The Lady Eve 2.0.

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As only Preston Sturges could have envisioned, at last we have got ourselves a remake.  Would you believe it, a long-running romcom at the Buck House Theatre stars two rather convincing incarnations of Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda in Sturges’ The Lady Eve.  In this eight-year production, Charles – the slow, doltish oaf is played to uncanny perfection by the follicly challenged Duke of Cambridge.  In the role of Jean: acerbic, sarcastic, bitchingly fierce is the chain-smoking, bulimic, coalmining kinfolk, Catherine – the fair, suddenly and compensatorily beloved… to say nothing of reconstituted Duchess of Cambridge.  Look at them deplane; make no mistakes about it, they are hissing at each other.  Now as then, Catherine is just as dismissive of William as she was for all the world to see, within two hours of having said, “I do” at Westminster Abbey as they stood on the balcony at Buckingham Palace; yet, body language and lip-reading experts – so beloved by trash like DailyMail – were strangely never consulted.  They rowed and she hissed and dismissed the dim-witted oaf, within mere moments of finally having made him all hers.  

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My what an uncanny resemblance she bears the Duchess of Cambridge.  Of course, she was conveniently dispensed with by Catherine after recently marrying.  Naturally, such a move would nicely cover the obvious reason for her having been sacked as she was yet another of William’s conquests, right under Catherine’s nose.  He is a scholar soul and it is 99.99% probable that he was bedding Catherine’s staffer; it would of course be a way for him to act out the fact that he has no power in their dynamic/marriage.  She is a warrior and he is a scholar.  Catherine’s first number is 9; her energy body is all about being number one… Perfection is hallmark.  All energy body women who are 9s have these traits in common; they are rude, blunt, callous, will openly editorialise in front of anyone and everyone.  They tend to have a mannish quality to them for being so fiercely competitive and of course, this is why she is known as sporty Kate.  

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As a warrior, Catherine has zero percent of the allure and mystique that all artisan souls innately do.  As much as William is unbridled in his open animus towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, none of it would take place if Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge were not intimidated and challenged by Meghan.  The vile media lynching of Meghan is purely for the sport and empowerment of Catherine.  Nonetheless, she can run out there and cock-suck all she wants every mic in sight, Meghan will always stratospherically soar above her.  All artisans come prepared: to know the structure of a thing, anything… is to know its weakness and therein lies an artisan’s power.  William is stupid and Catherine is wooden and a mousy little dud for whom a mic is but kryptonite. 

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Go on, Meghan, start graciously, articulately, engaging in a display of that most rare of assets that you possess in spades… intellect.  During her ITV documentary with Tom Bradby, those were the eyes of an eagle, capable of flaying your very soul without so much as a second thought.  She knows, understands and controls the camera and its power.  She was born to be exactly where she is.  That interview presented someone far more emotionally intelligent and complex than we have ever seen representing the House of Windsor to date.  She was even more subtle and complex than Diana, Princess of Wales during her Panorama interview with Martin Bashir.  Truly, it is artful stagecraft what this woman does.  Like Diana before her and every artisan soul, she is completely misunderstood.  Where most souls have a plan B, all artisans know that there are 24 other letters in the alphabet for a reason; you need plans A to Z.  During that interview with Tom Bradby, Meghan showed strength, vulnerability and shrewd unbridled power.  She spoke to all her detractors both in the media and within the firm.  These are the palace mandarins who somehow think that she is not following the script; these tools who somehow think that just because the Cambridges are in the direct line of succession, therefore no one must outshine them.  

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In a scene that was truly incredulous, to say nothing of tedious, there was Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being vocal – rather than articulate – and speaking to the media for the first time after 8 years of marriage.  There, too, was HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge having to idly standby as never before he had and listen as she takes the spotlight.  This is the palace mandarins’ feverish re-branding of the wooden, mousy broodmare.  Yep, William looks pleased as punch at having to listen to his bullying wife takeover… seriously.  Like Charles before him with Diana, Princess of Wales, William has no intentions of living through a marriage with someone more popular than himself.  I feel sorry for the Cambridges because as much as they are hamstrung by their 9 energy, they are also at the mercy of the palace mandarins who tell them that this is what they have to do.  They are being galvanised into action where previously they had not been.  It is ridiculously risible to suddenly have Catherine out there, making speeches and engaging the media because as Meghan deftly demonstrated in her one-on-one interview with Tom Bradby in the gardens of the residence in Capetown where they stayed, she is a commanding master at self-expression, possessed of a most winning personality and is clearly nine-parts intellect.  image

Here is Catherine, sporting a hairstyle in which she essentially is wearing blinkers; this betrays how controlled and reined in she was, going into the marriage.  Of course, she has remained that way, to some degree, though she has definitely remained the dominant partner.  Catherine knows that her husband basically is stupid and uses her 9 energy to keep him in line and feeling imperfect – that’s what 9s do.  His out, naturally, for being a scholar soul is to seriously play the field as he damn well pleases.  

