, how lucky are all lovers to find each other anywhere in the vast expanse of the cosmos.
The dream occurred, on Monday, September 9, 1989, while the Moon then transcended both Libra and my fifth house.
I get onto an airplane that I thought was a Boeing 737 – it seemed narrow-bodied like one. It had two seats on either side of the aisle which was, unusually so, very wide.
The aisle was lower than the platforms on which the seats sat. The windows of this craft were quite large.
There was a White woman down the aisle who was going on and on about having lost her luggage. On closer inspection, she seemed more High-Yellow than White.
She also had the same unusually long torso as the man of a couple of dreams back. There was a flight attendant wearing white and he was obviously impatient with her.
When I looked out the window, I thought that I was looking towards the front of the aircraft. Then the flight attendant said to everyone who was standing, me included,
“Will you please take your seats, the aircraft is moving.”
I hurried to take my seat but noticed that the seats were facing in the opposite direction to what I had assumed was the front of the craft.
I was close to the front, at a window seat, with Pandora also at a window seat in the row behind me. There was a window for every seat.
There was a large space by the large open area, which had no seats in it, up ahead. The entire spacecraft’s interior was silver-grey. There was a bath cabin-like area and the lines inside this craft were very smooth and round… seamless.
Everything blended, everything melded into each other. There were large doors that led to the area ahead of what I thought was the cockpit. However, it was an unusually large door which sat at the end of the wide aisle.
Then I thought to myself,
‘But why isn’t the plane moving?’
However, when I looked outside, I saw that the landscape had low trees like at most airports. I also noticed that the wing was rather low, in fact, way down the fuselage.
Closer inspection revealed that the craft had three wings in all. They were not very long wings, though very wide, preventing you from looking down to the ground below when aloft. Your only view was distant and above.
I looked off and saw the tarmac where there was an aircraft. It was moving so slowly that I thought that it was coming to a halt before throttling up and then barrelling down the runway to take off.
However, this was the speed at which the aircraft was moving owing to the perspective of the flight that we were on. We were going south – I intuitively knew as much.
I assumed that since I was with Pandora that we were going back to Paris to investigate her lost luggage. Perhaps, I thought, we were going south down to St. Croix… just taking a trip. It was rather an unusual craft.
I did then look out of the aircraft after the male attendant, now wearing a blue jacket, had had a spat with the High-Yellow argumentative woman – she still hadn’t yet taken a seat.
The window had arched up to the ceiling of the craft thus I could hardly see where the male attendant had gone to. Obstructing a direct view of the entire cabin, the walls of the craft were round.
He also had an extra-long torso and wore greyish, off-white pants. Come to think of it, he was not audibly speaking – it was all telepathic such that telepathy was the in-flight PA system mode.
I thought it unusual that, here we were, the plane was ascending with clouds drifting past yet at no point had there been any sensation of motion. Nonetheless, the land was tilted way below dropping back rapidly with these heavy-looking wintry clouds cutting past us.
I thought that this was most unusual. There was also no flight attendant giving us instructions. Then I thought,
‘My god I’m not even wearing my seatbelts.’
I then quickly buckled up, the cream-coloured seatbelts, further settling into the large black seat. Next, a female flight instructor came and instructed everyone on how to use the seatbelts as these were very complicated ones.
It had two sets of buckles which you had to put in at the top. When you did so, it seemed like it was locked but it wasn’t.
You had to press down really hard, three times, before it would finally snap into place. The number of presses actually was part of its locking code.
I did as she was doing and, sure enough, it snapped into place. On the underside of the buckle there was another lock system. It was that one which you had to rotate clockwise and at that point you were then locked in.
This safety belt system also, I noticed, had straps that went between the legs. I was concerned because I thought that if we were to impact I wouldn’t fare very well – my seatbelt was quite loose.
Too, it was then when I noticed that the seatbelt just did not go around the waist – it also went and strapped into the seat between the legs so that you couldn’t get up during flight.
As she was talking, I also noticed that the underside of the belt was cream with red horizontal stripes. She was describing things and that’s when I clued in again that, like the male attendant, she was also not speaking aloud.
What she was saying was being telepathically shared… most unusual. Truth be told, this was most unusual.
Next, when again I did look out the window, I saw that down to my right were all these stars. Against the very unusual blackness of space outside, the stars were visible yet it wasn’t nighttime when we took off.
