Astral Projecting Into Dreamtime.

February 6, 2019November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate. In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.

Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s. She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate. Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of. The energy between us was always simpatico. I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.

©Alex Grey

A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city. At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.

Astral Projected Self-Portrait.

Crayola on Paper

What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992. There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra. Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…

*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals. Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness. I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light. It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience.

At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning. All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space. Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded. Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.

Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience. This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken. END.

Dream one. I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here. Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space. I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me. It was most upsetting.

I could not quite figure out what was going on. It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment. By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment. Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake.

However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact. Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right. Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself. The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes.

This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor. Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor. This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex. I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death.

There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see. Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated. I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body. I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body.

At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up. Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body. Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body. Struggling, I pushed against my own body.

It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body. My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed. I simply could not get up. Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.”

It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him. “No, Arvin. I have simply got to get up. I will not suffer this.”

With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed. Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space. Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death. I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were.

Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body. When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there. There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head. This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.

It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed. What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body. It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground.

Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion. Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen. The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body. I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept.

Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment. Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen. It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room. Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge.

Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort. Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food. She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me. I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris.

However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages. It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state. Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking. Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing.

But then she turned and looking into my face said, from under furrowed brows. “Buh chile ah wha rang wid ounu face. Chile yu muss tekk kare ah yur face an ting no man.” At that, she drew closer, putting her hand over my face.

Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…” I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state.

*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state. There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits. Ick! I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache.

Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown. Charmant. This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin. END.

Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face. I was stunned by how realistic it all was. Jan was so protectively nurturing of me. Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances.

She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her. Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it. Thoroughly enjoyed her energy. Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen.

This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes. They were much like the tubes in the old radios. A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery. Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me.

Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.”

“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?”

“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.” Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed. Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system. So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came.

Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space. Very interesting. Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later. She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble.

i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house. Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora. It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before. More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state.

They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway. An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans. I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place. They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has.

A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame. I had been on it before. Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out. I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand.

We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits. The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques. Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space. We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space.

There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use. We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor. Some were even on the wooden bed frame. A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood.

Jan kicked away the shard with her right big toe. When I told her to be careful she boisterously chimed, “Me na kno say ma? Me knoe man, me knoe say ah so de sinting go. Yu ha fe wartch yur self too chile.”

Jan was so refreshingly good to be around. Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit. At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.”

She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.” As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon. I effortlessly moved through them as before.

Dream two. In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight. Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition. In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere. I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever.

The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next. What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door. In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction. It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls.

It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots. With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies. I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio. It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around.

Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper. Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is. Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated. White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red.

Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were. She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit. Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant. Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit.

A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s. Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall. Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style. Functional and comfortable, her criteria.

Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles. On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment. Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.” We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face.

On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek. He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me. Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word. Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller.

He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me. Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual. Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him. There was an obvious, loving bond between us.

This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state. But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul. It was very electric between us. So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating.

I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say. My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready. Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too. Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem.

“And a total embarrassment for this family. I just do not know how we can put up with this. Look, what am I doing here anyway?” Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!

“I’ll have none of this. I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am. I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.” With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were.

“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!” Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this. You own nothing here, nor are you running anything. You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment.

“That’s all you ever do. So shut the fuck up!” I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in. Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted

Dream three. Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there. This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°. Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next. Again, much was different here.

Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time. When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there. Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state. There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief. This was so stunningly incredible. Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body. This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore.

This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane. After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane. This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh. Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators.

We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off. It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism. Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm. Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom.

This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence. These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art. The art of pure creative expressionism. They then announced, “Okay, okay, okay.

“Here comes the other guys.” This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players. One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours. There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side.

The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white. She had apparently had a double mastectomy. Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent. Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear.

She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness. Her body was truly bizarre. It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike. When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned.

Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body. More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden. This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty. As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies.

There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu. It was hard to tell which sex the individual was. What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked. This is what had caused her such distress.

For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her. She was lost in her beliefs. The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences. Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body.

They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body. If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s. The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container. This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word.

Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus. Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies. They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule. They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte.

At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah. There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground. Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare. Not everyone was naked however.

Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman. On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left. Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat. The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates.

“Hi, how are you? You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win. You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing. Look, I’m really happy for you.”

She energetically thanked me. Kathy wore a brown large blouse. Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way. She was so refreshingly real and normal.

Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented. Good for her. The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration. Some were tight buds, buds breaking open.

Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime. Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left. A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod. There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime.

Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them. Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes. Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband. Energetically, she had him come up and join us.

He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus. He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition. The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach. At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah.

I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime. She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense. I was not upset by it, accepting her choice. Alas, it was not the end of the world.

Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy. He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies. He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach. They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around.

It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps. The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality. It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom. This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums.

Perfect teeth, on the four year old. His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead. He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes. God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods.

Spectacular! He was happy and a precocious, charmer. As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me. Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful.

“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his. He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter. It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me. What do you think?”

It was very direct and very connected. With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon. This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda. Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed.

Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life. Good for him. Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me. She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be.

There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground. Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house. The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree. It had been singed on one side, during the fire.

Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful. Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St. Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong. Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts. It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did.

Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink. It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place. Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road. As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street.

At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora. I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy. He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight. As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious.

As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites.

*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency. It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to. Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags. Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness.

Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it. Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority. Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior. A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect.

Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man. Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way. Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger. It came with a pair of briefs attached inside.

She instructed the young boy. She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win. She was her usual feisty self. Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits.

It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to. This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism. This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state. Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora.

“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.” Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other. Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left. Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes.

You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us. Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided. However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy. He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have.

Finally, we did not care for his arrogance. Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont. Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property. I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.

Dream four. Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all. Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground. Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings. Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact.

It was all very garish a sight. As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere. Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed. The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures.

In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground. Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there. My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well. Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign.

So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare. Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road. It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads. The road did incline downwards as we went along it.

This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood. It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden. Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily. But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned.

I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them. Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live. Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale. Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived.

We were able to peer inside the apartment. It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out. It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream. It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels.

No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space. A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids. Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids. We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime.

To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer. Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other. We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there. Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building.

Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park. There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road. The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did. We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by.

We’d originally turned right to get onto this street. We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park. When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park. There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back.

Here, it was very mellow. Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots. Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons. A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family.

She had two daughters and a son. One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model. She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version. She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out.

They were in our way but not obtrusively so. We continued along and happened on these very young-souled Americans. We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled. It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them.

Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm. As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff. Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her. She wore a white silk blouse.

When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me. A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided. The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun. So too was mine, for that matter.

As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection. It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours. Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us. Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders.

The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away. Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance. Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing. Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements.

Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels. She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away. Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in. Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more.

Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.

Dream five. We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons. We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship. It was a new version of it. It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world.

This was all very scary for us, as we read on. It spoke about after the history of things. Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense. So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings.

Here there were poems and historical accounts of events. There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication. The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise. It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel.

The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed. At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel. Twice in a row, I thought. Talk about lightning striking twice.

This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha. This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus. The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast. This was a very densely populous Asian city.

There were also a ton of whites here, as well. They also had very thick Australian accents. I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book. But almost everyone on the bus was.

These people were very young-souled and frenetic. Pandora and I were the only blacks here. Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts. He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book.

Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent. He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion. These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus. It just was not right.

I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right. Stop it!” The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin.

It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia. The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians. They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people. Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus.

When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand. An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s. He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne. They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating.

The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food. They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed. This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally. They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists.

One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents. I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit. Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!”

At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them. When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus. Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board. The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes.

He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans. On his thigh was the tattooed flag. The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks. He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt.

This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness. Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he. Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out. The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible.

He carried a baby of about six months old. Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him. At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan. They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter.

The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up. During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done. The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit. The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up.

And boy did the infant ever go on a binge. Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods. For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food. Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus.

Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down. My main target was the bespectacled zealot. Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you? Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!

“Get out!” Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight. Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour. I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from.

Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence. They were completely stunned by my energy. They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong. After all I was black, not an Australian.

Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness. Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience. Was going to have none of this shit. Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus.

Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too. They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board. You simply had to bail out, toute de suite. We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora.

I went outside in search of her, going up the road. Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it. The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not. Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus.

This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train. So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness. Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case. I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.

Dream six. I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees. There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all. She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her. She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone.

Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on. She was being accommodatingly amiable. I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank. As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off.

He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.” At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling. I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus. Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere.

It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most. Possibly not even young-souled as yet. I had always thought myself a much older soul than that. After all, look at the degree to which I dream.

On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled. For one, the dreaming suggested as much. Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve. Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face.

The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window. An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses. Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench.

*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ. The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar. It was clearly the Jewish calendar. However this was clearly a reference to Christ.

Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included. This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case. This was a king soul on his last life. As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.

All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex. Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene. In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast. How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples.

Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.

___________________________________________

To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise! Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.

_________________________________________________________

Past-life Dream Set at Spencer House.

December 24, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

These dreams are from the upcoming third volume of my dream memoirs. I share them here and now as within there is at least one dream which is set at Spencer House, which I finally visited in this lifetime on the occasion of the 29th anniversary of Merlin’s passing.

The dreams were recorded on audiocassettes over the course of a decade following Merlin’s passing as he had requested that I stay tuned on his passing as he intended however possible to get through to me from the other side. 250 audiocassette tapes later, at the end of that decade in among them were the most glorious dream encounters with Merlin on his passing. These dreams in their rich pandimensioality were dreamt in lucid astral plane realism in late October 1991.

As this is an excerpt from the as-yet published third volume all the dreams are in italics and everything else in normal script. Observations after the fact about dreams are not in italics and conclude with END at the end thereof. At the time, though I did not know it, the dream was set at Spencer House.

___________________________________________________________

Before ecstatically flying off in search of lives up ahead, it is oftentimes good to know where one has been. These next dreams occurred during the second or ‘B’ cycle of sleep and dreamtime that day. Prior to sleep, I had been meditating with crystals in the pyramid and was inordinately focussed in my intention. After having adequately fortified myself, I was clear in my intentions to dreamquest in search of past lives. Thus, I would vicariously revisit two past lives which were complementary. During the first life in question, I was male and Merlin was then present with me and female. We were musicians at the court of King George III where also present was the Prince Regent and future King George IV. The second life seemed to have been longer-lived and in that one I was female.

The dreams of both lives overlapped and it was good to have acquired the past-life information of those lives through Michael channeller, Sarah J. Chambers^‡. Of course, there was a dream of a third past life, it was that of my immediate past life.

