While the Moon transited both Aries and my eleventh house, I would dream the next four dreams. At the time, it was Friday, January 29, 1993 and I was on the cusp of meeting someone who would prove the biggest test of my patience.
Eventually, this gross amour fou elected to steal some of the choice pieces of my art collection. He had devised a scheme to have at my art by inviting me to set up a home with him in the States; thankfully, he was into S&M so when it came time to tie him up and truly take the strap to him, his neighbours were little worried.
I have always looked back at that adventure with the greatest laughter; goodness, if only Philip Emerson were around with whom to share the anecdotal evidence. Philip was such a marvellous fellow. Of course, he is an artisan soul and not just any old artisan soul. Philip is next-door in cadence four of my greater cadence and in the same priestly position as yours truly. What a marvellous travelling companion he proved.
Two days ago, proved the 67th anniversary of the start of Merlin’s most recent past incarnation. So, after having been to my dentist’s for the quarterly scaling, I moved a couple of blocks north on Yonge Street and entered into the glorious park, Mount Pleasant Cemetery. My, how the trees have grown since I worked there 25 years ago as I chose to deal with Merlin’s end-of-life illness and my fear-based dreams – which simply had to be addressed head-on – of death and mortality.
It was a fantastic choice to have made. The other option was to have been prescribed pharmaceuticals and since drugs do you and my dreams are not to be trammelled on, the only way to have addressed the issue served me well when electing to work at a cemetery.
I noticed drying flowers and fresh broken earth next to Merlin’s lot where his ashes are buried in a lovely dark wooden urn 18 inches below the ant and weed-riotous parched earth.
Could it be that his only surviving brother had passed? I don’t know and frankly could not care less. Looking to the left of Merlin’s marker, I saw the plaque which signified his former parents’ lots – both at this point now astral plane habitués.
I thought too, as I took photographs, of that stinging indictment – one of way too many suffered,
“What do you know about money like this? Why should Merlin will you any money? My god, you’re just from a little island, for crying out loud!”
To which, I born and bred in the Caribbean and from a genealogical banyan that includes Cicely Tyson, Louis Farrakhan, first U. S. Treasurer, Alexander Hamilton, Brazilian Sephardics among others, imperiously shot back,
“As is the Queen of England and the Emperor of Japan!”
Of course, before she could manage a comeback, I dismissingly shut her down in a louder register than hers,
“Good night, Sybil!” then slammed my phone shut.
Oh what a glorious age that, when you could actually abruptly put end to bothersome conversations by hanging up a damn phone.
Of course, months later after Merlin’s passing, I had managed to end up in the local paper’s daily police report as someone had roughed me up – after having stolen my bike and my attempts at taking it back did not go according to plan; though, I did eventually get the damn thing back.
Sybil ever ready to do battle – god these horrid Baby souls, called up full of bile and got my voicemail only to leave a nasty little message – quelle surprise ça – in which she declared that since I had not answered the phone, I was probably laying at the morgue while on route back to hell.
West Indian to the core, I shot a callous look to the floor and noted aloud to self with steely resolve my rebuttal,
“I will yet piss on your fucking grave!”
I do not gladly suffer either insult or fools.
With Merlin’s departure, who were these people to me save persons to whom I was connected by way of legalities? They made their choices and since fighting is nothing but foreplay, I was game to do battle anywhere, anytime with whomsoever.
So it was good to stand there, yesterday, and give thanks for having survived it all. Too, it was so good to know that Merlin’s been reborn away from this place and this time and these truly god-awful people masquerading as humans – betrayers, fools, liars, thieves, STD-riddled whores – the lot.
They were the swamp from which our love, Merlin’s and mine, lotussed into sublime flower and onto higher octaves as readily these dreams of Merlin in his passing attest. For that, I am ever grateful; more than that, I am especially grateful neither to have to know nor suffer not one of these persons.
Enough about, “Wasting time on shit that don’t matter ‘cause it ain’t never the fuck was, ain’t never the fuck goin’ be!” as the very wickedly hysterical and never-too-drunk-not-to-be-‘on’ African-American, Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would succinctly shade-throw.