In a sea of reddish-pink light that turned to purple, millions and millions of stars there were. In certain places, this light was mauve rather than pink or purple.
It had a shadow to it and it turned out to look exactly like the horse head nebula, Barnard 33, in the star system we refer to as the Orion constellation. You could clearly distinguish the neck and the head of a horse.
It was then that it occurred to me that that was what the Orion nebula looked like. I was passing over a nebula!
I took my Chinese-motif-covered, dream diary book, from the waking state, and placed it up towards the window. I was looking up into the sky, thinking that maybe I would see the Moon there, seeing that we had now cleared the clouds. It had all of a sudden gotten very dark out.
Here again, I saw different star constellations than those with which one is normally familiar. I knew, then and there, that this was not a Boeing 737.
At that, I looked back to the woman whose look suggested that she knew then that I had realised what was going on.
In one cluster of the cloud-like nebula, in the northeastern sector of it, there was a large, large cluster of stars that were encircled. They were circled such that they seemed, en masse, to be like a ringed planet.
This unique ‘world of stars’ was silhouetted against the deep, rich blackness of deep space. It was like a ringed planet but was really a cluster of stars – a galaxy. Then I thought excitedly,
‘Whoa what’s going on here?’
Here we were and I was thinking that we were travelling so slowly such that I had even grown fearful for the aircraft. I was thinking that we were moving much too slowly and that we would never make it on time. I had even been saying as much to Pandora.
However, when I looked out the aircraft again, we were still rising. Now we were passing over a wintry intersection. You could even hear the cars outside as they drove through the intersection.
We were very unusually low and I thought,
‘This plane is not rising fast enough. I’m not hearing engines. What’s going on?’
Then as we were going, we were still rising but were now coming into a developed area that was like a housing project. It had townhouses that were unusually high-ceilinged.
I thought that we were going to have to go upwards or we were not going to make it. I got somewhat frantic. However, the craft soon landed without incident.
There was a guy outside the craft who was clearly a local. He was White and exceptionally blond. He looked distinctly Polish.
He had an unusually long torso and short legs – not just short comparable to his extra-long torso but even squat as compared to the legs of a normal six-foot tall human male.
He approached us and said that he could take us where we were headed. He insisted that he could do it real fast, as it were, faster than this old thing.
Of course, he was referring by ‘old thing’ to our craft that had just crossed deep space at light speeds. I realised, at that point, that what had happened was that I had left Earth and had travelled into interstellar space.
So when I was seeing that intersection with snow on the ground and cars, and so on, it was not Earth but another planet altogether. Then there overhead passed a plane.
It was like the one that we had just travelled interstellar space in, with the three wings, except that it wasn’t a plane. It was like the fuselage of a plane that had been sliced in half, sealed, covered and made into a little shuttle vehicle.
The craft moved quite slowly and silently through the sky. It was the same greyish colour as the one that I had arrived in. I thought,
‘Indeed, we’re really not in Kansas anymore…’
I remember at that point that Isadore da Braga and Angelica Ponce-da Braga, his wife, had gone to Montréal. I thought that, by now, they would definitely have gotten there before we would.
We were waiting because this was a stopover. It really wasn’t our destination. The guy was being really insistent saying to Pandora,
“Come on, I can get you there in no time at all. In fact, you can get there in time.”
From the way he enunciated time, I knew that he meant that he had the capacity to fold space and time. In that way, he could get us to our destination on time.
He was confident that he could do so and even faster than if we had gone there directly by conventional Earthly means. I interjected by politely declining. I let him know that we would rather wait… it was quite okay,
“Please, just leave us alone. We’re really not interested. Pandora just wants her luggage.”
I turned to her and added,
“Let’s just hurry up and get out of this place.”
We were walking down this ramp where the plane-cum-EHV (extra-human vehicle), that we had arrived on, was obviously inside the terminal that he had motioned to. The flight attendants were in the terminal and were waiting for us to be refuelled before moving on.
The local guy then came around again. This time, however, he launched into a verbal attack,
“You’re stupid. You’re not coming with me and you’re insulting me. Come on, you have to go with me.”
He then directly went across, away from me, as though if I were to approach he would attack. However, he was moving as though in slow-motion. Looking at him I thought,
“Oh god he’s going to come up and try to kick me.”
I could actually see it being played out – that is, the probability of this. Seeing the scenario being played out, at one point, I was going to kick him in the balls or something.