This having been the first dream, it was an extremely involved odyssey. A dream it was in which I had gone off to a performance, at nighttime of course, but it was as though it had been onscreen. Before the performance had begun, there had been a comedian onstage. There had been many wings to this performance because it had been set in a house. In fact, it was a period piece. The people who had been watching this had been, as it were, very much so out of time. This was set in the late eighteenth century. There had been a very nasty racist, in fact, send-up of ‘the savages in the jungle’.

This was all in British accents and very eighteenth century language.

*As I had meditated before sleep, I had opened myself up to experiencing insights into past-life reincarnational monads. As it had turned out, I would end up gaining much insight to my reincarnational past. This was set in the parlour of a very affluent Georgian residence. There was a white comic onstage, not unlike Tom Kneebone^† — who was possibly one of the most loathsome pieces of bigoted shits that I have ever met. Otto Dix^† arsehole that he is; Tom was a vile, pinched, sphinctered nobody-arsed faggot. Whilst looking at the comic onstage, I realised that one of the reasons why I loathed Tom Kneebone — on meeting him — was because he bore such strong resonance to the past. The comic was uncannily like Tom Kneebone. By that I mean that my visceral connection to the very racist performer was because, he was me in a former life in Britain — lived at court as a white male performer.

Of course, it was not Tom Kneebone but he had the same racist, pinched, WASP lack of tolerance and awareness as the Otto Dix arsehole — such an ill-evolved piece of shit that one. END.

The comic was entertaining the guests in this salon. He was doing this whole thing about, ‘the Pickaninnies’, ‘the darkies’. Also, he had had to have an accompanist to show the ‘natives’ and their gargantuan, elephantine dicks. Clearly, from the way that he had been holding it, the cock had not even been yet erect. He was all bulging eyes that had rolled with wide-opened mouth. Everyone was just spellbindingly charmed by his wicked witticism. I, however, had not been in the least entertained by it. In fact, I had felt greatly embarrassed to have seen him.

This was like having to have faced embarrassing skeletons in one’s reincarnational closet. After his routine, it then led into this performance that they had been putting on. In point of fact, the performance actually was quite funny. Everyone would leave the salon and then come back in but they would all have on Regency dress and wore makeup specific to that era. At one point, all the women had come back in. From where I had seen the performance, through an open door, there were people off to the left in a smaller room who were not performing. They were crowded around on divans. There was a large open space on the floor where the exquisite rug sat.

There was one woman there who had had a bad sniffle; she had kept on sniffling and was near consumptive. Why does she not just get up and get lost? I was quite impatient with her. At the time, I was closer to the main players. These were people who had been sitting in the salon in front of me. There was a whole cluster of them immediately before me and to the immediate right of the large white doors that led you from room to room. Exiting that particular room into which I had looked, where the performance was taking place, were more doors. The door half, which was close to us, was open and served as the wings to the stage.

Up in front of the mantelpiece was where the performers had come on to perform their scenes. They were quite funny. There were parapluies that had wonderful little floral designs on them. The performers were made-up in such a way that their faces looked like bouquets that resembled large English white and faded yellow roses — very oversized roses. The faces of the persons were very much in keeping with the zeitgeist of the late-Georgian era. This was the look that was proper in that time. As a result, the souls that had been incarnate at that time, were wearing those faces. At two separate occasions, everybody seated in the salons had had to get up and leave then come back in.

The last time that they had come back in, all the women were dressed in long, flowing tangerine-coloured dresses that had dragged on the floor. All the dresses had little flowers on them. The tangerine colour was muted by a sheer fabric of white silk overtop the tangerine bodice. The silk had left it a seemingly faded colour. All along the grid patchwork were these tiny roses that were the colour of the fabric underneath the tangerine-coloured material. The look was very beautiful. As they had spoken, there was wonderful repartee going around the room. This one woman was croaking away, saying, “Oh why don’t they go to church, anymore?

“Doesn’t anybody go to church anymore?” She had gotten up, going around the room, to make the point. She had then come back and sat down on the arm of the chair. Her husband was very stout and he had remained seated there in an armchair. One chap, who was on one of the chaise longues where some of the other spectators were seated, was bantering away. He was very dynamic, in a sage-souled sort of way. The costume changes between sets went on almost forever; at such times, the salon would become abuzz with lively discussions about whatever socially or politically was au courrant. Of course, that had meant anything that was superficial and that they, at their level of society, had found très amusant.

This particular costume change was quite long and some of the players, who were going to have been participating in the next piece, were seated on that particular chaise longue. They were talking, amongst themselves, when this one man had said, “Well, I certainly hope that you don’t go, looking like that…” His was a very cutting double entendre because, though the dowager was quite the frump, it was really a comment on her horrid-looking face; this, in an age, long before plastic surgery could have come to the assistance of women of her class. The woman’s face was very puffy and dowdy and, also, full of makeup.

She, so without a clue, had replied, “Well, what’s wrong with me going like this?”

“In a dress, there is certainly something wrong going like that.” This was very, very witty racy banter and much filled with double entendres.

The poor frump was daft and had not quite gotten it. She was wonderfully being sent up by everyone. “Oh dear me, I never quite seem to know what to wear. The fashions changing all the time, I can hardly ever keep up…”

This had only made for more cutting, though hushed, laughter. I do not even know but it was at this point, as she had spoken, that I had seen her in close-up. I had wondered if, perhaps, she were not Francesca — the name of a past-life of mine lived in Georgian England. Just as in that last dream encounter with Francesca, during the onset of menopause, I experienced the same visceral connection with the subject. Then, as now, I was seeing her face in keen close-up. Now, I was experiencing her at a much later stage in her life. She was a late septuagenarian. Still, though, she was very much so into the heavy makeup but at this point, she had suffered from senility and was pronouncedly neurotic.

Afterwards, everybody had looked out at me and asked me if I had ever seen the performance presented like this before. One of the things that they were talking about was an expedition that had just returned from, ‘Deepest, darkest, Africa, in the Jungles.’ This was, in fact, a production of Romeo and Juliet that had been set in colonial Africa. They had openly wondered, specifically of me, if I had ever seen so racy a production. All these people were very sophisticated, sagely persons, of whom it was safe to say, they were all very much so artisan-like — in essence, they were the glitterati. More to the point, they possessed goals of discrimination and predominantly were in repression mode.

“Well actually, I had seen the original classic production.”

“Yes but have you seen any modern updates of it?” she had asked, by which she meant a production from the Georgian era.

“Well, no. Well I did but it was when I was at school, in Sandy Point.”

Of course, they did not get it at all and found my accent far too queer for words. Besides, it was all very post-modern as far as they were concerned. At that point, the lights in the salon went down, in this beautiful, large high-ceilinged place. A movie screen then appeared and Diana Ross was going to be the mother to Juliet and the Juliet was a beautiful, beautiful, long-haired High-Yellow heroine. She had seemed East Indian but was not. She had gotten up and gone running to the window because Romeo was calling her. Clearly, it was a filmed version. She was wearing a black and white checkered dress that had no sleeves.

The dress really was more like a jumper — an A-line dress. She was so gorgeous; the young actress was stupendously radiant. Presently, she was praying and the camera was a slow, sweeping crane shot that had kept on rising up and away from her left profile. Filled with so much earnestness in her face, she was quite beautiful. A teenager, she was quite the stunning little actor. The actress was not Diana Ross‘s daughter, Tracee Ellis Ross but someone who had a stunning High-Yellow resemblance to Diana Ross with those stunning eyes and with very, very gorgeous long, long wavy hair. To just above her arse, her hair was thick and beautifully cascaded down. She was very gorgeous.

When she had run to the window, she was as if a ballerina by the way that she had held out that beautiful, delicate tiny face. An exquisitely beautiful face it was that sat on that long neck of hers. Looking out the window, she had dreamily called down, “Oh Romeo. Romeo. Romeo.” Truly, it was sheer spellbinding magic.

In this the second dream, I had gone off and was walking in Crab Hill, Sandy Point. Whilst there, I had seen these unfamiliar persons. One of them had had one of the most interesting faces. She had a very unusually large face and very beautiful teeth that were somewhat compacted. She was very lovingly dark-skinned. She was unusual-bodied; her head was very, very large and her body, in comparison, very squat – unusually so. To be precise, her body was like a dwarf’s. Her legs were very stubby and bulky.

My goodness, this woman could run. She had had a great deal of physical power. A lot of Earth planets that were fixed, to be sure, were part of her makeup. I found it very, very interesting to have watched her. On having passed her, I had said hello and noticed that she had shut her eyes. That was when I had realised that this woman had almost never looked at anyone. Then, finally, I had commanded her attention and directly looked into her eyes. To have looked into her eyes was tantamount to looking into her soul.

Her eyes were so large. Hers were as if seeing, up close, the eyes of a giant cetacean. Yet, these stellar eyes were on a human face. These eyes were extremely large with the lids half-collapsed over them. The brown of the eyes was dappled and mixed in with some blues with little streaks in the blues. Talk about beauty. Nonetheless, they were very, very old-souled and very, very powerful eyes. At the time, I had thought of how much they reminded me of the eyes on the totemic cranes that I have seen throughout my life.

She had just laughed and turned her head away. She was a woman of substance and great grace; not unlike Jessye Norman°, in that sense, was she. I had specifically focussed on her right eye. Hers were not unlike the dappled blue-green colour that Owen Hawksmoor°‘s eyes take on, of course, when he is wearing his coloured contact lenses. However, her eyes were quite gorgeous. Predominantly brown but there were lots of brown and red streaks in the white of the eyes. These were from very large bulbous blood vessels. The whites of them were very white, almost caramel-coloured on closer inspection, from the timeworn passage of their agedness.

Boy, this woman had a lot of strength of character in that body. Hers was a solid, solid body. Following after this guy, I had then come back over this little barbwire fence. We clearly, I realised, cannot go getting ourselves scraped. As we had been passing, there had been a window to our right that had looked into a house. Whilst looking at the screen, on which Romeo and Julie was supposed to have been playing, we had gone and sat down. Protesting, I had said that this could not have been the case because it would only have meant that I had missed so much of the performance. In all this time, of having gone and wandered off, one would have missed too much of the production.

At that point, there had been someone on the screen performing a Shakespearean soliloquy. This clearly was an updated version of the text. I had started watching it and got back into the film. The one thing that I had not liked about it, was that there had been lots of flies on the set. After having been made uneasy by the bugs, I had gotten up and walked about for a while. When I had gotten back into looking at the production again, it was as if looking at it from the Georgian salon again. However, now it was slightly different. To myself, I had remarked that it had seemed so much like Toronto.