Life ain’t no dress rehearsal; pay no heed to the dreck.
So then, smile, close your lids and enter into the realms of wonder, spirit and abandon – for you and I are magical beings of light, love and joy; as for the rest, hiss and piss on the lot… clearly, it is a fetish of theirs.
Drink of my spirit and these beauteous dreams – one of them was a lyrical adage into some ravishingly beautiful-of-spirit old-souled artist’s lair. Sweet dreams you; I love you more.
There was a really soulful artist, whom I encountered in this the first dream, working on a painting. Seemingly, it was painting on ceramic and chrome; the work of art was blue-surfaced. In the centre, he worked with orange and yellow oils.
Perhaps, it was acrylics. In any event, the objective was to create a six-panelled evolutionary self-portrait. The work of art was very wonderful. There were six equal-sized squares in all that were two to a row, three rows high.
In the panel on the upper left was the first portrait with the one on its immediate right the second. The third and fourth portraits were in the second row down from the top, again from left to right.
He was working in this tiny, cramped untidy apartment of his. From panel three on, his actual face was painted in focus. The first painting panel was the most blurred.
The effect of the emergent face was like the rupturing ovary as the egg explodes from its skin’s pod and becomes life-creating. Simultaneously, the depicted portrait was as if a giant sunflower explosively bursting into bloom.
Most impressively still, it was like a Star explosively being born. The energy of the artist’s attack suggested that the soul, which enlivened the human body, was just as explosive, creative and breathtakingly beautiful.
A humbling experience it was to have seen this work of art. The work had the effect, with its progressive panels, of never being static. As you followed it with the eye, one was readily swept along by the movement which gave explosive birth to the artist’s portrait fully brought into focus.
A masterful execution of technique, light and genius this truly was. To have intently studied each panel, which is what I had done, it was possible to see how the artist had deliberately created the veneer of dappled blurring light.
This affected the building tension that would eventually lead to the explosive revelation of the artist’s august, self-possessed portrait. This was definitely not the solipsism of a vain superficial individual.
This was the absorption of a deeply soulful, older-souled artist who poured his knowledge to date, reincarnationally, into his self-portrait. That, even more so than the light, technique and use of colour was the real impactful power of the portrait.
This was a cleverly conceived and masterfully executed idea. He was a very soulful, old-souled individual. His clothing was soiled and he desperately needed to take a shower.
He was White, mid-aged and not the least bit caught up in looking presentable. He had no vanity. Everything in the apartment was haphazardly thrown about the place and, frankly, he couldn’t have cared less. His approach was very devil-may-care.
Whenever he got up, he got up. He ate poorly and sparingly. Above everything else, his art was paramount in his focus. His art hung about the tiny apartment on easels, against the walls and was hung there too.
As his tiny single window revealed, this apartment of his was high up from the street. Easily five floors up, from the street, he was. His tiny single cot was untidy and littered with more soiled clothing.
So old a soul was he, one had the distinct impression of this man that he was no longer sexually focussed. His hair was long and unsurprisingly untidy.
He had a striking resemblance to Scandinavian actor, Nils Alstrop. However, he was considerably older soul than that augustly handsome actor. I studied his face in the light of the room, for a while, and was rather warmed by the look of him.
From the third panel, his face discernibly came through. His face was realised by the same deft stroke technique as the infamous self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh.
Here, though, he had then covered those bold strokes with a thin veneer of light paints; this created a veiled look to the finished product. The execution was quite masterful.
After a while of standing back and looking at his creation, the focussed self-portraits made me feel as if I were flying in an upright position. The expression on the face was so enlightened, so Zen and serene, it was mind-altering to have looked at.
Though his face was set, his eyes were smiling and looked as if they were fixed on the face of his very soul itself. There was a light illuminating his face which was reflected in his eyes. This was a truly elevated soul.
A deeply pensive, deeply sensitive and utterly sensual man he was. Next to the evolvement of spirit that he possessed, his sloppiness was insignificant. This glimpse into a great artist’s soul, for me, proved a truly enlightening and awesomely inspiring dream.