Though when he went to do it, since he was moving in slow-motion, I quite quickly – not being native to his local physio-molecular astrophysics – moved out of the way. As a result, he landed hard on the ground.
It was too bad for him that I was, for being extra-human on his world, possessed of super-swift ambulatory skills that outmatched his. I then went and grabbed him.
With that, I spun his body around on itself – his body was able to fully spin around on itself because of the extra vertebrae spine. Sure enough, he became corkscrewed.
I took his head and started banging it into the ground. Soon, his face got bloody. His unusually turned up, little retroussé nose got bloody.
*Though I find the retroussé look most unappealing, on this EH it was truly hideous. It was not a nose like Earthly humans’ when retrousséd.
Though his eyes were not fear-based, however, the look of the archly retrousséd nose gave an almost frightful and even austere look to him and his EH kind. They were not necessarily violent an extra-human species either.
There was no way of knowing, for another thing, whether for looking like a twenty-something Earthly human that he was not a centuries-old, extra-human local. END.
I thought then, ‘My goodness, here I am in alien territory and I have committed a crime. This may be an offence worthy of being sentenced to death.’
I knew that I had overstepped some diplomatic lines. Immediately, we had to re-board the spacefaring craft and get out of there.
I grabbed Pandora and we began heading towards the spacecraft, at which point, holding her hand I willed myself awake – my intentions were to spirit us both out of there.
*The slowness and sweetness of moving in this spacefaring craft was incredible. Being in interstellar space and seeing Orion’s horse head nebula was captivating.
The colours were very beautiful. As these colours represented the explosion and birth of multiple billions of stars, they were intense beyond imagination.
You really had a sense of the liquid blackness of space – the cold starkness of it. It was quite nice. It was like moving through a very slow-moving, liquid dimensional sea.
I would like to add that when I awoke, more than two hours after I had fallen asleep, I still laid on my back. All the crystals were still in place as they were when I fell asleep.
This is most unusual, for two hours of sleep.
Also, when I awoke, I was aware of my body being there… still and motionless. I then had the sensation of starting to breathe again.
The sensation of breathing was one of discovery. It was an exciting event.
To feel my body expanding and contracting with each breath inhaled and exhaled, it proved an excitingly interesting discover. On awakening, it was quite simply one of the most thrilling moments of my life.
I had been so under, so deeply submerged up past the moist wet folds of sleep’s embrace, that my body had simply shut down to a shallow breath every now and again.
I had been cetaceous, in that sense, during the course of the two hours of sleep and deep spacefaring dreams. While dreaming, ever so often as it were, I would surface for a breath.
Before I fell asleep, I was also meditating. I had called on the white light. I then saw a large sea of clear crystals that were of different sizes.
They were all pointing upwards from this valley. Beneath the crystals was a pool of pure white light… it glowed. I gravitated towards it.
This happened after I called on the pure white light to come and protect me. I have never had that experience before. It was rather nice.
I found the extra-human on his home world, somehow, just a bit too eager to have us come off on some diversionary excursion with him. It had not been part of our itinerary.
Besides, who knows if his species or a fellow species were into enslaving Earthly humans? Perhaps, they were even into eating Earthly humans or capturing them.
Who knows, perhaps, they kept Earthly humans for zoological studies? For all you know, he merely wanted to simply sell us off to the local trafficker in Earthly human cargo.
No thanks, ‘Corky’ as in corkscrew-spined one. END.
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Photo: Orion nebula.
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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
This dream occurred, on Monday, December 7, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both my twelfth house – appropriately enough – and Taurus. Merlin my mentor had initiated in me the task of coming into my own and becoming the awakened warrior.
Here was I, dream magus, awakened warrior displaying my power – bonding with nature and bonding with the very force itself. Said dream was the first experienced in exquisite lucidity in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day.
A yard at late twilight when morning breaks, rather than the indeterminate light that pervades astral plane dreams, was the setting for this dream. It seemed pretty much like the backyard of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house.
I was in a tree that looked like a giant bugweed. I stepped out onto one of its branches. Whilst simultaneously in the body and astrally projected, somehow, I could see myself from behind and above.
This dream began as I boldly, in mid-stride, walked towards the large soulful tree. Here, I had incredibly long hair and it was totally white.