That was because this production, like Toronto does in summertime, had all these damn flies. All the people around me in the Georgian salon had not gotten what Toronto had meant at all. As well they understandably would not have, they had looked at me very strangely. There were flies in the air which I had kept on swatting out of the air. There was a whole scene in progress, when I had decided that I would just have to have seen the production again or, perhaps, get it on videocassette. At that point, I had simply missed too much of the production. I had realised, too, that I could easily have seen it when it made it to the Revue second-run cinemas about Toronto. At that point, I had turned and left.

*This heavy-lidded young girl could well have been me, Theresa, in my immediate past life. That life was lived in Brazil and I had a goal of dominance. Of course, on Tuesday, September 17, 1991⁽³⁹⁾, I would dream of Theresa in her adult years. Similarly, she also could have been Merlin reincarnated. In December 2006, Merlin was reborn female in the Netherlands; however, at the time of the channelled session, the female reborn Merlin’s ethnicity was not shared. Thus, this could well be Merlin reborn in early 21^st century Netherlands about whom I was dreaming. END.

I had next, in this the third dream, been up on this rise with Isha where she and I had been doing something. We had discussed the fact that I had needed more money. I had told her that my PIN number, for some bank card that I had had, was 8411. She had called up the bank and was being pushy with them. Isha was telling them that she had been very ill and incapacitated. For being bedridden, they would therefore have to let her have the money in cash with me acting on her behalf. She had assured them that I would be right over and to let me have the funds. As she had spoken on the phone, this black woman and her white husband had come by.

The man wore glasses and they were, very much so in love, embracing each other. There was a little girl with them to whom I had meltingly said, “Come here sweetheart. My goodness! You have American money and you have a 10.00$ Canadian note there, I see and a 20.00$ too. Why don’t you let me have an American bill? And some of those Canadian bills because you’re not going to need the Canadian bill.”

“Why? It’s my money.”

“Okay then, fine. Come on over here and give me some sugar,” I tried charming her as she had been off to my left. On having wrapped my left arm around her, I had kissed her on the cheek saying, “Return the kiss, please.” We had kissed and had done so, on both cheeks, in the French style. I had looked down at her parents and they were quite sweet and in love. At the time, I had been thinking of Pandora. I could not, though, have made out the mother’s face all that well from the table; I had been seated there with Isha. A square, black metallic affair with a glass top the table proved.

As a result, the table was covering the face of the woman and I could not make out who she was. At the time, I had thought of Pandora and her present beau. This child had then appeared but it was like a doll; she was so tiny and was, in fact, as if a pygmy. She proved to be Barry Thomas‘ younger sister. Every time that she had bawled, her neck had extended and craned up into the air and was pinkish-coloured like a white doll. She, though, was actually a black baby — you could tell from her facial features. She was very much so alive but she was in this rubbery body that was like a doll’s. I had put her up on a mantelpiece to sit because she had been so damn noisy and obstreperous.

Penina had come and disputatiously confronted me about what I had done to the poor little girl. Whilst Isha had been on the phone, I had gotten up and gone to take a pee. On entering into the bathroom, I had been shocked and horrified. On looking in the mirror, I had noticed that Isha had cut my hair. I had let out the most enraged scream, “Isha! How could you do this to me?” What had happened, was because of the way that I had been lying on my back, she had managed to cut off all the hair on the side of my head up to the top and on the other side as well. This was the most ludicrous haircut.

In the back, leaving the length in place, my hair was still long. “I don’t want my hair looking like some bloody Mohawk warrior’s,” I shrieked. To have seen the roots of my hair, which were unpermed, I was truly pissed off. Having my hair chopped off, was not something that I had wanted and I definitely did not want this frigging fascistic cunt fucking with me. I had been truly incensed at her. Truly enraged, I returned to confront her and found her lying down in bed. Immediately, she went on the blind defensive, “I don’t see anything wrong with it. Besides it’s already done and you might as well cut off the rest,” she had laughingly dismissed me.

“Isha how could you do this? This is exactly like when you destroyed my writings.”

Impatient with her indifference, I had launched through the air at her and begun beating the living shit out of her: hitting, slapping and kicking her. Grabbing anything that I could find, I had beaten her with it. All the rage that I had felt at her, for destroying my writings back in the mid-eighties, had come flooding out.

*Back then, when she had been confronted, she had launched into a clawing defensive attack on me as we rode home in a blinding rainstorm from Solomon King‘s wedding in Rochester, New York. END.

Earlier, I had gone to get my brush, to brush my hair and, on not having found it, had borrowed hers. On brushing my hair, I had noticed that the brush was really scraping my scalp. On having looked at things in the bathroom mirror, I had been left horror-struck. On seeing what she had done, I had sucked my teeth and decided then and there to kick her arse. I had known then and there that this would not have happened had I taken her to task, blow-for-blow, back in 1985. Also, I had seen this brown bag, a large, black canvas bag and a shoulder bag — they were all mine. In the travelling bag were these two tickets because I was going to be travelling. I had really been upset and pissed off at Isha as she had laid there under green sheets.

Penina had come into the room and tried intervening on Isha‘s behalf. Penina had tried to get me to accept the fact that what had been done, was final and to just get on with things. That had only more infuriated me. Turning on her, I had screamed, “Oh Penina, why don’t you shut up? You’re so damn stupid! Of course, you would agree anyway.”

This woman had then shown up who was Jewish and it had turned out to have been, Ariel Gothberg. She had worn this dark purple turtleneck bodysuit — over that, she had worn a brown very, very thick, woollen jacket. The jacket had lots of gold zippers that showed down the front and the length of it. The jacket had no collar. On either side of the sleeves, there were gold zippers that went midway up the arm. There were two on the breast, one zipper each, over each breast for pockets. They had little golden tassels that held the zipper. The outfit was quite nice and was in brown and black.

Ariel Gothberg had looked quite smart. I had asked her what she had thought of my hair looking like that. “Well it’s your hair and it’s natural. I think the natural version looks kind of nice, anyway. Well, you’ll decide what you have to do with it,” she had then gone off, up these stairs. Yeah, right; fuck you, you bitch, I rudely dismissed the thought of her. Whilst there, she had joined two or three other smartly dressed persons. I had come around and begun leaving then went out into the outdoors. There, I had stood by a shed whilst talking with somebody about things in St. Croix, U. S. Virgin Islands. Just then, a large plane had gone by directly overhead.

At the time, I had thought this plane too unusually close to the ground. We also were close to the ocean. The building was a long white shed, like a greenhouse, beyond a sandy slope. Generous clumps of long grass held the sand from drifting too much. We were standing just beyond a stand of palm and sea dates trees. The ocean was rather tranquil and gently breaking. The ambiance here was rather beautiful. I had then seen a large plane come by that was like an American Airlines plane; except, on the back of it, it had had this large caboose.

This was a large unusual extension that had flared out. To say the least, this was most unusual and there seemed to have been no exhaust. The bottom of the craft was very silver. Also, there were the red and blue stripes along the sides like an American Airlines carrier would bear. However, nowhere were there any demarcations, indicating that it was an American Airlines craft. Unusually so, the craft was very long. Long and sleek, like a Boeing 727, except that it had had no mid-fuselage wings; way at the back of the plane, there were some smaller wings. As it effortlessly sailed through the air, I figured, oh dear no, it is going to crash.

As it had flown by, it had bizarrely veered off to the left and head first. Next, it had shot up into the air and then come down. I had screamed aloud, horrified for the passengers aboard. Immediately, of curiosity, people had begun running towards its obvious crash site. To check things out, I had gone running around the corner of the building. There was smoke in the air but it was general pollution from the community; also, there had been no smoky fireball as with an obvious crash.

“Oh dear. I think it crashed…” I had helplessly said to a man who had reminded me much of my uncle Michel King, rather than his brother Marcel King°.

“No, it didn’t,” he had confidently said. Another plane had then come in and that was when I had suddenly remembered that I had had a flight to catch. At that, I had gone running, hurrying out of there, and gone around the building. This was a wonderful large hangar-like building. In this building, there were many persons. I had seen several travellers there. Once outside, I had had to go up an immensely long flight of stairs to have gotten up to where the plane was. On the outside, it was a pure white aircraft with two propeller engines on each its wing; the propeller engines were running at the time that I had arrived.

The wings were extended; they were actually quite long. I had demanded that they cut out the engines so that I could safely make my way to the man who had been at the gate. He was an older, dark-skinned man in uniform. He could have been Egyptian, Hispanic, East Indian or Arabic. I had had to pay him to get aboard the plane and it had come to 14.00$ for the flight. Incidentally, as he told me that, I had recalled that the PIN number was 8411, which coincidentally does add up to 14. I had given him a 20.00$ bill. He had told me not to worry, that it was already running late, and assured me that I could get my change on board the flight. I had boarded the plane which, oddly enough, was unusually low to the ground. On having entered inside the plane, it was as though you were outside again and had to go up a further flight of stairs — just like the ones that had earlier gotten me to the tarmac.

A truly dream surreal moment this proved. Penina had been concerned because, on this flight that had just come in, there was supposed to have been a little boy that we were supposed to have met. He had been coming from Nevis. I had told her that I still was really frigging pissed off — at having had my hair cut off by Isha — and could not have cared less about any little boy. So we had gotten into the plane and it was again unusually interiored. There was a wide enough single aisle with all the passengers in seats that had faced each other. This had immediately reminded me of when I was a child, prior to having taken my first flight, I had always envisioned the seating arrangement on board an aircraft to be like this. There are, of course, no such seating arrangements in conventional aircraft.

As we had moved down the aisle, we had passed a number of little boys. There was a little boy on the right of the aisle and I had thought that, perhaps, that was him. However, we had gone down with Penina having followed after me. There were, incidentally, lots of potted plants here on board the highly unconventional aircraft. The aircraft was white-interiored, as outside, and there was a lot of sunlight coming through the top of the aircraft which was completely glass-topped. The ceiling was really like a long trough in a greenhouse because there was a drain in the ceiling that had run the length of the aisle. Lord knows, we were definitely well beyond the Kansas City city limits. Also, it had been very humid inside the craft.

