On the eve of the fourteenth anniversary of Harella’s – my mother – passing, I would dream these next dreams. The dream centrally focussed on in this blog would prove an interesting animation of my Michael Overleaves as chosen in this incarnation. Of course, at the time of the dream, I had not yet had my overleaves done.
Thus, I wondered if the manifestation were relative to mine or Merlin’s overleaves. Of course, Merlin having had a goal of acceptance, the manifested overleaves archetype could never have depicted who Merlin was.
They were great dreams to have had and certainly, the Moorheads were spectacular-looking as is alluded to in the waking state.
That Saturday, August 20, 1994, wide-open to whatever lay ahead, I would slip into sleep’s welcome embrace. At the time, the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house. Too, I was somewhere in British Columbia visiting with friends of Frederick Hinneault’s who worked the powwow circuit and with whom I was, at least that summer, heavily engrossed in all matters carnal.
In this the first dream, I was walking along on an inclined cobblestoned street. Here, it was late at nighttime. Deserted a community, I rather relished being alone and free to roam.
Arriving in a square, I headed out taking one of the street that emptied into it. This one rose up an incline that was greater than all the others.
On heading out, Rory Maxell came down the street to my right and towards the square. When I said hello to him, he was reserved; he had clearly detected my keen desire to have sex.
He kept on walking and flatly refused my invitation to talk or play. Rorry wore tight brown jeans with a white shirt that hung outside the pants.
This, of course, conveniently hid both his gorgeous ass and even more impressive large basket.
Next, in this the second dream, I was in a house at nighttime which was a small, wooden cosy affair. Pandora da Braga was there as well. I went out to the living room where two Michael Overleaves charts have arrived.
Some consternation or other soon occurred and it ended up throwing my focus. The gist of things was that one of the two charts said that either Merlin or I was a mature warrior and the other an older soul.
There were two folded coloured pages with the gist of the overleaves. They sat across the room on a table that was round-topped and small and which sat next to a sofa.
I had had to bolt, unable to fully digest things, because of the disturbance. However, the channel was a middle-aged White female; she was an august-looking woman with a worn face.
*This would turn out to be original Michael group member, Mathilde Duchesne whom I would end up meeting and working with three years hence. END.
She sat at a table in a cream-coloured dress that had a broad belt snugly about her waist. Her back was turned to me as she sat on a round leather stool. Long-backed and ectomorphic a woman she was.
I went up to the roof where I sat with my legs crossed and dangling over the edge; I was told to be careful. I was still marvelling at the Michael material that I had received.
I thought it unlikely that I was the mature-souled warrior. Going back indoors, I was keen to find out more about the overleaves. At the time, I was then accompanied by an old man.
Returned indoors, I discovered a large, old wooden carving of a stately Asian man. Middle-aged, he was wealthy and large-figured. To the left of him and below were some inscriptions in the carving which I couldn’t quite make out.
I asked the tall man who accompanied me what it all meant. I wanted to know when this particular life was lived. One thing was certain, the life in question was a life definitely before that of Gaius Julius Caesar.
Eagerly, I reached forward touching the inscribed part of the carving which sat below the seated bodhi figure. He was in the same pose as the laughing potbellied Buddha – this however was not the laughing potbellied Buddha.
I was most stunned at what next occurred. There was a blinding flash of blue-white light replete with a thunderous quake. Everything here simultaneously, violently rattled. Not only could you not have gotten out fast enough but even screaming couldn’t come fast enough.
The quake much reminded me of that dream had on March 12, 1994, in which I experienced the Moon’s metamorphosis to a ringed satellite.
*That dream, of course, is shared in the blog herein entitled, “Paradigm shift.” END.
Before my very eyes, the same stately man in the carving then manifested. Here, however, he seemed far more the Samurai than Chinese warrior. Although to think of it, he could very well have been a Mongol warrior from the era of Genghis Khan’s 12th century rule.
Or, perhaps, even from Kublai Khan’s reign a few decades later. Concurrent to his manifestation, the house became suddenly transformed and became a one-roomed shack.