She is desperately having to perform and as a 9 body-energied person, she knows only too well how utterly imperfect she is at speaking up and being articulate or rather attempting to be articulate.  She is all about grinning and condescendingly making mere mortals aware of their every imperfection – that’s what 9 energy in the first position does.  Of course, 9 in the second position leaves William predisposed to being discriminatingly prejudicial in the negative expression of that number.  Certainly, this has been validated by the fact that in 8 years, they have yet to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation.  I can assure you, if they were to, there is no way Catherine and William would be donning the national costumes of the locals in say Nigeria, Kenya or South Africa.  What makes this even more bizarre is the fact that William proposed to Catherine whilst holidaying in Kenya, yet the couple have never once seen a reason to return to Kenya on tour and giving a speech about what a special place the country holds for them as a couple.  Truly bizarre.    

 

A few weeks back, in part of her childhood mental health campaign, which it goes without saying, is truly both admirable and commendable, Catherine sat clasping her hands whilst a little black girl in London on a charity visit was presented to her.  She smiled and she did that thing that all 9s do; she perceived the little girl as imperfect in some way and never once reached out to her beyond a guarded smile and never once touched her.  She would sooner have petted a dog in that situation than the black girl.  Meanwhile, there was she leaning in, touching, stroking and doing all that which 9s do when they have decided that you not that imperfect after all.  

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As captured above, Catherine at Royal Ascot 2019, on the eve of the announcement of the dissolution of the Fab Four Royal Foundation.   She was smug, obstinate and celebratory of her/their coup (the Cambridges).  I have known five persons with the same numerology, one of them even born on January 9th, though different year.  They are all as though carbon copies of each other for 9 when negatively expressed, leaves such afflicted women toxic and given to being obstinate, shit-disturbing and jealously petty.  No matter what you may think, the architects of the current hysterical animus towards TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are none other than TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.  Catherine is a warrior soul and they are fiercely competitive by nature; a warrior would compete with a rock if said warrior felt that its place as number one were remotely threatened by said rock. 

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So there was Catherine with her whimpy almost regurgitated can’t-find voice, giving her first TV interview in the 8 years that she has been married.  By so doing, she has given the plot away; we now know how truly shallow and grudging the Cambridges are.  Good god, you are future King and Queen Consort, leave the American whose gift of speech and eloquence, you will neither match nor surpass.  Just for being heirs does not mean that the Cambridges must be the most popular or that a lesser royal must not be seen to have more mass appeal than the über-flaneur quintessence of all things bland, TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.  None of what William has done has been done without being prompted by 9 energy body Catherine. 

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I would not in the very least be surprised if Catherine were to turn up to the 2019 British Fashion Awards and deliver a speech, thereby further reminding the heavily sage and artisan soul audience what a mousy little yawnfest she is.  Of course, she has never graced the awards before but that Meghan did and was such a success, you can bet that the Cambridges will insist that it is Catherine who should rightly attend the awards.  Catherine is like one of those gorgeous actresses from the silent movie era who when the transition to talkies occurred, proved such a fright that there went her career.   What possible interest does she think, eight years on, could anyone have to listen to what she has to say.  During the CNN interview with line-toeing Briton, Max Foster, Catherine’s; voice faltered and sagged, the longer she weakly carped on.  You can bet your last pound sterling that William laid into her about how poorly she performed.  

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No matter what these two do and how they get the world to hate Meghan and Harry, one thing will never change: the Sussexes are a couple in love – their marvellous adorable son is a true testament of that love.  This is why they hold hands and are so openly affectionate.  Charles was not in love with his clueless new wife, which is why they never held hands or openly expressed their love, which in either case is perfectly human behaviour after all.  Too, we know from their rowing on their wedding day that Catherine dismisses her husband as a fool and he has steadfastly rebelled by ploughing anything that moves.  