Many, many potted hibiscuses were present and some of them were in bloom. Just where the stem had exited from the pot, one plant had fallen over and broken. On righting the pot, I had felt for it. The plant had sadly kept on dangling over. I had called the boy’s name which was something like, ‘Orello’, to which he had immediately answered an alert yes. He had been way in the back. I had pointed him out to Penina and told her to go and take care of him. Furthermore, I had told her to get off the plane with him because she was not supposed to have been travelling anyway.

I had then gone up to the front of the craft and there I noticed that there was a large opening. Here at the front of the craft, it was as though one was in a hangar or large indoor room. Whilst other people were lost in reading, what had clearly been scripts, there was a girl doing some homework. The studious girl was very stout and wore a school uniform. Early teenaged and definitely black, she was very light-complected. A tall, gangly white male had come in; this man was very much so old. He was incredibly gentle and soul-soothingly so. He was as if a gardener or caretaker.

He had sat next to me and warmed me further when he asked, “Do you have piece of paper, please? Just something to write on.”

“Well, I don’t even know…” I had really wanted to help him out and been of service to him. He was so sweet-spirited like Catherine Angelica (‘Lica) or as Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon°, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother seems — that kind of evolved grace of spirit. I could not immediately find anything and, in the meantime, the girl had not been prepared to part with any of her school paper. There, I had told him, pointing in front of me to a little desk on which were some clothes and my bag. I had gotten out my bag and started talking to him. He was very, very wonderful and very old-souled in feel. He was very healing to have been around. He had reminded me of James Tramble or Merlin’s guide as I had seen in those dreams — the tall shaman.

He had commenced writing on this piece of paper and he had asked me my name to which I had replied, “Arvin da Braga.”

“Oh really?” he good-naturedly replied.

I had then given him my statistics. Continuing on, told him that I was born on August second, nineteen sixty. We had talked on some more and then he had asked, “And what about your friend?”

“Oh Merlin? Merlin Ben-Daniel. Merlin B.” When he had asked me my name, I had initially said, “Arvin M. M, as in Merlin, spelt ‘lin’ not ‘lyn’ and which, incidentally, was my lover’s name. Merlin; spelt the same as my middle name.” As we had spoken, I had grown more and more intensely lucid and light-headed; it was as though I was channelling. “Merlin B. B, as in Bechbache, which is his mother’s family name.” We were talking about Merlin and he was doing this write-up about Merlin and me.

He had then turned to me and said, “Well anyway, I’m leaving you now and I want you to write this down.”

“Is it a number you’re giving me?”

“Just some important information. But you must remember it and you must never forget it.” What he had said was, “Proper posture leads to purpose and prosperity in time.” He had said it with the greatest enunciation and slowness.

There was a woman who had stood out in my mind as he had spoken. She was very much so like Francesca who was down below and outside an opening in the airplane. She was inside the building at a window, looking up at me and saying, “I will be with you, don’t worry. And I’ve remembered it. I’ve recorded it. And I’ll keep reciting it to you if you need me to.”

The gracious gentleman had then left. His was not unlike the yogic centred serenity of Yehudi Menuhin. At that, I had had a sense of motion and that we had travelled. The sensation was not for very long but you just knew that we had covered massive distances in what had seemed a mere breath. As I had watched him write with the greatest of care, he was right-handed. At one point, he had stopped and disruptively said as I had spoken of Merlin and me, “You’ve a very distinctive accent and it’s so layered. You can see so many languages in it.”

“Well, yes that’s because I’ve lived all over the place, actually. My upbringing was very middle class in the West Indies with maids, in fact. I like speaking this way because it’s who I am. It’s about intellect.”

“Right you are,” he had said whilst warmly smiling.

We had then gotten to where we were going but he was no longer with us. We had deplaned and come down the flight of stairs. Everybody had gathered about this courtyard and was walking around. Most people who had deplaned had been white. All the kids were in the rear and we were separated — the kids and I. I had then left everybody and started walking ahead because I had wanted to go and get Penina. She had shown up and was running to go and get Orello now that he had arrived. She had on this long, floral-printed dress that had proven to be a jumpsuit that had turned into culottes.

Her outfit was brown, yellow and green which were all one-inch slats of colour. The jumpsuit was a predominantly off-white, faded yellow number that had these yellow, brown and green horizontal slats that were crammed together and haphazardly spaced. They had created a wonderful motif on the fabric. Somehow, it seemed that I was supposed to have been deplaning. Seemingly, I had to get aboard a larger plane and continue on with my flight. For having interacted with Penina, I had missed the connecting flight. This had mightily upset me. Initially, when she had come aboard the first flight with me, I had turned to her as we had progressed down the aisle and asked if she had remembered to get all my bags.

A second flight, not unlike an American Airlines carrier, had come in through the air and landed. This had proven my signal, to have started moving and get aboard the initial flight. When I had deplaned, I was supposed to have gone to another flight. For some strange reason, everybody was marching in a circuitous route. They had gone down this street and turned off to the right; they then had gone down this wide boulevard into another courtyard. That courtyard had contained another plane which one had to board. A sareed, East Indian woman had looked back at me and energetically said, “Hurry, hurry, hurry because the engine has already started.”

“Don’t worry…” I had evenly replied. She was a really sweet gracious soul.

You could have seen the engine and when it had started, the wing that had been turned horizontally then swivelled and turned to the vertical position. This was set in a compound that was surrounded by a large white fence. Going up to the courtyard, the steps were white and the interior of the building and all the low-lying buildings around were all pure white. The look was that of permanent whitewash paint.

“…I’m coming. I’m supposed to be on this flight,” I had called out.

When I was making my way there, there was a large wooden gate that had a glass in it. One of the things that had kept me distracted, was that I had gone into this room, where Penina had been and wanted to look at the Romeo and Juliet drama again. Instead of having been able to get it on television again, there was a video music station on. The music video was set in a large room. Irene Cara was singing a song in said music video. Natalie Cole° was there, as well, as some other black entertainers. She was in a living room in that segment of the video, which was for a love song. Natalie Cole was participating in the video but not singing. Irene Cara had worn a black tunic overtop black narrow-legged pants.

Natalie Cole had worn black and white; they were very much so enjoying themselves. Soon, I had caught myself when being distracted and had gone running out of the place. I suddenly remembered the petite, beauteous East Indian woman; she had a striking resemblance to the author and socialite, Geeta Mehta. She had been telling me that I was supposed to, in fact, have been getting onto the other flight. So off I had gone, running down the road; it was a narrow stretch of earthen road. Even though it had long been closed, I had opened the door to the craft. The stewardess was slowly closing the door when I had leapt through the air and pulled it forcefully open. At the time, the engines were already running — all of them.

They had had to stop the engines so that I could make my way past them and safely get aboard the flight. I had shown her my ticket and very cleverly said, “Here’s my ticket. I’m supposed to be on board this flight; thank you very much.” Again, the interior was much like a waiting area and a greenhouse at that. There was a sense, once again, of light coming through the glass-topped ceiling of the craft. The craft’s interior was all whitewashed. There were lots of persons, mostly guys, standing about. The first thing that I had noticed, was that they were all dressed in white and were dressed in clothing from another age.

They were dressed as in the latter half of the eighteenth century — the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart^§. I had passed the flight attendants; they were off to my left and up towards the cockpit. There was the familiar large open area, as well, off to the right of the skylight. There was a narrow door that had gotten you back to the main cabin of the plane. The 18^th century persons were in the open, which had an earthen floor. Here, it was very humid and damp. These were all young and white males, who wore white clinging tunic that went down to just below the knees. They wore tight breeches, really tight, with white stockings that came up to above the knees.

They wore white shoes; large ones with white buckles. Large-sleeved white shirts, most of them, although some wore shirts whose sleeves were those of the conventional style of the waking state. They were, all of them, very young and very dark-haired. These persons had the faces that were exactly peculiar to their age. The hairstyles, the makeup and the expressionism; it exactly was what the aristocrats of late eighteenth century Vienna looked like. On having entered this craft, I had immediately noticed that there were little rooms as in a salon in eighteenth century Vienna. There were these white doors with glass panes for two-thirds of them. There were little concert hall boxes that were set up; all this occurred inside the cabin of the plane no less.

I could distinctly have heard the engines whirring away, outside the craft, whilst drinking in this most unconventional of plane interiors. We were going to take this flight and whilst in flight, there would be a performance. Everybody was an actor and like that man on the chaise longue, with the wicked tongue, also very much so sage-souled. I then went and took my place. There was a box where the performers would sit, as in an opera house, but it was on the ground. This was not a Boeing 747 series type airliner. The opera house-interiored craft had been lined with red carpeting and red velvet. The seats were all one embankment and quite plush.

There was a doorway there with a man who had been crouched down. He was dark-haired and had a mole just below his left eye. He was most handsome and looked like the soulfully august aristocrats, of the court of King Joseph II of Hapsburg-Lorraine, in the age of Wolfgang A. Mozart. His face was very, very unusually large. He had worn a ponytail that was tied back with a black ribbon. Just inside the door to my right, he had been crouched down. I had looked off and on having seen him, had smiled. He had looked up at me and was quite smitten by me.

I realised that I had found my place and had come in to the box to sit. We were obviously about to witness a drama that was clearly Romeo and Juliet that was set, in the Mozartean era, in the city of Vienna, Austria. I had gotten so energised for having been in the company of these people, whom clearly I had known at the level of soul, and thus had squealed and laughed aloud. Also, my response was in anticipation of the great fun that we shortly would share. At that, I awoke in bed.

*I was not chagrined to have awakened at that point. Already, I had been refamiliarised with all these persons. There was something very much so familiar about the handsome-moled man. We did look at each other as I took my seat and I was passingly reminded of Merlin. Beyond the eighteenth century energetics that he wore in that life, he was familiar, intimate and a companion. That was all I had needed of the very layered, very enriching and very, indeed, pandimensional aspects of this dreamquesting odyssey into a past life. This was very real and I was very much so in my element. That dream initially was definitely set in the Georgian era and the people there were all familiar.

They were all white and very much so alive. I guess that this was an astral plane projection in time, to experiencing aspects of past lives. I was able to have used the astral plane, to have transited the spiral arms of time and enter two different time frames in which I was clearly incarnate. Also, it was very much so the eighteenth century and the height of the colonial era. Here was someone who had just returned from an expedition to deepest, darkest Africa. Down to the accent and the language as it existed then, they were very much so British. The most important insight that I learned, for having revisited that lifetime, was the lasting effects of racism to which I was exposed, engaged in and was much informed by. To say the least, in this life, I am truly repulsed by racism’s ubiquity and its effects.

