Gosh that Was Fun!

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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!

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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. 

Distracted by Wim Heldens

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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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. 

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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.  

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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.  

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

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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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.  

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

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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.  

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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.  

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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. 

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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.  

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

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©2013-2022  Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

All Too Human… And Then Some!

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Well, after having been dazzled by Natalia Osipova, there was no doubt what next adventure my soul had to devour.  I arrived at Pimlico Station and enjoyed the cool brisk walk to the red and white gorgeousness of the neighbourhood architecture.  I arrived at 08:50, a good hour ahead of the opening.  I took the time to place my palm on as many of the august sycamore trees in the neighbourhood as I could.  There were some high-end cars waiting out front of the Tate Britain Museum to take in All Too Human as yet another jetliner roared towards London Heathrow.  Definitely bulletproof, a stately Benz sat closest to the entrance with a smoky grey Bentley, SUV no less, parked furthest of the cars.  

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Eventually, persons began turning up and the engaging West African security agent who had the same strong, proud, full-lipped mouth as Leontyne Price’s closed one of the two heavy black doors to protect me as I waited outside the main glass sliding doors as a private event was underway — thus one couldn’t be allowed inside.  Finally, persons began leaving, one of whom — in a beautifully vivid red coat — was Cherie Blair CBE, QC.  She was proud-looking and had the kind of broad body that as I child was so familiar when growing up in the West Indies.  She had that air about her that bespoke a life in the public eye; someone made a curt remark and she was quick on the rebuttal.  I was much humoured and reminded of Saddam Hussein trading insults with the men who moments later gladly terminated his life.  

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Finally, it was on to the business in hand and what a beautifully stunning exhibition; one of the best contemporary art exhibitions that I have attended in years.  The greatest discovery was the lush, richness of the Lucian Freud still-life, Two Plants.  Thoroughly layered, engrossing and lyrical in its deft vividness.  I was left teary eyed by its sublime beauty. 

Sleeping by the Lion carpet Leigh Bowrey

Of course, I was moments earlier moved to dewy-eyed focus when drinking in the rich tableau of the portrait of creative artist and true eccentric, Leigh Bowery whom many years earlier I had seen perform in New York City.   I was reminded, of course, in Leigh’s passing of the countless many whom I have lost along the way to AIDS.

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The poster for the show at Russell Square Tube Station in Bloomsbury.  A wonderful tribute to Leigh who covered a fair bit of ground during his lifetime… sweet and blissful dreams be yours…  

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Naturally, I booked my flight based on two things: one, Giselle with Osipova and secondly, a joint exhibition featuring Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon.  For that, I would gladly hop a Tesla to Iapetus.  Of course, this exhibition was a pilgrimage of sorts for me and it was a way of paying homage to the artistic accomplishments of cadre mates.  

Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud Francis Bacon

As per the portrait of Lucian Freud above, these two artists are cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s.  Lucian Freud is a mature priest in our entity (6).  Along with Rudolf Nureyev and Grace Jones, Francis Bacon is next-door in entity 5 of our cadre.  Francis is a mature artisan, Grace Jones a mature warrior and Rudolf Nureyev a mature sage… and how.  I was thoroughly warmed to have drunk of their spirits.  

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne 1966 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

This particular portrait, Isabel Rawsthrone, I especially loved.  Raw, primal and emotionally intense there is something decidedly operatic about the focussed intensity of this portrait.  After initially getting over the intensity of it, it proves rather warm and enveloping.  

Three Figures and Portrait 1975 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

This was a thoroughly arresting and soul-stirring adage; it was a beautiful way to have begun the day’s adventures.  

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After walking past the noise of the construction/renovations taking place on the first floor — one of the workers was a real pulse-racer, looking as he did like no end of hot, rough sex and in work gear no less!  Then it was downstairs to take in the Impressionists in London exhibition.  I did not buy the catalogue.  I always am a bit put-off by the association of the word “dream” when describing the works of impressionists.  There is nothing unfocussed or diffused about dreams.  Trust you me, as someone who recalls at least half a dozen dreams on average, oftentimes, dreams prove the most lucid part of any given day.  Perhaps, it was all the wine the French impressionists consumed but the maudlin-feeling lighting just doesn’t do it for me… most times.  