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The more these two, the Cambridges, sat by idly and said and did nothing as Harry and Meghan were lynched in the media, the more they exposed themselves as the grudging architects of the mob scene.  This truly primitive stoning of the Sussexes, is the work of a couple of 9s, who happen to be not just entity mates but task companions at that.  All this nonsense about Catherine having found her voice and her new regal style are like being black and having to watch frauds like Diana Krall be lauded as Jazz greats.  One also ought to be damn well wary when it is embittered souls like Alexandra Shulman suddenly singing Catherine’s praises as fashion doyenne after 8 long boring years.  This is the same Alexandra who was ousted at British Vogue by Edward Enninful, which likely means she has more than an axe to grind as the fashion bible has become more inclusive and reflective of British and world society.  

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Harry channelling his past-life inner Snoop Dog; pass the Courvoisier!  

If Harry were to have remained a bachelor for another decade, none of this sudden need for the Cambridges to express public affection and for Catherine to have developed a fetish for cock-sucking every mic in sight, would be taking place.  Joy Elvin, Alexandra Shulman all lauding the old sodden driftwood as never before, is a right case of the emperor’s new clothes.  Well darlings, just as Hollywood was not impressed by her in 2011, so too were Elvin and Shulman nowhere to be found singing La mouse’s praises.  Go ahead, no matter how she preens and engages in mindless, mousy drivelfests before every available mic, including one proffered by a biased Brit, CNN’s Max Foster, ain’t nobody gots time for that cold, leftover side order of chitlings.   

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This is the beauty of the artisan soul’s mind on display.  After a winning tour de force presentation of self, in which both TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex lay their souls bare with absolute candour, the upshot of which was that William, architect of the Duchess of Sussex’s lynching in the media, especially at that vile rag, DailyMail, was made to do a mea culpa turn in the media, expressing concern for their mental well-being.  This coming after the British tabloid rags never ever once mentioning what a formidable asset Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is to the firm with her stellar intellect and the fact that this woman is the most articulate, camera savvy, emotionally intelligent member of the British Royal Family that there has ever been.  This showed in spades in her engagement interview in November 2017 with the BBC and again, in her interview with Tom Bradby at the end of which, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex turned around and launched their lawsuits against the media – as well they damn well should!  How could you go on and on ad nauseam about this woman and never once mention what an articulate asset to the BRF she truly is. 

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It is the goddamn elephant in the room; they never ever can criticise this woman’s intellect or her commanding stage presence – the gift she has for communicating the message.  And then there is Catherine…  Ha!  Then when they were all wondering if Meghan was too fragile and mentally exhausted comes the One Young World Summit at Royal Albert Hall and like Diana Ross, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex comes through moving to the stage from the audience in a bit of stagecraft that had triumph written all over it.  Indeed, this was the same Royal Albert Hall where last year, thanks to the race-baiting gutter journalism at the DailyMail, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex were booed as they took their seats.  This past week as she confidently strode through the audience at Royal Albert Hall, the message was plain and simple: they don’t call me Tungsten for nothing!  Just when you thought that you had that woman figured out, she goes and pulls a fast one – exactly as every other artisan worth their salt would.  

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Just like Andrew’s minor meat proclivities, the Cambridges were exposed for the pivotal and venal role in the Sussexes’ lynching in the media that they have played. There was William having to appear in the press, expressing concern for the Sussexes’ well-being.  Of course, for so doing, Catherine and William were readily exposed for their role in the media lynching of Sussexes and in particular, Meghan.  How anyone can find fault with someone as gifted at communicating the message as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, truly is beyond me?  Regardless how they jeer and celebrate, like Catherine at Ascot in 2019, they will never eclipse the light that is the Sussexes’.  I have often wondered if the Cambridge’s vindictive campaign were not rooted in the past.  Who knows, perhaps, Catherine – who is the real power behind the sabotaging of the Sussexes – was King Richard III, who was maligned and pilloried by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, the former Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort.  Then again, perhaps, William had been Richard III and as the Cambridges are task companions, it would be so like the dominant partner, warrior soul Catherine, to mete out justice as she sees fit.  This is mere conjecture on my part as I have not done the past-life overleaves of either senior Cambridge – similarly, I have never seen the need to do the overleaves of the Cambridges’ children.  The Cambridges are not a couple in love; William settled in the end when no aristocratic woman would want to pass a life, having to babysit his damaged – to say nothing of oafish – persona.  As Catherine is the power partner in their task companionship, they both merely chose to have William reincarnate into the House of Windsor’s direct line of succession so that she, if indeed she were Richard III, in the past, have access to the throne and avenge herself of Meghan, who was then Margaret Beaufort. 