Later on, I would be joined by three guys; we were on the artist’s tiny cot. Two of them were blonds and another was long dark-haired. The artist was intensely passionate and gentle but he was also excruciatingly shy. Very excruciatingly shy, as a matter of fact, was he.
The guys then began singing a Barbra Streisand tune which left me strangely enough self-conscious. On lying back, I joined in with them; however, I sang mutely.
Frankly, next to these orthodontically smug, acculturated showoffs, I was too self-conscious of my looks and bad breath. By far, they were far too lookist and young-souled in focus. Then again, they may well have been mature-souled.
They certainly were emotionally intense. On laying back my head, I was now resting on the chest of the long-haired guy who was to my right. He was lovingly running his fingers through my hair and caressing my temples.
Reaching over to his right, he picked up a rusty metallic piece of pipe. On the top of it was an ancient, whitewashed African mask. The design was undoubtedly Dogon.
The pipe was part of stand which sat close to the cot. He then, however, began using the hollowed pipe as though he were channelling through some info or other. From there, I got from the bed and went over to the tiny window.
Looking out, I directed my gaze down to the empire building that sat at the corner of the adjoining street. At the top of the ground floor, there was a beautiful bust at the curvaceous corner of the building.
The design was very empire and majestic – both the building and bust. The bust, which stood over the entrance to the building, was of none other than Barbra Streisand.
Though made of stone, it was animated with Barbra Streisand cosmically singing in tune with us. I initially thought that I had heard her voice and on seeing the long-haired guy channelling in through her energies, I went to the window in search of Ms. Streisand.
Her voice carried so soulfully that it was sublime. When I initially had seen the bust, it was of what appeared an operatic figure with mouth wide-opened in mid-song.
The hues in the stone then shifted as it became animated and Barbra Streisand, being channelled through by the long-haired guy to my rear on the cot, came through singing.
Throughout, the bust remained stone. However, her essence came through the rock and sang along in unison with us. Barbra Streisand’s face was so Zen; her eyes were powerful because they were stone infused with her life-force.
She was here as if the bust of a Greek goddess come to life. As if to have witnessed the artist’s beauty were not enough but now this stellar performer.
My lips trembled awestruck, as tears rolled down my face, as I sang along being blown away by the beauty being imparted by this ensouled marble bust of Barbra Streisand’s channelled creativity.
The beauty of this moment was rapturous. Though I was looking down into the nighttime street, as though at times in close-up, it was still plainly visible and experienced in intimate rich detail.
I guess it was because I was in such a heightened state of spirit when feeling overcome with joy for the artist’s enlightenment. Too, for singing in unison with Barbra Streisand and the others in the apartment, the experience was that much more elevated.
The old-souled artist sat about looking at us; though he shyly smiled, he did thoroughly enjoy our august company. Though this was such an exquisite sight, I never did call the others in the apartment to join me at the window to enjoy this sight.
The vista outside the window was something that was in a way private and a complement to all that I had so far experienced. The others also had not been there, for those long moments, while I was alone with the artist watching him painting.
The revelation and elation that I would experience, for being in his presence and absorbing his art, they had also not participated in. A truly rhapsodic experience this interlude of sheer dream poetry was.
Out in the streets, while focussed in this the second dream, I was on the grey-blue hood of a Ford van – one of those Ford vans from the late 70s to early 80s. Seated there, I looked on as a very soulful, august White couple; they were both blond and were dolorously drunk.
They were simultaneously talking away and made absolutely no sense. Of course, their speech was unintelligibly slurred. They seemed like bag people; they were just a couple of world-weary, very old souls. Quite simply, they needed to numb themselves to the callous hideousness of the waking state’s immutabilities.
I exactly knew where they were coming from and completely empathised with them; too, I felt enormous compassion for them. To hell with la dolce vita. They had settled for truth – the lush life… indeed.
Unexpectedly, he confrontationally grabbed her by the collar. There was another couple of drunkards who stood off from them; they were next to a wire fence which they were using as an anchor.
Here in the dreamtime, the image was at once hysterical because you just knew that were they to have let go, they would begin levitating. Of course, they were way too intoxicated to have been able to achieve the necessary focus to fly.