The snow-white mane went down to the small of my back. Mine – it was no absurd weave. Full and luscious, it was a massive mane that handsomely flared out.
Here, I met the dream magus within. I held a staff which was very wonderful. It was made of a tanned polished wood. As if something that Bill Reid would bring forth from the depths of his creative genius, it was a very sculptural staff.
Like a totem, the staff had lots of symbols throughout its length. In some of the grooves, there were several large crystals with some of various colours. Like Merlin did, in our first dream encounter of 1978I, I wore a long, white flowing robe that billowed in the wind.
Whilst radiating much of my inner light, I was very regal. This was a moment of stellar beauty; too, the sight of myself empowered blew me away. It was so humbling.
I had a long beard and drooping moustache. It was also white and considerably longer than Merlin’s facial hair ever was. As a matter of fact, it was like the flowing, wispy beards of some Japanese and East Asian holy men.
On going out to the edge of the branch, I stabbed my staff into the tree and let out a war cry. Almost immediately thereafter, a fierce wind picked up. It was gale-forced.
The sky became blackened with mushrooming, heavy grey clouds. The branch, on which I stood, was no more than four feet off the ground. The winds were so fierce that it felt as though I were out to sea.
I regally stayed my ground as though the captain at the bow of a galleon – one being swept by fierce waves.
Whilst anchored on the branch, all I held on to was the staff. With my free hand, I held on to a branch on the left – of course, the branches moved with a life of their own.
The tree was partially submerged in the gut that bordered the back of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts property. Looking across the gut, I had been facing due north.
The winds were so fierce that I could never see to the other side of the gut. What’s more, it was a much wider gorge than Crab Hill’s. Besides which, I had no time to project that far.
For one thing, the winds were too fierce and for another, the task of staying atop this branch proved far too demanding. This wind was fiercer than anything I had ever experienced.
The saving grace of it all was that it was not, thankfully, a wintry wind. The funny thing about the whole experience was that I had called forth the elements to energise my being.
So in tune with nature was I, I was able to summon the gale-force winds at will. I wished to align with nature’s empowering, life-sustaining energies. I was fiercely enjoying the charge from it screaming aloud and becoming transfixed.
It truly was as if being stationary whilst flying at hyper-speeds in an upright position. Thus there was the dual sense of being not only on the high seas but also as if riding on a magic carpet.
There was one point that, as I screamed into the wind, I immediately then saw my face from above. Whilst simultaneously astral-projected, I was looking down into my face as I looked up into the billowing clouds.
Beyond those clouds, there was some spectacular planet-being; it was much like the one that I thrillingly encountered in the dream earlier this year, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992.
This was quite an exhilarating experience. I felt a massive surge of energy flowing through the staff and into me. The staff was marvellously potent.
The look of the staff was a mélange of the creative geniuses of the artists, Bill Reid, Antoni Gaudí and Erté. A very shamanic, magical totem it was.
My face was so high-foreheaded and timeworn. A face that had spanned several millennia, to date, it certainly was. More than that, there they were my familiar, papaya-seed-succulent brown eyes. Here, they were large, supra-dilated eyes.
Looking down, I noticed that the branch was no more than eight inches across. This had caused me to passingly fear having to lose my balance and falling.
Having the staff I was, however, quite anchored.
I was grounded within the eye of the storm itself. Though there was no lightning, there was a definite sense that a great deal of potent magic was exploding in back of the ominous clouds.
I had a ton of energy. I was a fierce, spiritual warrior-spirited shaman.
*Indeed, the dream magus was awakened. This was the most beautiful experience to have had – to have drunk of my very soul itself. Though an older version of myself in this lifetime, this shamanic dream magus was also a mélange of the two shamans whom I had been in previous lives.
These two shamans were encountered in the dreams of Sunday, April 25, 1993 and the other shaman in the dreams of Sunday, April 10, 1993. There was something about my face, in this dream, which was informed by the look and vibration of both the shamans encountered in these two prior dreams.
The first shaman, a past life of mine, had lived in French Guyana at the colonial fortress and cared for the community. Additionally, he tended to monkeys and sloths.
The other was a West African shaman and also a definite past life of mine. He, of course, took to this cocoon-like mould which was hung in trees when questing. I had seen both their eyes and immediately recognised them as former selves of mine in past lives.
Dreams truly are the poetry of the Soul. END.
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Photo: Angel oak tree.
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© 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.
Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul. 