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Then again, maybe Catherine was no such person in a past life and simply possessed of a spiteful persona that is more than a little prejudicial – their recent dress-up parade in Pakistan certainly would not have been indulged in when visiting any predominantly black Commonwealth culture.  In any event, as Diana, Princess of Wales is likely soon to reincarnate, I am sure she is finding all of this drama rather intriguing and the Cambridges truly venal.  Either way, as Andrew eventually has been exposed, so too will Catherine and William be fully exposed for what they are.  

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That face of hers when not fakely grimmacing that fuck-you smile is such a hard, miserable sight; it truly captures who really is behind the Sussexes’ lynching and all because, one must not be more popular than moi.  Well damn girl, you only had 8 years to open your damn mouth and say something remotely intelligent, to say nothing of charming.  

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Though the neighbouring apartments at Kensington Palace were prepared for the Sussexes, quite rightly Meghan and Harry saw fit to move to Windsor’s Frogmore Cottage and set up their offices at Buckingham Palace.  Regardless the cultivated face the Cambridges show the public, at heart centre, they are a very petty, mean-spirited partnership.  The Cambridges embody the negative aspects of their 9 energy to the max – prejudicial and hypercritical… to say nothing of hyper-cynical; these are not persons that one would want to be around overlong.  Though Meghan has been described as a con and a fake, hustler, social-climbing blah blah blah, all for being black and accomplishing the unthinkable, the true Lady Eve is Catherine, who with her mother, preyed on blithering William like a famished eagle a mere lamb.  

 

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

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*Since having posted this dream blog some years back, I was always fascinated why I was simply summoned to be with the actor, River Phoenix when he passed. I did mention that sense of feeling strong resonance at the time of cadre mates’ passing. This dream was a poignant example of being called into action, to be of service to someone with whom I have a strong and connected soul bond that spans multiple past lives.

This was something that I felt at Natalie Cole’s passing and, of course, she proved to be an entity mate. In the case of River Phoenix, whose overleaves I will include here and which can now be found in the revamped and tidied up Michael Overleaves Appendix page, not only is he also an artisan soul but he happens to be a greater cadence mate of mine. This dream would not have occurred if we did not share this very strong bond; as a result of my cardinal casting, I am often called into action in dreams such as this one when entity and cadre mates pass on.

Read these dreams anew and do enjoy!.

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Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, I would be transported to a cul de sac of the astral plane wherein I am not frequently focussed. It was Monday, November 1, 1993. At the time, as now, I did not own a television and hardly looked at it. Also, at the time, I hardly listened to radio or read newspapers et al. I was also much removed from most daily chatter as I had been off sick from work but did go in to participate in the annual Halloween costume competition which the year prior I had won when dressed in full drag and looking hotter than even Tina Turner herself in my high heels. The above photo of yours truly was taken at Halloween 1993, the day prior to this dream.

Thus it was that I would fall into sleep and immediately be summoned to be in service to the higher good. What is really interesting about the experience with the famous actor encountered in these dreams, I rather suspect that he may be a cadre mate from the tenor of the dream encounter. Too, there are a number of famous persons in my cadre and he seemed vibrationally not dissimilar to them.

That being the case, this likely explains why I was called on to be of service at the time. I am said to be rather cardinal in casting, which is clearly reflected in yours truly being inordinately gifted when it comes to fathoming the depth and breadth of the dream realms. Too, as these dreams were clearly focussed on the astral plane, naturally, there was dream flight. More than that, whilst focussed on the astral plane in the dreamtime, one did encounter at least two, possibly three, extra-human species.

As there is flight and levitation in these dreams, I pray that they will richly inspire you. Fly my darlings, fly, don’t even for a second doubt, just melt into a mischievous plié and start flying – cause you can… cause you are magic incarnate!

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A woman and I were together, in this the second dream, above the Arctic Circle. This woman did remind me of the woman, who had earlier been in the previous dream encounter with Niles Ben-Daniel and seemingly his lover. I was not fully certain that this woman was one and the same as, the one posing as Niles Ben-Daniel’s lover, in the prior dream. She had a couple of siblings whom she had asked to find out what time it was.

Here, they kept time quite unusually because there was no tundra about. They, as a result, kept sundials. They grew their grass such that they were able to tell from Sol’s shadows what time of day it was. Their sundial was a natural phenomenon which used the rugged flat landscape for keeping time. Standing there, I faced due north. Sol was still in the sky, but low, and at the two o’clock position. Sol was red and potent; it was almost serene-looking.