This explains why I am so passionately impatient with and can see and understand, so clearly, my hypersensitivity to racism. I see it for what it is and where it comes from. The second flight’s exposé into Mozartean Austria was, I am certain, more about getting insights to a past life of either Merlin’s or someone with whom I share as strong a soul connection. Perhaps, it was someone on the order of my essence twin. I am not convinced that this was Merlin, in a past life, even though I did not see the eyes in close-up. I knew them not to be his eyes. The eyes are always the dead giveaway in these instances. Though packaging changes from life to life, the eyes do not; except to change colour and grow older and softer with the reincarnational maturation of the soul, the eyes are always recognisable as self’s in past life dreams.

**Further insights that I would like to add at this time, I do believe that the latter dream of the Mozartean era, harkened back to when Merlin and I were incarnate together, again lovers, and were court musicians. This, however, was during the court of one of the English rather than Austrian monarchs. During the reign of George Hanover, King George III, which was during the 1700s to early 1800s, Merlin and I were then incarnate. Also, the Prince Regent and later King George IV was also familiar to both of us. The latter monarch would have been instrumental in the flourishing of the arts, which is why Merlin and I had creatively blossomed in that life. King George IV, when the Prince Regent and during his brief reign, had been a great patron of the arts — life at court would have been artistically fulfilling and that it clearly was. In any event, I also sang during that life. Usually, my performances were to smaller audiences of aristocrats; Merlin, then female, played the harpsichord and was my accompanist.

I guess that the Francesca lifetime could have been a complement to that lived at court during King George III’s reign — whose father was rather German and caught up in the Austrian succession intrigues during the early 18^th century. There was a late Georgian to early Victorian sensibility to the first dream; it featured a septuagenarian Francesca who rather than me in a past life, was Merlin when a harpsichordist and my then lover. These are insights gleaned from Michael Overleaves by Sarah J. Chambers who, prior to passing in 1999, channelled the Michael. What’s more, at that time, also present and likely participant in this dream was the Duke of Bronté. Of course, said duke was also the 1^st Viscount Nelson, none other than Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson^†. Naturally, in the late 18^th century, Horatio Nelson had spent much time at court whilst trying to get himself positioned after the American war of independence, which left the admiral and many others out of work. At the time that he spent at court, both Merlin and I, knew and socialised with the young, dashing admiral – the 2^nd Earl Spencer was the Lord of the Admiralty, which would have made him an invaluable contact to Earl Spencer and a frequent guest to Spencer House. No doubt, it was his tales of his adventures and especially his time spent in Nevis that served as a source of wonderment for me.

As Merlin and I were then cohabiting as lovers and professional associates, it is likely that I then expressed some interest in going off to an exotic isle like Nevis. Indeed, perhaps, the reference to deepest darkest Africa was really to the West Indies. Either way, it is obvious that the fascinating Duke of Bronté, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson planted a seed, which would lead to my choice to reincarnate three lifetimes later in Nevis.

***I should also think that the man with the extra-large head and the striking, large mole below his left eye, should have been more readily discerned. Merlin’s dear friend, the actor, Joe Morton°, is the one who would fit this bill. Indeed, Joe does have just such a large mole below his left eye. The only difference between these two — Joe Morton and the moled actor in the dream — was their disparate races. The white male’s in the dream was the exact same large mole at the exact same position as is Joe Morton’s. Further, this Caucasian male’s teeth exactly were like Joe’s as they are in this lifetime. Again, apart from their disparate races, there was one other difference between Joe Morton and his past-life counterpart. Joe’s mouth and lips are bigger and fuller respectively and Joe’s comparably was, to say the least, a more elastic and expressive face.

To say the least, that was rather insightful a past-life dreamquest. Joe, of course, is in the fifth/sage position in his cadence which not surprisingly would leave him inclined to being so sage-like and regal in essence. Naturally, this regal energy is due to the power mode energy, which innately infuses all fifth-cast fragments, especially in cadences 1, 5 and 7. Joe, of course, is in the first cadence in his greater cadence.

****I should also like to add here that the large-moled gentleman may well have been in London; at that the time of mid-to-late 18^th century, there was a large Austro-German community in London. King George III was, of course, German. At that time that Merlin and I were then incarnate, we were rather familiar with one such German patron who happens also to be an entity mate, Arianna von Reinhard^†. Wealthy, the German patron of the arts very likely could have funded a trip to Austria and German, during which time Merlin and I could have been on a concert tour to royal courts of those countries. Who knows, perhaps, at that time, we even met and attended concerts for stellar creative genius, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart^§. END.

At the conclusion of audiocassette-recording these dreamquests to past lives, in late October, 1991, I got about the business of choosing an appropriate musical complement. Naturally, I would end up playing some Joseph Haydn° symphonies. Back in 1987, whilst being a muse to Olaf Gamst, I was introduced to Joseph Haydn in great detail as he was a composer whom Olaf favoured. When sitting for the artist, often were the times, when he would play selections from his formidable Haydn collection. Without doubt, I would come to favour Haydn’s London Symphonies. That is why, I had crawled through a couple of secondhand record shops in a bid to build my own Haydn collection. To that end, I got out an old recording from 1977; it was still in fairly good condition. Released on the Philips label, Neville Marriner conducted the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.

For the rest of the day, I repeatedly listened to Symphony No. 104 in D Major Op. 21 ‘Londoner’. This symphony truly made my spirit soar and allowed me to remain resonant with the past-life to which I had so lucidly dreamquested.

__________________________

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, sweet dreams.

______________________________________

Gosh That Was Fun!

November 26, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Thanks to World Ballet Day, there was positively nothing or no one that was going to dissuade me from hitting London town. Armistice Day and La Bayadère, you say… ha!

Naturally, I returned to London, in my ongoing research/quest for more connections to the past as it pertains to the six-volume dream memoirs. Though I had hoped to publish volume three this year, 2018, ongoing research has meant its delay until Spring 2019.

After dropping luggage at the hotel in Russell Square, it was a quick dash on the Piccadilly Line to Leicester Square Station where the 10-day London Pass with Oyster card was collected. On this gloriously mild Saturday morning, I took a quick snap of St. Martin-in-the-Fields across Charing Cross, before slipping into the National Portrait Gallery.

Before having found what I went looking for, I first took a detour through the Tudor Gallery where, alas, there were no portraits of Margaret Beaufort. That done, I moved down to the open space where the exhibition: Black is the new Black was housed.

Stunning portraits, I love the blue-blackened soulfulness of the portraits; these are all eyes that are thoroughly ensouled and lived-in. Next, it was off to the salon where what I went looking for was handsomely displayed.

Enraptured, I passed long forevers fully engrossed by National Portrait Gallery’s recent acquisition of Wim Heldens’ oil masterpiece – portrait of the art collector and benefactor couple, Harry and Carol Ann Djanogly. The oil on canvas is handsomely hung in salon 38 and was painted in 2017 by Wim. Wim, I met in NYC at Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem’s West Village townhouse when we went out back in the early 1990s. I had been in town visiting with Frans from Vancouver; we met when I then lived in Toronto and finally, the relationship ran its course on my relocation to the west coast and not to be overlooked but sex with Frans was as meh as warm, runny vanilla ice cream. Of course, by the time that I was visiting Frans and he was out of town, I met Wim; the latter was sick in bed and I looked in on him between going to the theatre and galleries in the city. Apart from godawful sex, Frans was a little too obsessed with Diana Ross for my liking – it all seemed too sissy-queer-boy, clichéd and banal.

Besides, by the visit where I met Wim, who was the warmest of souls – Wim is an old-souled scholar and it shows in spades in his works – I had long discovered the raunchy funk of hot sex deep into the woods of Vancouver’s Stanley Park where the world’s largest city park (1000 acres) is ever ten degrees warmer than elsewhere in the city during the sodden wintry months as the half millennium-aged sitkas keep the place comfortably warm. There was no need for the ennui of sex with Frans after tying raunchy fuckers to a sitka and whipping them; besides, positively nothing beats fucking in nature – truly, it is the most empowering, grounding experience.

On leaving the National Portrait Gallery, I ambled down Charing Cross, took the time to admire the bronze springbok that lords over the entrance to the Republic of South Africa’s embassy with the maple leaf-festooned Canadian Embassy to the west across Trafalgar Square.

Down into the bowels of Charing Cross station, I then skipped and hopped the Bakerloo Line to Lambeth North Station. There on a gloriously temperate and sunny Saturday afternoon, I made my way to the Imperial War Museum and was rather moved by the beauty of the metallic poppies that tearfully bled from a bathysphere-styled window at the museum’s domed rotunda. This glorious display was part of the centenary celebrations of Armistice Day 100 years earlier which marked the close of World War I.

Standing in the atrium of the museum, I was reminded how geography does determine the scale of architecture. Relative to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington D. C., there is no way that the relative limitless wide-open spaces of America would find military gear in such close cramped quarters as at the Imperial War Museum’s atrium.

I was there to take in the exhibition, Mimesis, which honoured, on the 100th anniversary of the close of WWI, the contributions of blacks from across the Commonwealth. Turns out, it was not a photographic exhibition; rather, it was a most evocative of films.

From South Bank, it was back to Embankment Station and onto the Circle Line to Tower Hill Station. There, emerging into the sparkling and relatively warm daylight, one was readily reminded of Vancouver temperatures at this time of year. Into the perpetual queues one headed for a chance to gaze on the Crown Jewels at Tower of London.

Going in, the ravens were keeping a watchful eye… as is their wont and the tourists here were predominantly East Asian.

Seeing these metallic simians, I was reminded how good London’s fortune is not to be inundated by predatory monkeys… as is the case in both St. Kitts and Nevis.

After having viewed the Crown Jewels, this photo of Tower Bridge, suggested that the fast-moving clouds, though stormy-looking, would not break just yet.

About half an hour later, the vista to the west looked dramatically foreboding. I tried to negotiate and decided that these clouds did not look all that fast-moving, besides they were considerably to the west.

Into one of the city’s ubiquitous and thoroughly indispensable Pret A Manger joints I slipped. There, I dined on a hearty sandwich and had one of way too many raspberry smoothies.

Each day, wherever I travelled, there was always one in each pocket.

This little rocket was the must-have. Always, there was one handily tucked away deep inside my black Dorothy Grant messenger bag as I darted about my favourite town, on my favourite West Indian isle – it really does vibrationally feel as though in the West Indies, besotting my insatiable soul with culture, art and more high-end inspiring fare.