This, of course, was an old soul dilemma more than anything else. These were not piss drunk, young-souled skinhead/punk rocker types – like those whom I encountered in that dream on September 4, 1992.
In any event, the blond drunk threw his woman to the ground. They were beneath a very gnarled, ancient tamarind tree that was spectacularly tall. Pinning her down, he energetically began trying to ram his cock into her ploughed-out pussy.
Incensed at the display of male sexual violence, I hopped from the hood and impatiently barked at him. Grabbing a sizeable heavy stick on the way, I went up to him, placed the stick at the back of his head and coolly told him to get the fuck off her.
The stick was stabbing just back of his right ear. Naturally, he assumed that it was a gun. He stopped what he was doing and got up. Then when he bore me those eyes, they were indeed none other than a very, very old soul’s.
Clearly, he wasn’t being sexually aggressive; he was a very robust-bodied old soul who liked to play rough with his woman. Nonetheless, he took off and left me behind with her.
I helped her to her feet and she was, from those wide-open eyes, willing to ride anyone. She did thank me while we stood there. While looking after him, I was stunned to find no malice coming from him when he looked back at us.
For a White male, to have seen such lack of hostilities in his eyes – especially in a situation like this – was truly phenomenal. He was forceful for being robust-bodied and having a ton and a half too much magnetic energies. Standing there, I thought to myself that he was no doubt a very old-souled King soul.
He wanted to ravage her because he felt such love and sensual longing for her. This was not about rape; however, for having been on the hood of the vehicle, it had initially seemed to me like it.
Here were these two souls that had loved across so many millennia, reincarnationally, and then along came me. With my interruption, their soulful play was being interrupted by my warrior-spirited need to defend a woman against being sexually overwhelmed.
Certainly, I can’t be chided for wanting to protect a woman. Then again, he looked like a real big-cocked ardent lover and which woman wouldn’t want to surrender a little blood to experience such passion.
After all, by way of the flesh we experience life. I had totally missed the point of their confrontation. However, like the truly old soul that he was, he wasn’t going to be confrontational with me.
I felt so badly on seeing the error of my ways. I had totally misjudged the situation.
The next and third dream found me focussed in a darkened apartment whose claustrophobic light caused me to go to the window; I went seeking some light and release from its confinement. There I saw the actor Katherine Hepburn.
Looking down into the streets, she wore a white Victorian dress with high pinned up collar; indeed, very straight-laced a look was hers.
I thought it terribly appropriate for her because she seems such a great New England, patrician archetype of WASP conservatism. As I looked down into the street, she was waving while walking from right to left.
She was with a small, exceptionally handsome boy of five or six at the most. He was on her right as they held hands. I was five floors up. Though it seemed like the other apartment, where I had visited the painter, it wasn’t at the same level as his studio/apartment.
This was a much larger apartment which was cluttered throughout with the finest antiques. Exquisite rugs overlapped on the floors; still, there were ancient tapestries hung on the walls.
What’s more, they were still in good condition. Also, here there was a very eclectic collection of art nouveau pieces. Pericles da Braga was present and obviously resided here. He sat with his legs crossed and cut a very regal, princely line.
I must say that Pericles does rather have a very refined air about him. When I told him that Ms. Hepburn was down in the street, he went flying out to meet her.
Sometime later, he returned all aglow. He claimed that, according to her, she was born in Liberia. Apparently, she was an expert on African languages and especially dialects of the north-western coast.
She was fluent in several West African dialects, according to him, which she had demonstrated for him. As I crossed the room, I had said that the boy was clearly her great-grandson.
Pericles, true to his waking state persona, was rather warm, handsome and articulate. He came over and extended me, with both hands, a camera. The camera had a lot of yellow on it and looked more so like an oversized Kodak film box.
He told me to load it but I had been looking into the wrong aperture. Thus it was like looking into the bottom of a pair of binoculars. Opening it up, I began inspecting it before loading it. At the time, I was seated on a stool.
The stool was a wonderfully covered with a rug that dripped with tassels. Everything here was so incredibly rare and of genuine quality. All antiques, everything, which had not only been meticulously researched and bought but fastidiously cared for.