Over time, they had planted a hedge of Chinese boxwood, which stood a foot tall. From it were a series of radial-like spokes radiating out from the centre. All told, there were twenty-four spokes; of course, the spokes lined up with each hour of the day. Even in the wintertime, the hedge though submerged maintained an imprint of itself above – in the snowed and iced over terrain. It was quite nude (barren) landscape here. Sol’s shadow was presently pointing directly at the ten o’clock position though it clearly wasn’t. Ten o’clock could also have been four hours past midnight.

I decided that it had to be around four, in the morning, which is why Sol appeared in the sky where it was. This was the time of year when Sol never sets which made it difficult for me, a novice in these parts, to readily get my bearings. Quite a strange phenomenon because my body felt nocturnally phased, yet, there in the sky was Sol as plain as the Moon. She wanted to know what time it was because she was getting ready to go down south to the ‘Southland’.

She also referred to it as, ‘the land of the setting summer Sun,’ which did make sense. She had said all that in her Inuit tongue, yet I had been able to follow perfectly well as though she had been speaking English. More than being with her, rather, I was there as an observer and took in the minutiae of this unique culture. Certainly, we were keenly aware of each other and that we were both gifted telepaths.

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Next, in this the third dream, I was in a crowded interior. It was a waiting lounge in a large depot that was not unlike New York City’s Grand Central Station. A sandy marble, time-yellowed hue, the walls here were the same colour as at Grand Central Station. A high-ceilinged cavernous place it also was. The main hall had several wings that adjoined its considerable length. Here, there was natural light coming in from the bathysphere-like windows that sat way up the walls and close to the ceiling.

In that sense, this was not unlike the grand hall in which I walked with Merlin during which we encountered the exalted magus on September 4, 1988. I was seated on these large wooden benches that were old, comfortable and looked not unlike church pews. Semi-circular in shape, they gave a sense of inclusiveness to them. All around me exclusively were men. This place seemed, if you like, some sort of way station. One guy there was very slight-bodied, young and naïve-looking.

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Looking at him, he wore a navy-blue track suit. He came over to sit next to me, eventually sitting on my right. Patting him on the back, I told him that it was really good to see him. I wished him a safe passage and asked that he go in peace, “Have a safe passage. Go in peace and do have a good journey…”

Of all people, it was the actor, River Phoenix – he recently overdosed on heroin, early on Sunday, October 31, yesterday. This was a very vivid dream. I was quite lucidly awakened. Feeling great compassion for his tragic departure, I thought to be of comfort to him and to uplift his spirit in whatever way possible. There and then, I realised that this was a place where persons who had recently died came whilst in transit to their final destination as returning astral plane habitués.

*This, of course, did not surprise me. Right away, I was reminded of the sense of mammoth dimensions that also exemplified the architecture of the train termini, where I had run into Merlin in that momentous dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. END.

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Seated there, next to him, I exclusively turned my focus on him. I then began doing an enormous amount of energy transference, thereby healing his spirit, before he could move on. Who cares the attachments to this man, in the waking state? I have never followed his career but here, in his astral plane hour of need, we were souls and healing is the most generous gift of love. After having left his life in such a dissociate state, River Phoenix needed to be made more whole.

This is why he had seemed so naïve and as if in a daze. He saw me and purposefully began walking towards me. God only knows what he noticed in me that was different to the others. Until he was about two feet away from me, I for one had not realised that it was him. By that point, he had already been intent on coming to sit with me. He clearly needed my services.

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Phoenix, River 23/8/197031/10/1993

This fragment was a second level mature artisan – third life thereat. River was in the observation mode with a goal of growth. A realist, he was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

Body type was Lunar/Mercury.

River’s primary chief feature was self-destruction and the secondary stubbornness.

Casting for River is fifth-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three – greater cadence mate of Arvin’s. River’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

River’s essence twin is an artisan and he has a sage task companion.

River’s primary needs were: exchange, expression and power.

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin.

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At the level of soul, I could not have cared less who he was; his energy body’s vibration needed a good deal of realignment before he could move on. He chose me and I gladly obliged his wishes. When patting him on the back, I was keenly focussed on sending him a great deal of near-aqueous blue-white light. River Phoenix was saddened. Rather, he seemed to be in a state of shock, though, not horrified or enraged. There was just a degree of resignation as he came to terms with where he was at. When it was all over, in the brief moments that it took to lay my hand on his back, he got up to get going.

He was obliged to take his leave and move on. He seemed here truly dazed. Perhaps, these were residual effects of his having passed in a heightened soporific state. Seated there, I felt completely drained of my very breath itself. I was left feeling so overwhelmingly sad and strangely alone. Another guy had sat down, on the other side of me, whilst I energetically focussed on River Phoenix.