After having interminably waited out the rains, along came 1700 and time for the second to last day of the torch light ceremony at the Tower of London in honour of the centenary of WWI’s conclusion. And so, of deference one waited out the rains, which rolled through in waves – waves they were which seemed increasingly more monsoon. Finally, the show was begun and after having been soaked sans parapluie and too many souls – I do not like crowds, I opted to make this short clip as I could not see a damn torch on the ground and headed for the warmth of a hotel suite in Bloomsbury.

After being soaked to the gills to get into Tower Hill Station, no sooner than being on the platform and headed towards King’s Cross St. Pancras, along came the announcement that the station was now closed as there were too many souls on the platform to assure everyone’s safety. Back out into the torrential downpour, we all grumbled, huddled and shivered; this downpour was seriously fierce.

After much aimlessly darting about the crowded and flooded streets of the city, two-plus hours later, finally a cab was dispatched and into a very cool hotel suite I arrived. Somehow, in spite being soaked to the bones and frigidly cold, I managed not to have come down with the sniffles, a cough or runny nose.

Soon, wakefulness gave way to sleep and I was readily awakened into a plethora of dreams, which are always thrillingly, lucidly awakened in this favourite city of my well-travelled soul. A day filled with adventure lay ahead; it was Armistice Day 2018 and I would manage to be captured on ITV film of the ceremony at the Cenotaph in Whitehall.

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and sweet dreams.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Michael Overleaves Appendix (Redux)

December 6, 2016November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

In the process of updating the copyright dates, I managed to have tidied up and properly alphabetised the Overleaves index. Beautifully organised, I think that it will prove more appealing now. Do enjoy!

https://dreampoetica.com/michael-overleaves-appendix/

________________________

Photo: Ficus Benjamina tree on grounds of Montpelier Estate, Nevis, West Indies.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Being of Service… Fulfilled.

December 1, 2016November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Ten days after that operatic flying dream – part of which I am now convinced were glimpses into a past-life passed at the courts of King George III and King George IV during the Regency years – which is herein entitled: Time-Travelling late-Georgian/Regency Dandy, https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/26/time-travelling-late-georgianregency-dandy/ I would dream these next three dreams. They were beautiful dreams and there was also a tie-in to dreams dreamt years earlier whilst Merlin was then incarnate. Those dreams were also shared herein and are entitled: Ensouled Proboscis Simian Humans – https://dreampoetica.com/2013/02/20/ensouled-proboscis-simian-humans/ . These were rather ravishing dreams and as was the custom that time, there was also some sexual play engaged during the dreamquest.

These dreams were lucidly lived on Wednesday, January 27, 1993. At the time, the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house. Moreover, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape one hundred and forty and are yet to be found in volume XIV of the dream opus. Dream with the greatest of wonder and awe because regardless others perceptions of you, it is just that – another perception and has no basis in the truth of who you are at the fabulously beautiful core of your being.

______________________________

In the cobblestoned square of an old city’s campus, it was heavily raining. Also, I was part of a great entourage. This place felt like England as it was moored under a flock of grey, rain-soaked, stationary, low-hanging clouds.

Indeed, it was depressingly sombre. I was with HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales was about but they were in separate entourages.

We were to attend a church service but in separate entourages. All of this was done on Princess Diana’s insistence. She was very forceful and had quite the temper when she needed to have the final word.

There was going to be no compromises in her position. She was, in fact, rather stubborn. This gave the sense of her that she would not age very well. We were in a courtyard before coming out to be seen by the press.

Firmly, she insisted that they do everything separately. She was a vocal, strongly male-energied powerhouse. As well, she refused to stand in back of him. Moreover, she definitely was not going to be anywhere near him.

The staging was such that they would never be captured on film in the same shot. Somehow, I was serving as a valet in HRH Prince Charles’ entourage. We headed, it seemed, along Hoskins Avenue on the north side and eastwards to Toronto’s Queens Park Circle.

In the circle, stood an incredible Gothic cathedral made of red clay. This was an architectural wonder, it was so massive. Built of the same red stone as the Ontario legislative building is, the structure was rather impressive.

This building was so unique and extraordinary. To experience this building was as exciting as experiencing a great work of art. This was architecture that was rousingly uplifting.

Also, this structure was several times larger than the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, in New York City – the largest in the world. There was a wonderful wooded area which encircled it.

From amongst the towering trees, the spectacular work of architectural art triumphantly soared. The door to the cathedral was easily thrice as high as the doors to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

Moreover, the gargoyles here were supremely realistic. A superb masterpiece of Gothic architecture this cathedral was. Marvellous flying buttresses, which were even more impressive being in this tone of stone, girdered the magnificent Gothic structure.

Not unlike Notre Dame Cathedral, it sat in an island of sorts. This place was easily four times larger than Notre Dame Cathedral. Since it was still raining rather heavily, I held an umbrella for HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

We had had to go to the church on foot. When we got to the traffic light, it took forever to change. This soon made HRH Prince Charles irritable and he abruptly took off. He did resent being publicly humiliated by HRH Princess Diana, Princess of Wales who had had them proceeded on foot – in the rain no less.

Her whole scene publicly was about emasculating him; she was intent on showing him as a man with no control or power. Totally at the service of the women in his life, as it were, was he.

Obviously. from their interactions, these two did not like each other. He suggested that we return to the residence where both entourages had started out.

The residence turned out to have been a very beautiful Gothic palace. This palace was a long, dark-stoned mossy complex. Soaked for eons in seasonal rains, the palace had a moss-blackened exterior.

The weather here was interesting because the rains never really let up. Quite simply, the rains progressed from downpour to downpour and were sustained by ubiquitous drizzle. Grey and autumnal, it was beautifully relaxing, humid air.

HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales wore a light grey, London Fog coat. This was an exceptionally tailored coat. Holding the umbrella, I was always on the prince’s left.

We then came back to the very stately furnished apartments at the Gothic palace. HHR Prince Charles was not cohabiting, at this palace, with HRH Princess Diana.

Once we were alone, he asked if I would give him a back rub. Seemingly, he suffered rheumatoid aches because of the rains. He began absently talking and clearly was in a deep funk about his relationship with HRH Diana, Princess of Wales.

When he asked for the back rub, I thought it strange that he had said please. He then let me know how much he appreciated me. I was good for him, to have around, said he, and he wanted me to know how much he appreciated my being there.

What he really appreciated was my loyalty to him, said he. Then he told me that I did have healing hands. On coming inside, we had been properly soaked to the bones by all that rain.

His cheeks were red; a very ruddy complexion his, I noticed both when holding the umbrella for him. I knew that when we got in, that we would both relish a glass of sherry, to warm us up.

I was really concerned for him that he would catch a cold.

___________________________

In what proved the second dream, I got into this tiny cab; it was in the middle of the street and I got in on the driver’s side in back. I had gotten in whilst traffic was dashing past. I had trouble getting the door to close after me.

Once inside, it was much smaller a cab than even it had looked from the outside. Black plush leather wonderfully complimented the deluxe look and feel of the cramped interior.

The driver was French and this clearly was in Paris. We were caught in busy afternoon traffic. In a bid to cross the street, lots of people kept getting off the sidewalk and stepping into traffic.

For my tastes, it was far too chaotic with the traffic a gridlocked and bottled-in mess. For that reason, pedestrians would simply step off the sidewalk and into traffic without looking for advancing vehicles at their rear.

At the time, it was summertime out with lots of bare-armed, floral-printed dresses wafting by. Open-toed and heeled shoes busily paraded the crowded wide sidewalks.

If only to protect against Sun damage, several persons wore hats. The ladies were very conservative and proper. Rather than the 1990s, one had the sense that this was Paris of the 1920s to 1930s.

From the textures, styles, even to the hairstyles, it was definitely not contemporary times. Even the ambiance was more so 1930s Paris. On a cobblestoned road, we began going around a circle but not the Place de L’Étoile.

Then the cab driver stopped without having gotten me to my destination. Soon, we both got out with me being understandably pissed off at him. We then abandoned the cab and proceeded walking through the traffic-choked street.

This was when I saw a dashingly handsome Black man walking with a White woman. He was on her left, his moustache a distinctive, well-groomed signature. He wore a white shirt and these wonderful khaki slacks.

He was simply handsome… extraordinarily so. The Sun simply loved this man’s face. His skin, bone structure, eyes and teeth simply made the light glow that much more beautifully.

Goodness, this man was dizzyingly good-looking. Smooth, jet-black skin, it looked as though it had been pounded by some shamanic West African tanner/sculptor.

This man had all the elevated sophistication of Duke Ellington but was, of course, considerably darker than the Jazz genius. The moment that I saw him, I knew instinctively that he was the man whose faded photograph I had seen in that unoccupied house back on February 16, 1989.

Perhaps, this was myself or Essence Twin, living a very urbane life in 1930s Paris. Nonetheless, I totally connected with him; he was as familiar and connected as James Tramble or, for that matter, Merlin.

On seeing him, I became at once thrilled and uplifted. Soon, it was obvious that they could not see me. I was as if travelling back in Time and getting a glimpse into that past life. Just as now that organic bungalow was also seemingly last occupied in the 1930s.

The driver then slapped me from my euphoric daze when demanding that I pay him 160 FF. More to the point, the bum had not even gotten me to my destination!

Then again, in terms of having served as an astral guide, he had handsomely performed done his task. After all, had we stayed in the cab and driven on, I would never have seen that man whom, at the level of soul, I so intimately knew.

“What?! Are you dreaming? I’m not going to give you no more than 60 FF. Even that is too much, you still haven’t left me anywhere near rue de Grenelle in the sixth arrondissement.”

He was short, dark-haired and moustachioed. A swarthy, provincial Frenchman he proved. I most certainly did not give him a cent – let alone the rest of my time.

_________________________

In what proved the third dream, several trunks were standing about the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house; several of them were standing on end. A little lapdog busied its short-legged self by scurrying about the house.

Everywhere, there were trunks packed and in the centre of the rooms. In the study, there were candles; so, I went there and began closing the windows.

As I went about closing the windows, I wondered how one could have gotten so lapsed as to have not kept the place closed and more secured. For fear that it could start raining at any time, I then began closing the doors.

Besides which, it was coming on to nighttime. The study was filled with innumerable volumes; the books were bound in rich leathers and cluttered everywhere. I really enjoyed being in the room when drinking the vista of its wealth of knowledge.

As I had closed the window, I saw Yvette Morehead’s sizeable brood outside on the steps of her house playing. Max Worsthorne was up in his house whilst looking down at me. He was very stout and handsome.