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Having had my fill, off I went from Pimlico to Nothing Hill Gate in the wet snow and made the long trek to Kensington Palace where one of the most glorious flying dreams in this lifetime was set — also, in that dream was a then incarnate, Diana, Princess of Wales with her two beautiful-spirited sons, the future HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry of Wales and Duke of as-yet-known after he marries his beautiful bride, Ms. Meghan Markle — a mature artisan, to his mature warrior and an entity mate of his no less.  

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On the long trek along Broad Walk in Kensington Gardens from the high street, I enjoyed the look of snow everywhere.  The odd flake fell from time to time as joggers braved the fierce wind off the park.  One brave soul with a shock of close-cropped red hair, sported the greatest thighs as he jogged strictly in a pair of wrestler’s shorts.  He proved warming for my blood, indeed.  

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As I got towards the edge of Kensington Palace the handsome raven above swooped in from off my rear right and towards the palace.  He alighted, cocked the head at me and kept taking to the wind to come closer, all the while fixing me with a hard gaze.  “Yes, of course, you can see my heart.  Love is the password” I said aloud to the totemic creature as it kept on calling at me and edging ever closer, though, not being confrontational.  Satisfied with my password, seemingly, it bobbed and took to the air never to alight again.  I rather appreciated the warm welcome.  

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I loved the sparse beauty of the King’s Gallery at Kensington Palace, which — for me at least — was lauded over by the Equestrian Portrait of HM King Charles I by Sir Anthony van Dyck, who happens to be in entity 1 of my cadre; he, presently incarnate and one of my oldest friends, shortly is about to return from his winter stay at his Acapulco penthouse; I will be visiting him later this spring on the Canadian west coast.

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A truly beautifully tailored, handsome suit, this one.  I am not a big fashion person — I believe that one is best dressed when naked and preferably tumescent.  I did, though, rather enjoyed the movement through the Diana, Princess of Wales exhibition.

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A very beautiful second-level mature artisan, she was too.  

HRH Catherine Duchess of Cambridge

Having been inspired by Diana, Princess of Wales’ portrait, I made my way to Charing Cross Station in Trafalgar Square and cut across the street where there was a broken water main flooding the street.  As usual, Yoda was there doing his routine and, no doubt, earning a pretty quid.  I took in the HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge-curated exhibition, which had opened two nights earlier on my arrival.  Though, I had stood outside the National Portrait Gallery to catch a glimpse of her arrival, I soon dashed off in the increasing snowfall, if I were to make my Jazz at Lincoln Center performance across town at the Barbican Center.  So, having missed seeing her in person, the next best thing was to go gaze at the portrait of HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge.  I love it as it is so layered and complex; she is a late-mature warrior soul.  

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As I move very, very quickly, I was out of there and soon grabbing a take-away fish and chips at Ben’s on Shaftesbury.  I then headed back to my hotel, ate, napped and got ready for a night at Royal Albert Hall to see OVO.  

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Never before had I taken in a Cirque du Soleil performance — I have my reasons…  Nonetheless, I just wanted to enjoy anew the ambiance and acoustics of the marvellous auditorium.  

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The show was no more engaging or exciting than bad bathhouse sex, which if it weren’t so late, one would never have bothered engaging in.  A perfectly forgettable tourist sort of thing to indulge when there was no other nighttime entertainment going that was worthwhile.  I could have taken in 42nd Street in the West End but I had already seen it at least a dozen times when then living and dancing in New York City in the early 1980s.  The idea of taking in 42nd Street was only slightly less irritating than the thought of messy bathhouse sex… options… choices, indeed!  

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After the show, on the long walk from Royal Albert Hall to South Kensington Station, a young mesomorph asked me for a fag — I don’t smoke — but it was obvious what he was after.  He sat across the narrow aisle on the eastbound Piccadilly Line ride and the rest proved a rather memorable night.  

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The morning after the night before, it was off to Windsor Castle, of which I will next blog.  

All Too Human Catalogue

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As ever, sweet dreams and thank you for your ongoing support.  

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved,

Michael Overleaves Appendix (Redux)

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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/

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

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©2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now catch the groove, push off and start flying! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi Arvin, how are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Art: Leigh on green sofa 1993

Oil on canvas

17.1 x 22.9 cm

© 1993 Lucian Freud.

Provenance:  Private collector.

Exquisite Lucian Freud of Leigh Bowery.