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I can’t, for the life of me, say whether or not the guy had ambled up to join us seated there or if he had simply materialised – on the astral plane – for having just projected himself into our midst. Looking Hispanic, more than anything, this man had yellow-coloured eyes. Absolutely bewitching they were. He wore cream-coloured jeans with matching cream-coloured jacket. There was a lot of black in the clothing. This was in the style of Hip-Hop fashions.

He was a very sensitive man with a Hispanic accent and was slightly older than River Phoenix; he was about 24 or 25 years – at least he looked about that age. His hair was thick, black and curly. By way of conducting focussed energy transference, my function here was to provide counsel. I would simply tap into their vibration and, by way of their chakras, realign their energy. All of them seemed to have passed suddenly, completely unexpectedly. Thus they had a great need to become assimilated to what was clearly an unexpected turn of events.

They needed immediate supervision and companionship, until having become further acclimatised. Meanwhile, the persons around me were all being counselled by others – who were more solid-looking – whose role was like that of mine. I was, like all the others, a guide, companion and energetic facilitator to the arrivée habitués.

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Architecturally, this place was so immensely massive. It was also more ancient by at least 30 millennia than the rise of the Roman Empire. Clearly, there is no way to get around the fact that this was an astral plane experience. There was also no way to get around the fact that the first man, with whom I worked, was the actor, River Phoenix. What was really impactful for me was that River Phoenix, like all the others, had absolutely no emotions. He was in a place of total detachment.

Though a sudden departure from the life being lived, his soul consciousness was totally matter-of-fact about the situation at hand. The past, his recently accidentally concluded incarnation, was concluded and behind him. Period.

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Whilst we were all there, we were caught in some commotion when a Black guy appeared. He wore a blue jean jacket and wore on his face a flesh-toned fabric mask. He looked as though he had been in a burn unit at a hospital, I assumed, after having suffered massive burns to more than 95% of his body. It was the mask used for allowing skin grafts in such instances to take without becoming infected. My sense impression of his situation was that he had been in a violent car crash which turned into an explosive fireball. He had survived and was in hospital, for a while, undergoing massive skin grafting surgeries.

He also wore dark shades. The moment that he appeared, everyone instantaneously freaked out. All that one could see, was his mouth and nose; the image was upsetting, menacing. Right away, we all began fleeing that section of the grand hall. His arrival was simply instantaneous. He had simply manifested in plain view. When he came through, he brought with him a great explosive energy and immense suffering. This is what had upset the Chi in the place; it was quite an impactful energy wave that accompanied his manifestation. On closer inspection, I realised that he had not been a burn victim as he was still brandishing a large semi-automatic weapon.

Clearly, he had been holding up a business and got himself shot to death in the process. Thus, as is, he instantaneously appeared on the astral plane. The energy around his death was+ so immensely violent, as he went berserk, that it proved rather jarring for the rest of us. His body was violently sputtering away, as though, still echoing the massive volley of bullets that were being pumped into him. No doubt, a battery of over-armed police officers were only too happy to waste yet another ‘Black’ male.

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We all immediately started bolting because here was he, suddenly arrived and carrying a weapon, on the astral plane to which all these arrivés were not yet fully acclimatised. There was a group of urbane Gays over to one side who kept to themselves. The Gays went truly berserk, fearful of him, as this man was clearly a zealous homophobe. That too was the other thing about this place; one was able to accurately ‘read’ a person on their arrival.

As I sat there on the pews doing my energy work with River Phoenix, most of the light flooding the hall came from off to the right and rear. From the inner hall, I went bolting along with everyone else and took cover. The armed Black man had manifested across the hall from me. Making my way from what I thought previously was the main hall, I ended up in a grand hall that was easily seven times larger than the atrium in which I had been counselling River Phoenix and then the yellow-eyed Hispanic.

As everyone else had been bolting in that direction, I made a left turn. From the main hall, I was now in another atrium; this one, however, was considerably darker. This one was several storeys high with the same colour schemata as at Grand Central Station. Though there were no discernible floors as such, at each storey there were landings. I would then bolt down to where all the other Gays were ahead of me. In a bid not to be captured by this guy, who had no awareness that he was now dead and on the astral plane, I leapt over the railing and down onto the escalator where the Gays were.

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As they were all still clambering down the steps, this was not the greatest idea on my part; it was a truly chaotic scene. Deciding against pursuing the herd mentality, I willed myself from amongst them. With that I began levitating, above them and shot upwards, flying up into the nave of the towering complex. Goodness, this place was immensely massive. Soon enough, the man came to where we had been and made for the stairs from which I had just taken off. Being sufficiently distracted, I knew that he wouldn’t be able to either hear or see me way above him.