When I went to close the rest of the doors, I noticed that the papaya tree – which I had planted in childhood – had grown quite large. I came out to admire the fruit tree that I had planted and, on stepping onto the steps, saw Gowan Dalrymple outside in the yard.

He went into the old kitchen and was wearing an overall. He was so handsome and alluring-eyed. I was really warmed to have seen him. Soon, I decided to seduce him because he was one of the warmest sensualists that I met during my teenage years.

We were quite hidden from view; thus, I went into the kitchen after him and closed the bottom door after me. Whilst I was in the old kitchen with Gowan Dalrymple, Max Worsthorne could not see us.

I did, though, recall those memories of seeing him naked when a child and what an oversized cock he had. Stooping to my knees, I began giving Gowan Dalrymple a blowjob.

He had been standing there waiting; his readily tumescent cock disturbed the draping of his overalls. Opening up the blue denim overalls, I got out his cock. Before going down on him, we made very long, intense, soulful eye contact.

His were such warm, smiling penetrating eyes – they certainly are in the waking state. The thing about this experience was how awakened it was. I could smell his breath as he yearningly breathed past parted lips.

Everything about the encounter was real; the encounter was astral planed. Going down on him, I could taste the slight briny sting of his precum. His balls smelt really loud – like a man ought to.

Even whilst on my knees, I spent most of the time whilst performing fellatio, looking equally unflinchingly into his eyes. During our awakened astral plane encounter, we had hardly said a word to each other.

Gowan Dalrymple shuddered throughout as I gave him the slowest, most nerve-wracking blowjob. The sexual play truly was a sensual massage that transcended the physical bounds of his senses.

Whilst performing fellatio, I was simultaneously massaging myself to an orgasm. This, though, occurred without him or me masturbating my cock. This was a purely spiritual experience.

What we shared was essence contact… in the true sense of the word. The massage of his warm, moist, throbbing cock against my lips and into my mouth was sensually overwhelming.

This was a peak experience; it easily transcended that blowjob that I performed on the actor Mel Gibson in the dream of June 21, 1992 – the summer solstice. The feel of this motion was sublime; it was akin to the arousal of spirit one feels for watching Evelyn Hart pour her soul into an emotive port de bras.

________________________________

Photo Credits: Ulm Cathedral, Germany

Diana, HRH Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Soeul, Korea 1992

1940s Citroen CVB

Model by © Francisco Martins Photography.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

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

July 29, 2016November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

__________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now catch the groove, push off and start flying!

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi Arvin, how are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

Art: Leigh on green sofa 1993

Oil on canvas

17.1 x 22.9 cm

Provenance: Private collector.

Exquisite Lucian Freud of Leigh Bowery.

__________________________________________________________________________________

This Corona’s for You!

July 13, 2016November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

On my return from a giddy trip to both Washington D.C. and New York City – which Merlin ever referred to as Babylon, I would dream this most exquisite of flying dreams. Too, this dream of bucolic splendour occurred on the eve of that truly rhapsodic adage – previously shared herein – entitled: Won’t Take the A Train.

At the time, I had decamped to Babylon – after having cut short a trip to Washington D.C. and having secured part of my art collection from a roué Russian boor who, after having attempted to con me out of my art with the offer of setting up a home together, then crawled into my ear, calling me the N-word and let me know that it simply wasn’t going to work between us; this on my return to Toronto from the latest trip down to be with him.

Naturally, for good measure, he thanked me for the art… as he hissed his racially predatory bile in my fucking ear, my nostrils drew on a few quickened breaths as raptor-like this shrewd intellect of yours truly began rapaciously charming my way back for just one more visit. Of course, he could have the art but we had after all planned on going to Kennedy Center and the wedding of a friend of his.

He acquiesced… the damn fool. Returned to Washington D.C., thank goodness he was into S&M because his neighbours were little bothered as tied and gagged, I took to him with leather strap wrapped tightly about my black custom gauntlet as opera blared through his 5ksqf condo. After having riotously owned his ploughed under arse, I dragged him to the living room where whilst he remained crumpled, bound and gagged, I patiently removed my art from his previously naked walls, left the god awful gold frames on one, rather than both hooks, as previously, carefully wrapped the prints and placed them in the containers in which they had been transported from Toronto weeks earlier.

As the music soared, I moved his bound body to the bathtub, slumped him inside, relieved my bladder in his face as he ever loved during regular play… this, though, was anything but regular play. Truly enraged, as is the custom at such times, I said nothing whilst my eyes remained illegible beyond my shades. After I was done fucking with him for having fucked with me – I deal with karma here and now; besides, who would want to meet this boor in any future life – I called a cab and went to Union Station. Took another cab to the airport, changed my flight itinerary and made it to that glorious island like none that I knew whilst growing up in the Caribbean.

As for the roué, I called his best friend and told him that he, perhaps, ought to go check in on him as I had been out in Dupont Circle and my amour fou – and his best friend – was not answering the phone. Of course, we both knew that apart from S&M our drunken Russian regularly engaged in auto-erotic asphyxiation. Since I had met someone at a bar in Dupont Circle, I shared that I intended to go home with him and, perhaps, he ought to go and look in on his best friend. As expected, he readily agreed and hurried me off the line – to say nothing of permanently out of my life.

That done, I hung up the payphone at the American Airlines lounge at the airport, boarded my flight and as the plane roared down the runway, the one music I always listen to on takeoff, Jessye Norman gloriously roared whilst singing Richard Strauss’ Four Last Songs.

Lids languorously collapsed shut as the memory and thought of what should never have progressed beyond a one-night stand drifted away. Seriously, where would have been the fun of having to pass my life time-wasting with an ill-equipped man of less than five inches… quelle fuck-all joie ça!

So there was I returned to Babylon having secured MY art. I then had to prevail on one of Merlin’s oldest friends – a Toronto WASP Brahmin with a penchant for being a classist boor – to say nothing of bore… god who on Avenue Foch knows or cares about these people? At the time, my other lover, Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem was out of town and working at his bread-and-butter gig.

As I was not prepared to pass an evening with Carl Leroiderien, Merlin’s friend, being socially snide and all that transparent silliness, I got up in a pair of high heels, hot pants and tied my shoulder length permed hair in a ponytail and went crawling further south into the Village and ended up dancing at the Stonewall Inn which was recently made a national monument by President Barack H. Obama.

Of course, whilst I shook arse in my high heels, I had some big-handed, intensely beautiful-eyed Canadian lawyer from Montréal end up bump and grinding against me. Soon enough, back at his hotel, I discovered there was reward in having recovered my art and not having settled for trifling fare – my Italian stallion proved a girthsome ten inches of delightfulness.

More than all that, the tree you see accompanying this exquisite flying dream, I planted after having returned to Nevis for my 7^th birthday on August 2, 1967. My mother, Harella da Braga, knew that seven was my favourite number and asked what I would like for my birthday. As I had relocated from Nevis to St. Kitts at all of 7 months old, there simply was no other gift that could do it for me. The day trip to Nevis was the most lucidly awakened dream this side of the dreamtime had – at least to that point in my young exciting life.

The following summer, my mother who was as cold and emotionally remote as can be imaged, came to the door in that photo of the house we then lived in – after having been unceremoniously excommunicated from the Pilgrim Church down the street – and presented me with a lone large mango. Naturally, as the lastborn of six children, getting a whole of anything – let alone a mango – was simply unheard of.

However, the enigmatic Harella shared – after I had scrambled down from the genip tree where I daily retreated to take naps, dream and imagine myself on fantastic voyages and sometimes, though, rarely read – that the mango was from Nevis and she knew how much Nevis meant to me. I was floored by the gesture.

So whilst I sat making love to the ‘Nevis’ mango, my adorable sister, Pandora edged down onto third to last step to quietly sit – just one behind me – and asked for a bite or two. Ever precocious, without missing a beat, I assured her that she could have as many mangoes as she wished of the tree that, in time, the half-exposed seed of the fruit that I thoroughly relished would yet bare.

Always a man of my word, I then promptly planted the seed and – never, of course, having afforded my sister a single bite – erected a flower garden about it. I made sure to plant it outside my bedroom window so that each day, I would be greeted by its burgeoning beauty on throwing open the bedroom window.

Life is about giving – giving of self. I have never tasted a mango from that tree. The last time that I returned to St. Kitts – 1993 at least whilst the tree yet lived; it was gone in 2002, I am simply too eccentric and too much an off-islander to ever return there – the tree was promptly felled on my departure. The locals, as human society can ever be expected to react to anything remotely outré, decided that my being long-haired, a ballet dancer, in riding boots and multiple bracelets on each arm was too gross an affront.

Pandora did have many mangoes from that tree and I was always proud on my first return to St. Kitts in 1989 when Nicole McHugh (6th mature sage) said that she made sure that the tree was protected as it had been planted by myself and she always hoped that I would return one day and see what I had accomplished… indeed.

There comes a point where high heels, riding boots, long hair and all that run their course. More than that, I will damn well not go putting myself in harm’s way amongst persons who would just as readily dispense with the threat of my outréness as they did a perfectly beautiful and innocent mango tree.

That aside, this dream and the corona experienced therein could never have been perceived and experienced had I never planted the seed of that Nevis mango. This photograph remains my most prized possession… and with good reason.

The dream was dreamt on Thursday, July 8, 1993 whilst the Moon then grooved its benign waning beauteousness through Pisces and conversely my tenth house, conjunct the cusp of which is my retrograde Chiron which opposes Pluto in the fourth and simultaneously squares both Luna in the seventh and Mars in the first conjunct the ascendant… yes, I can be operatically combative when provoked, though, I have much mellowed of late – fuck it, life’s too short to be doing battle chaque fois… partout…

Goodness, it’s been awhile since I have taken the time to express my gratitude at your continued patronage. Too, it gives me no end of pleasure to be of inspiration and wish that you will ever take the time to push off, start flying and make as sweet as that Nevis mango your every dream. I love you more!

____________________________________

At night, in this the first dream, I walked towards Cleverly Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts in the streets of The Alley. There were some guys sitting along the roadside who seemed, perhaps, Italian, Lebanese or Syrian.

They might well have been light-skinned Blacks. Four of them in all, they wore white t-shirts with different-coloured shorts.

One wore red shorts, another black, one white and the other a blue pair. I was more connected to the one wearing the red shorts.

They were excitable guys who drew my attention to the large screen, high definition TV that sat just inside the window of Rosita Gould’s old green house. I could hardly make things out but the action seemed to be occurring in liquid slow-motion.