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© 2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Finding Centre (Redux) A Life at Court.

King_George_IV_when_Prince_Regent_(1762-1830),_by_Henry_Bone

The Sun is the source point for the causal and astral planes.  The Sun’s rays, indeed all stars’ rays, are the conduits along which the soul reincarnationally interpenetrates the planes.

This I learnt whilst in flight, directly above Sol, in the black void of space which was a very massive and heavy dimension onto itself.

A star’s electromagnetic frequencies, vibrating outwards, serve as the facilitating conveyance that enables the soul’s light energies to effortlessly move back and forth between the planes.

During this entire experience, I was so expansive that I felt as though limitless.  I really had no sense of being in a dream body in a projected out-of-body state.

Rather, there was no body, there was just pure intellect.  Absolutely liberating and superb was this dream experience.

Whilst I was on a nighttime sidestreet, I saw Dean Pulliam.  With no one about, he slowly rode on a white bike; he was cruising.

As I walked fast to catch up to him, he saw me and stopped, looked back then turned left onto a paved alley.  With that he rode off in a mad dash avoiding me.

I then got on a white bike myself and saw two 1970s, brown Pontiac Camarros or Firebirds.  They came down the alley towards me cruising along at a leisurely pace.

The first made a sharp left, at the back of a large house, going into an open yard.  The rear car made such an abrupt turn that it skidded and then broke loudly screeching.

They proceeded to the right of the house, in the alley, going towards the front.  Thinking that this was certainly unusual, I stopped to look.

The front car then stopped and out came a dark-haired handsome man.  He was screaming at the driver of the car in the back,

“Why are you following me?”

The other driver was a silent, deadly heavy type.  Getting out, the man said nothing in response whilst emphatically slamming his door shut.

Next, I was in a house at nighttime, as a thorough review and investigation was underway.  They were trying to find out why the devil the man was being pursued.  A very beautiful candle-lit salon it was here.

There were lots of crystal wares with marvellous-looking rich spirits filling them.  Food was exquisitely prepared and presented before the regally dressed guests who themselves were a fairly urbane lot.

The same dark-haired man was the centre of the drama here.  He was being celebrated as this apparently was the eve of his wedding.  Beautifully dressed, he was draped with a blue and gold sash.

Six-foot-plus, he was handsome, in a vaguely regal manner.  He took a handful of spaghetti, from a gold-leafed bowl, ritually tossing it to the kitchen and the chefs there.

Everyone gloriously roared whilst enjoying the drink of this man’s magnetic personality.  He was rather powerful and intimidatingly so to boot.  He was also a tad unpredictable.

*Obviously, this man was a Knight of the Order of Garter.  Perhaps, he was a royal prince whom I knew during my incarnation at the court of King George III.  At the time, I was a male singer at court and my accompanist was then female and Merlin – my task companion; she played the harpsichord.  END.

At that point, he hurriedly took his leave of the party.  Here there were lots of dark woods – exposed wooden beams, panelling and parquetry.  There were lots of details in the woodwork.

I then went to a rear salon of the house when the man’s pursuer showed up.  He banged on the front door demanding to be let inside.  Pandemonium soon broke out as everyone in attendance panicked for their lives.

Rushing from the salon, I made my way to a rear door.  Here the doors were rather large dark wood and easily eight-foot-plus in height.  There were a series of hunting bas reliefs in them.

A stout older man, a cardinal or bishop – some such clerical figurehead, went to the door to try and get rid of the man.  No such luck as the pursuer simply forced his way into the residence and overpowered the fairly frail and old cleric.

Again, not wanting to become ensnared in this scenario in any capacity – especially the detrimental, I bolted.  I did not care to be savaged by this man.  If he did not find the princely bachelor, of whom he was in hot pursuit, I felt that he would simply target me or anyone else.

This man seemed possessed of an equally deadly rage and appeared to be equally, predictably violent.  I then went to hide behind one of the tall oak trees outside; it was fairly dark outside.

Alone, I began willing my vibration to intensify.  In this way, I had hoped to make myself light thereby being rendered invisible.  As the process began, at will, I instantaneously began seeing my aura.

It was a large oval orb that fanned out, a good four-feet-plus, about me.  I then became light, fully invisible, in order to avoid a messy confrontation with this boor of a thug.  However, the pursuer had been able to catch some aspects of my aura as I hid behind the tree; though he had not captured me in the process.