This aspect of his character was borne out, during childhood and early pubescence, in the care that he took of his matchbox cars.
*Indeed, true Scholar soul that he is, the pride he takes in the eclectic and formidable books which make up his library. END.
This was such a beautiful apartment with its richly dark, wood-panelled walls. Here Pericles was very aristocratic and very much so in his element.
Sadly though, for having become a rather petty individual, Pericles has lost his nobility of spirit. What Pericles lacks is the ability to be either tolerant or compassionate… tant pis.
Then I got the film loaded into the camera and started winding it onto the loop while keeping the back lid open. Soon enough, the film began becoming exposed; yet it kept on loading, even though normally such cameras don’t once the back lid is open.
Realising what I had done, I screamed aloud horror-struck. By that point, five or so exposures had already been lost. What I couldn’t tell was whether or not this meant that the entire film was lost.
Assuming that it couldn’t be completely damaged, I decided to go ahead and use it. There were twenty-four shots on the roll which meant that we had at least 18 left.
If it were completely damaged, I resignedly reasoned, it would not after all be the end of the world. Then I proceeded to shoot a mixed Jamaican who sat across the room; he sat on a stool much like the one on which I sat.
He was next to a table wearing a high hat that was in the Dr. Seuss style. He was a Rastafarian whose hair was swept up and kept in place under the hat.
His hair, which at one point I had seen, was exceptionally long and a reddish-blond. An extremely light-skinned individual he was. Most of all, he was a very calm and centred man.
By very warmly sculpting his left profile through the lens as I set up the shot, I then began taking his picture. Somehow, it was as if, I was able to make love to him by way of the lens.
Of this he was completely aware and reciprocated. No one else in the room was aware of this or, for that matter, picked up on our telepathic dialogue. They would have deemed it as my merely taking his picture by deliberating while I got the right lighting and pose.
Of course, what it did was afford an opportunity to achieve essence contact with this individual. This in the end was exactly what was going down between him and me.
A most soulful incredible experience was this. The camera was being used to draw him closer by way of the lens. He felt it all and totally approved of it. This all happened in utter slow-motion and timelessness.
As the telephoto lens brought him closer, in one long lyrical movement, the experience became heightened and more intimate. This had the appearance of it being a long crane shot that came into a tight close-up.
Of course, what was being brought closer to me was the window of awareness which allowed his very spirit to move in closer to finally embrace and enrapture me. This was fully reciprocated and left me feeling absolutely wonderful.
Across the room, we managed to have dissolved the barriers of space, time and ego to simply experience the other at the level of soul. This was no light matter and was utterly profound.
Simultaneously, we were fully aware the other was cognisant of the other being knowledgeable of what was taking place. Quite simply, there was no way to deny this experience which we both knew to be a real and valid experience.
A very rapturous dream this was for both him and me. While in the middle of the experience, it dawned on me that I was having a rather high incidence of uplifting experiences in the dreamtime of late. I rather enjoyed this man’s energies.
Meanwhile, Pericles was there adding his own august, refined energies to the salon and affecting the right mood. This he did by merely being there. Hanging back, he was observant, non-intrusive.
The essence contact never did become a three-way experience but was very much so a non-sexual, spiritually expansive interlude between the subject and me. A thoroughly pleasurable moment this proved.
I was in the work place, in this the fourth dream, standing beside the offices next to the QRBs. Aida Pearl and I were speaking; she was being very warm towards me. Meanwhile, another half dozen of her peers were on looking at us.
She assigned me to go work on QRB #21 but I ended up going to the one that’s next to #16. There were two middle-aged women, who are quite neurotic, working at that machine. They were quietly waiting for the mechanic to fix the broken machine.
They seemed to be full-timers from the day shift and no one whom I readily recognised. The machine area, where the mechanics worked, was horribly filthy. There were large grey balls of dust everywhere.
The whole thing made me feel as though I was on the verge of a sneezing fit. Though I realised that she had meant well, I was nonetheless impatient with Aida’s almost condescending approach to me.
Finally, I decided to not bother with such trivialities and awoke.
© 2014 Arvin da Braga.