A young couple were very intimately making love; there were lots of extreme close-ups here. The guys were very excited by all this, of course, as they sat across the street from the house.

As they hung out liming away, they were closer towards the large drain that dissects the main road. There was a crumbling wall; the foundation was the remnants of an old house which was long-ago abandoned.

They were commenting on the fact that Hesketh Gould Jr., whilst fucking a woman, was in the house looking at porno. I couldn’t quite figure out who the woman was supposed to have been.

Going over towards them, I began checking out the guys and found them rather attractive. They all had rather light-coloured alluring eyes.

Certainly, there in Sandy Point, it was unusual to see such light-coloured eyes. The one in the red shorts was the definite ringleader.

I approached him and openly groped him. So bold and uncompromising was I, he could have done nothing but surrender to my forthrightness.

Of course, he was sporting a rock solid hard-on. Relaxing him further, I then began caressing him gently on his right shoulder.

I looked at him rather lovingly and sweetly. He surrendered; sweet smiling eyes complemented his colouring as he blushed.

Though these were not energies that he was accustomed to experiencing, I telepathically told him not to be afraid whilst the others remained perfectly arrested by our interactions. I casually suggested that, perhaps, we could go off somewhere and be alone.

He replied that he and the guys were actually about to head off somewhere. After having looked at his buddies for a bit, he then offered me to join them.

We ended up in the lobby of what seemed a cinema. In order to check out the movies, down a flight of stairs we had to go.

Naturally, since being in the dark side-by-side could only lead to greater intimacy, I was all for the experience. Whilst in the lobby, it was quite busy with lots of Blacks everywhere.

Different group settings of tables were scattered about one section of the lobby. There were several concession stands about the place.

The usher, a teenaged Black guy, wanted to know where my ticket was. I told him that my party had the tickets and had gone ahead and that I had come out to get something from the concession stands.

They had actually gone ahead of me and at no time had I seen them show any tickets. Not that I didn’t have the ticket stub to show but I really didn’t feel like being messed with by anybody.

Showing my legendary impatience, through and through, I got confrontational with him. He wore a company suit as part of his uniform.

The confrontation occurred at the half-flight down’s landing. One had had to turn to the right to go down another semi-flight and to the cinemas.

He stubbornly refused to let me go any further or, for that matter, to go call the guys. Finally, I got pissed off so headed back up the stairs to the lobby and stormed out of there.

When I left the theatre, I became aware of a group of guys close by who were intent on chasing me. There was no way that I intended to be party to any such scenario.

Looking at them, I said, “No, no, no. You are not going to.”

With that, I chose to rise above all this and decided to start flying. Pushing off, I began flying quite slowly.

Nice and peaceful, I thoroughly enjoyed myself whilst in flight. Rising higher, I grew dissatisfied with my speed and so willed myself to progress much faster.

Going alongside the road, however, I did keep close to the trees. I always seemed to have problems willing myself to fly higher or lower.

At certain times, it proved problematic when trying to negotiate the branches. There were times, when it seemed that I would even crash into some of the branches.

Then I reasoned, “Hey there, now Arvin. Wait a minute now.

“This is a dream and you can do more than fly. You can make your body even more malleable.”

With that, I upped my vibration and began progressing ahead. When I came to the next thicket of branches, I effortlessly moved through the branches and leaves without being obstructed by their solidity.

In short, to the point where I became light itself, I had intensified my vibration. This enabled me to pass through everything without the slightest discomfiture to my body.

In order to have to negotiate safe passage, through the unobstructed air, no longer did I have to go up or down. Regardless its vibrational density, I had become at one with the light which permeated everything.

I intuitively knew that everything’s vibration is imbued with light, as per the subject’s light properties, which allows it to be a perceived entity. Becoming pure light enables one to pass unhindered through the filter of all matter.

Therefore, to get through denser matter, one would simply have to will one’s light body at a faster speed so as to continue progressing at undiminished accelerated speeds. To have attained this degree of focus afforded me even greater expansiveness of spirit than for being in flight.

Next to the weighty confines of being bipedal and earthbound, flight itself had already proven fairly limitless. Thus, being focussed in the light body proved quite a wonderful experience.

Pushing ahead, I willed myself to fly even faster… soar even higher. At this point, even if others were on the ground, they would not have been able to see me.

Still following the road, I saw way below a six or seven-year-old White boy playing in the streets. He did see me, much to my surprise, and came running down the road after me.

He was so excited at the sight of me. Certainly, it was not as if I was dangerous for being Black and in flight.

The road had at one point veered off to the left, then down a steep incline, into an open expansive valley. At times, the road was earthen but on the whole it was a paved affair.

Where the road fell down into the valley, I began having problems because I kept on looking down below me to get my bearings. Part of my problem was experiencing fears, for being that high up, whilst in flight.

There was this sudden apprehension that left me feeling that there ought to have been branches close by; so that, if need be, I could readily grab ahold. Fears of losing focus and falling from the sky began taking form and assuming a life of their own.

I think that much of the reason for experiencing problems was the fact that I had been of the impression that for making myself light, vibrationally, I could not be perceived. So that when the young White guy in the road below had seen me, this left my confidence as to what I had been up to understandably shaken.

Before becoming fearful, there had been a point when I had soared high above the treetops. At those heights, it was fairly obvious that there was a corona of energy that towered up semi-spherically above the collective crowns of the treetops.

Though not perceived, it was raw pure energy which was distinctive. Energy it was which fed my own light body’s energies.

The really beautiful part of all this is that, in the process of becoming light-energied, I was able to leave tendrils of my light energies whilst moving through space. Everything, with which I came in contact, also left a residue of its light energies mixed with my own light energies.

In the true sense of the word, this was about becoming one with everything. Beingness, that state of total acceptance – wherein one is at complete oneness with all nature… all life – I had clearly achieved.

A thoroughly uplifting experience this was. Becoming infused with aspects of the trees’ collective life-force was akin to the experience on Boxing Day 1972^III.

All in all, it was a healing experience. What alas could be more rejuvenating and uplifting than, my trusted familiars, arboreals?

A very energising experience this proved. In the final analysis, I was able to recover and not become weighed down in negative vortices of fear based – fear it was which was based on the notion that I couldn’t will myself to stay aloft.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

May 29, 2016November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

________________________

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

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

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

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

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

The packaging had changed but nothing else had. END.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________

Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

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

Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.

______________________________________________________________________________________

The Racial Predator and A Fistful of Dreams. 2.0!

February 24, 2015November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

*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.

_____________________

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.

_______________________

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.

_______________________

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.

______________________

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.

_______________________

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.

_______________________

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.

_______________________

Photo: Toronto February 2015, Queen Street East, looking north towards Yonge & Bloor Streets.

Bubble Nebula.

Sting.

Tupac Shakur.

_______________________________________________________________________

Merlin Shapeshifts.

February 22, 2013November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

So here then a most jarring dream had, on Thursday, January 11, 1990. This truly disturbing dream occurred whilst the Moon transited both my second house and Cancer. Of the ones lived that day, it was the fourth dream recalled.

This dream was had less than two months after Merlin’s passing of AIDS and to have found him in a dream, rather unexpectedly, the revivification of life, health and boisterousness was stunningly jarring an experience. Certainly, when last I had seen him he was within either side of 70lbs.

________________________

I would then be moving on as if going along the main road of The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. There were some persons who were coming out of a large house that was much like Lara Wellesley’s. However, it was white… it was an off-white, whitewashed, large stone house.

Everyone coming out of there was talking and laughing. They were getting ready to go to a church somewhere. They were piling into a minivan that was also white.

I had gone past them. When coming back from Mount Idle, on the east side of the road by the old bank of the ground floor of Eustace Milne’s childhood home, from behind the minivan coming around between it and the bank building was Merlin.

He was wearing his light blue bandana – bought for him by Noëll, when he was in the hospital towards the end of his life. He wore very ordinary clothing like he always did. It was Merlin and he was very healthy.

He saw me at the same time that I saw him.

I was stunned. I stood there catatonic. I did not know what to do, and I thought,

‘What are you doing here?’

I was so happy to see him. I hadn’t dreamt of him in so long. I simply froze in my tracks. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk… I just did not know what to say.

I wanted to scream my way out of being paralysed. There was Merlin the embodiment of renewed vitality, I just couldn’t get over the fact.

He saw me and was momentarily surprised but instinctively he neurotically went into action. Merlin simply began energetically walking and went up these stairs.

I bolted after him after getting over the added shock of his response. I was surprised to see him in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was so surprised to see him up and about.

I got up onto this landing after having lost sight of him. When I got there, on my immediate left was a Chinese woman. She was just on the cusp of her twenties.

She was wearing what Merlin had been wearing except that she had no pants on. It was now a dress and the colour of the bandana… she no longer wore the bandana.

I felt so betrayed by this development. Merlin had camouflaged himself, by shapeshifting, to become a woman. He had shapeshifted becoming another race and another sex.

Merlin knew that I wouldn’t be able to relate to him thus. Transformed, he wasn’t the Merlin with whom I was excited to interact.

Thus he became female, a counterpart of his totality, to create the distance between him and the Arvin that he had known. I did not even look at her/him overlong.

The woman who was in charge of everything, organising the church outing, was not unlike Pannonica Kertész. I said to her, “I came to get Merlin… to get his things, his bandana…”

“Well you can’t. You can’t see him. You have to make a deposit and then you wouldn’t be able to see him until giving the ring deposit back.” or something to that effect.

She had replied very matter-of-factly. It was as though there had been a pact and somebody had reneged or something to that effect. I found it most upsetting.

I was completely flabbergasted.

*Of course, Merlin chose to shapeshift in this dream because he wanted to have some distance between the raw emotionalism of the attachments associated with his just completed life. I thought it interesting that though he had never travelled to the Caribbean of my upbringing, one of the earliest dreams of him on becoming an astral planet habitué found him there and of all places in Sandy Point, St. Kitts – a place he much wanted to visit. END.

_______________________________

Photo: Chinese model in A-line dress.

___________________________________________________________________________

Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: St. Kitts and Nevis

Astral Projecting Into Dreamtime.

Past-life Dream Set at Spencer House.

Gosh That Was Fun!

Michael Overleaves Appendix (Redux)

Being of Service… Fulfilled.

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

This Corona’s for You!

Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

The Racial Predator and A Fistful of Dreams. 2.0!

Merlin Shapeshifts.