Here, freshly braided palm fronds were used to construct the sides and roof of the tiny shack. This man was so powerful and large-bodied that his helmeted head had crashed through ceiling of the hut. It was a metal helmet in the Oriental style.
Dear god, this man was an utter powerhouse. All over the map with power, passion and aggression mixed for overleaves mode. There was definitely not a trace of submission or repression to this man’s overleaves.
Not wanting to lose my head, I cleared out of the hut at once. Curiosity got the better of me, though, and soon enough I would return. This time, I went around the back of the hut and tried my best not to provoke the ‘old hot-head’.
Clearly, this was the archetype of who either Merlin or I is at the level of essence. This was an overleaf sketch of either of us. Reluctantly, I must admit that the manifested archetype does appear to be moi-même.
Here, in this the third dream, I went up onto a veranda where I saw a very beauteous-eyed Yvette Morehead. With her was an even more spectacular-eyed daughter who stood to her right and further away from me.
Yvette Morehead seemed not to be the least bit interested in having me about. Nor, for that matter, was she going to introduce her daughter anytime soon.
Just then it grew lighter out, by the moment, as the tension hung in the air. The shifting light made their eyes that much more spectacular and bewitching.
Isha da Braga and I were together, in this the fourth dream, when Ian Banks Jr. came by and briefly joined us. He was not keen on knowing me; he didn’t much care for the look of me – long-haired and queer as all hell as he perceived me.
Ian then went outside again and returned to work in the sunny yard. He wore blue jeans with a blue and white horizontally striped shirt. As can be expected of men wishing to hide their sex, he wore his shirt outside the jeans.
When he bent over, I took note of how exceptionally beautiful his arse was. His jeans were noticeably tight. I was so eager to have seen him and just as readily sent into a funk at his rude dismissal of me.
Isha then gave me a large list of women that he was fucking as this was said to be his forte. One of the women was someone connected to Agatha Baneson; I think that it might well have been Jane Baneson.
To say that Ian was definitely quite the stud would be understating the fact. Isha then said that Timothy Jupitus was acting as Ian’s social secretary and was responsible for lining up the women.
Timothy gave Ian briefings as to when the women were on the rag and whom not to fuck and when not to. There was a certain protocol to it all.
There were some women who simply couldn’t be fucked after other women; this was politics of the first order. Women wanting to be fucked by Ian apparently had to go through Timothy.
I rudely concluded that they obviously had to sit on his non-too-big dick as I remembered it from early pubescence. Then again, the thing could have grown to equine proportions as he scaled pubescence.
Next, in this the fifth dream, I was in a kitchen where Isha and Pandora are visiting. This kitchen much reminded me of the new kitchen at the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house.
Here, there were tons of just washed dishes. Still, there were others that I saw which I immediately wanted to have washed. When I went out to the living room, I discovered that Isha had taken my large Ficus Benjamina from its large clay pot.
She simply left the plant standing there with only a few roots left. Carelessly, she had simply yanked the plant from the pot and ripped it free of most of its roots. I couldn’t believe the insolence.
Basically, she saw the pot, liked it and thought that it would come in handy for something that she wanted to use it for. You can bet that it was not for growing another plant!
Of all things, she had decided to put an artificial white Christmas tree in the clay pot – she does, indeed, own such a monstrosity in the waking state.
To say the least, it was not even anywhere near close to Christmas. I was so livid that I began screaming at her. To say the least, her response was merely flippant and negligent of my feelings – let alone the plant’s wellbeing.
She was so ignorant – letting me know that she saw nothing wrong if she had pulled out the plant. She wondered of me, how did I know that the plant cared whether it was traumatised by her actions or not?
I couldn’t believe the insensitivity. Thoroughly pissed off with her, I screamed at her some more. A very tumultuous emotional encounter this would prove.
*It should be noted that Isha da Braga is a sixth level young priest whose secondary chief feature is greed which is fixated on personal attention. And ye gods can this woman’s self-centeredness be a source of perpetual stupefaction in its callous disregard for others and their feelings. END.
Photo credit: photo of Samurai stone sculpture.
© 2014 Arvin da Braga.