Too, he wouldn’t think to look up and see me. I flew in such a way that I progressed around a corner which took me into another wing of the massive complex. Here, there was a balcony whose wall was such that it had an indentation in the shape of an inverted top hat. Thus, the balcony was as if wrapped inside the hat. Hiding out in the cover of the balcony, I peered out – from time to time – where I saw others on lower balconies who peered up at me.

Others were off to the right in the inverted balcony. They discouraged me from coming because they thought that, somehow, my movement would attract the newcomer with semi-automatic weapon. They were of the impression that he was, in the first place, out to get me. All around, this whole episode was terribly unpleasant. It had all the chaotic madness that must surely exist, at present, in the streets of a war zone like Bosnia or Croatia.

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Deciding against hiding out, I sought to be rid of this place altogether. With that, I began flying upwards towards the very ceiling of the grand hall. The ceiling was as if a force field and not a physical construct. Thus, without incident, I was able to will my way through its parameters. I was truly relieved to have made it out of there. One had the sense of leaving one dimension and moving on to another, whilst seemingly clearing the grand hall’s ceiling, and into the next dream experience.

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Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside where I immediately encountered some young teenage females. All were sarcastic, bitchy solipsistic twits. They were on an empty city street. Racy-edged, in the extreme, were they. Especially for feeling the enervation that I did for the massive energy transference work that I had undertaken with River Phoenix, I really did not care to be around these people’s energy.

At the time, I was still in flight but had slowed down, hoping possibly to interact with them. Finally, I had no time for them and their bullshit. No need to be around their imploding energy. Without haste, I flew on and went onto a side street. There, I saw a really large building from which there were some persons presently exiting.

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It was as if one were looking outdoors, due west towards Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan. A young couple came from the building and entered a car which looked like a Bentley limousine. A massive stately old car it was and looked every bit as though it had been made from lead. A large structure stood to my left as I watched them drive away towards what seemed to be Fifth Avenue.

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Looking to the structure, I realised that the structure was in fact St. Patrick’s Cathedral which, of course, meant that I was at 51st Street at Fifth Avenue. Naturally, the car made a left turn and went south down Fifth Avenue. Here it was nighttime with lots of snow in the street, the sidewalk, and covering just about everything. The car wanted, once on Fifth Avenue, to go westwards along 50th Street, but couldn’t because that street runs easterly one-way.

There was also too much snow jammed there in the street. So, in the end, the car went down to the south end of Saks Fifth Avenue to try and get onto 49th Street. Here in the dreamtime, contrary to the waking state arrangement, 49th Street flowed easterly. This made me realise that its attempt to go along 50th Street was not bizarre. I guess that they then intended to go easterly along 49th Street, over to Park Avenue then up 57th Street, make a left at that street, to try and get across town that way.

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I figured that that major thoroughfare would not be impassable. I was keen to find out who was inside the car, which was a very regal, stately affair; they were a sophisticated well-bred couple. I was more intrigued by the car because it was mostly glass, with the rear windshield arching up to above their heads, as they sat there exuding their exalted classism. The side panelling on the outside, and where the rear windshield met the roof, was all solid gold. Atop the roof there was a beacon like on a taxi cab, however, it was made of solid gold.

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Really, it was more a coat of arms than anything so crass as a taxi’s beacon; this was a truly luxurious-looking vehicle. As I inspected it, I had been in flight hovering a couple of floors above it. Rising in the air, I began speeding down on the east side of Fifth Avenue over St. Patrick’s Cathedral. When I got over the cathedral, I noticed that – unlike its waking state counterpart – this one had flying buttresses. Though it was very dark out, as though the dead of a Dark Moon night, I noticed that there was activity atop the cathedral. There were things there which I found immediately intriguing.

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Abandoning my pursuit of the Bentley landau, I slowed down, coming closer to observe what was going on atop the cathedral’s roof. There, I saw wonderful fowl; there was a whole array of them which were quite large. One species was white with lots of black specs throughout its body. They were all on different ledges on the flying buttresses. All of them had nests that they were tending.

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One of the nests had 8 large speckled eggs inside. There was, however, no fowl tending to this nest. Flying slowly, within ten feet of the buttresses, I inspected everything with a keen eye. This was so very astral plane in focus. Considering that I had previously been counselling River Phoenix, who had recently passed, it made sense that I should be on the astral plane. In any event, the rooftop was pitch-black and covered in tar. The masonry here was also much blackened with time’s passage. Too, there was a lot of moss covering every available nook and cranny.