All the colours of the rainbow were visible in my aura.  The white light shone so brilliantly as to have appeared as if platinum.  Being in this state was truly blissful.  It was as if being totally at peace, levitating and yogically centred.  Harmony…

Whilst the Moon transited both Pisces and my tenth house, I rather intensely, lucidly dreamt the preceding dreams.  Sometimes, the only way to escape chaos is by spiritually ascending to a higher octave – if only this were readily possibly in the waking state.

The dreams in question occurred, on Thursday, March 2, 1995.  As such, they are the first and fourth dreams lived during that sleep cycle.  

I would just like to add here that I never believed this to have been King George III.  Of course, after much research I have come to realise that it was the then Prince Regent, George Hanover who would become King George IV.  

To the point of being almost frightening, this man was immensely mercurial-energied.  What’s more as Merlin and I, plus a whole host of entity and cadre mates were present at court at that time, I have had many dreams which are focussed at that time.

Too, I’ve recently done both King Georges’ Overleaves.  Also, it should be noted that a couple of dreams had of that past life involved the first Viscount Nelson who was at court.  At the time, Horatio Nelson was known to both Merlin and I and he was a rather engaging personality whose tales of his travels were rather fascinating.  

I think that it is safe to say that Admiral Nelson’s accounts of Nevis were the trigger for me in that past life at court which eventually led to my choice to reincarnate in Nevis in this lifetime.  Too, at least one sibling, Pericles da Braga was also known to Merlin and I.  He was then a tailor of high-end clothing whom we favoured and he also would have known Admiral Nelson.  

I will say this much about the Prince Regent; he had a wicked wit and his arrestingly cutting observations were much feared.  He was utterly unpredictable.  The Prince Regent also appears in the previously submitted dream:  

https://dreampoetica.com/2015/03/02/skeletons-in-the-reincarnation-closet/

The future King George IV is the witty, sarcastic and dashingly polished man who sat across the room from Merlin (then Francesca) when she was older and at that point, I was also the snobbish male bore and lover of former Merlin (Francesca) who much reminded me of the late Canadian actor, Tom Kneebone – a man whom I truly loathed.  Of course, knowing that I was equally as bigoted a boor as was Tom Kneebone suggests that this is why I found Tom Kneebone such a vile piece of work – I positively could not stand the man.  Of course, I was merely responding to aspect of a past life which I found mirrored here in this incarnation in Tom Kneebone’s vile bigotry.  

In any event, here then King George III, King George IV, Horatio Nelson and Joseph Haydn’s Overleaves as court musicians both Merlin and I in that past life lived at court in Regency London/Windsor knew all these persons and they do factor both in the dreams Finding Centre and Skeletons in the Reincarnation Closet.  

Also known at that time was George Frideric Handel whose overleaves appear in the original Michael book by Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro: Messages from Michael.  

One interesting side-note to all this; when a child growing up in the northern shadow of Brimstone Hill Fortress in Sandy Point St. Kitts, in preparation of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II’s state visit to the newly independent state of St. Kitts, Nevis and Anguilla at just past my 7th birthday, they played Handel’s Zadok the Priest on ZIZ radio station.

As long as I live, I will always remember how startled and out-of-body I felt on hearing this glorious music for the first time in this lifetime.  Of course, I would have heard it performed live at the coronation of King George IV whilst at court in London, England.  I had actually felt dizzy and laughed teary eyed; to me, it was the most gloriously exciting discovery to have made musically.  This music still remains the most glorious sound imaginable.  

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King George III

Hanover, George III 4/6/173829/1/1820

King_George_IV_when_Prince_Regent_(1762-1830),_by_Henry_Bone

Hanover, George IV 12/8/176226/6/1830

Viscount Horatio Nelson

Nelson, Viscount Horatio 29/9/175821/10/1805

joseph-haydn

Haydn, Joseph 31/3/173231/5/1809 Vienna

George Frideric Handel

This is a fourth-level young sage in the observation mode with a goal of dominance, a realist in the emotional part of intellectual centre with a chief feature of impatience. 

This fragment was the composer George Frederick Handel.  

*These Michael Overleaves are found in the Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro book, Messages from Michael.  

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Art: King George IV when Prince Regent 

Oil on Canvas

c. 1800s Henry Bone

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© 2013-2022 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.