I suppose that this replica of St. Patrick’s Cathedral needed to exist, here on the astral plane, to provide some sense of continuity to the dearly departed recent arrivés of the Catholic persuasion. Here on the astral plane, this St. Patrick’s Cathedral was considerably larger than its waking state counterpart. As well, it was millennia older than the Roman Coliseum. The older dead moss had left the structure blackened – along with the centuries of pollution and soot caked on in layers. Naturally, in order to get up to the roof of the nave, I had had to rise higher and beyond the buttresses.

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Once higher in the air, I saw down between these two buttresses a group of Whites. They were dressed in animal skins and were, in the true sense of the word, barbaric-looking. They had not yet fully developed the ability to speak; thus, their speech consisted of a series of barks and grunts. Quite hirsute, they were obsessively fearful. Huddled on the top of the structure, they proved a smelly lot.

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Everything was quite ancient and scorpionic-hued. As well, there was a tribe of black-furred monkeys with some red in them. The Barbarians also wore a skin that had a reddish hue to it which was seemingly a doeskin. Theirs was, as well, a tawny reddish complexion. On noticing me, the monkeys went wild, climbing up to the tops of the buttresses; frantically, they pounced and screamed up at me. Goodness, they had such large vicious-looking teeth; thank goodness they could not fly.

Mildly horrified, I simply levitated higher into the air and stayed clear of their none-too-evolved noise. Exceptionally tiny, they were also very intelligent-looking. Truth be told, they looked much more evolved intellectually than their simian cousins, the Barbarians. Goodness, they were feisty and noisy. Wanting to investigate everything about the queerness of the sight of me, they were truly inquisitive.

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Going higher, I reached to the top of the nave where I noticed a couple lying there. They were lying on their backs. Looking not unlike the sphinx’s, theirs were the most abnormal-looking skulls that were splayed and large. Their clothing was unusual-coloured; however, on closer inspection, it turned out to have been their skin. Basically, their skin was as if a floral-printed fabric. Very brightly coloured, their skin was an interesting sight… to say the least. They lay there, looking not the least bit surprised at the sight of me. They also seemed not inclined to do anything but enjoy themselves in repose.

They seemed so mysterious. Looking down, I alighted to investigate. I spent some time looking down at their feet where their skin was also uniformly distributed. I had wanted to leave but decided to head in the opposite direction; as they lay there, their feet were in my way. I didn’t want to have to upset or interact with them. They seemed alien, in the true sense of the word, but were not in fact to be disturbed. Silently, they lay there and directly looked at me. One had the sense that they could have turned deadly in a femtosecond and gone at me like a cobra on the attack. They had very cool eyes that were powerful, truly scorpionic. Theirs were the kind of eyes that were beguiling but utterly untrustworthy.

*Their eyes much reminded me of that dream encounter with Lars Gamst, set in the British Isles some centuries back, wherein we encountered a litter of oversized cats, which turned out to be not only psychic but also feral. This was back in the summer of 1988 – before recording the dreams on audio-cassettes. END.

Soon enough, I flew away from there because this was much too astrally focussed an experience. I might add, as dreams go, it was one that was very much so real and quite layered. It was simply much too intense; so, with that, I withdrew being energetically focussed therein.

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Hope you enjoyed having taken this groovy little trip with me… Go on, hop to it, start flying. I love you more.

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©2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Architects Home In The Ravine

The Artchitects Home In The Ravine 1991

Oil on Canvas

200 x 275 cm

1991, Peter Doig

Provenance: Private Collection; sold at auction in London, England, 2013 12$m.

http://peterdoig.mbam.qc.ca/en/

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How did I not know of this creative genius before?  Well, apart from not being awash in multiple millions… I have watched this painting for the past several weeks truly enraptured.  Of course, thanks to the schadenfreude that was Evan Solomon’s demise – goodness, if you sneezed, it’s very likely that you would have missed it – I have finally found Peter Doig.

Of course, I don’t look at TV so his departure from CBC would have been more readily noticed.  Moral of the story: do not ever try extorting money from the rich… and a lawyer to boot – Bruce Bailey.  Goodness, what could he possibly have been thinking?  The greedy twat… adieu!  Goodness, I have not laughed so hard in long ages.

As Sunday is my birthday, I am going to be shaking tail feathers – it’s also Caribana  or whatever it is now called – and being feted over the next couple of nights.  Happy summer, sweet dreams and my but I love this Peter Doig painting.

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© 2013-2023 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.