Southeast Wind Foam Woman.

Southeast Wind Foam Woman 1989


40 x 40 in

Edition 40

© 1989 Robert Davidson

I love the warm, soulful embraceable lushness of the oceanic blue.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th century Canadian art, Art, Art Collecting, Art Exhibition, Artists, Award-winning artist, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Contemporary Canadian art, First Nations Art, Haida Art, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Entity mate grudge.


While the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house, I would dream the next seven dreams.  They were beautiful dreams and one actually was an astral plane encounter with astral plane habitué, Merlin. 

So very good it was to have encountered him, despite the fact that the dream was stressful in places.  The dream proved yet another reminder how fortunate and grateful I was to have made the chosen rendezvous while incarnate with my task companion. 

At the time, it was Friday, August 19, 1994 and I was happily enjoying weekend road trips to powwows far and wide both in British Columbia and Alberta.  What a truly beautiful time of coming home and bonding with the very soul of this continent, with the noble stewards of this continent. 

Sweet dreams as ever, I love you more! 


Heathcliff Mars-Provencher had arrived to visit me, in this the first dream, but it took place back east in Toronto.  He was so all over me and fighting to be as if one; this, to say the least, left me a tad uneasy. 

We were staying in a large three-storeyed house.  At one point, I think that both Isha da Braga and Whoopi were also present.  As Heathcliff and I sat about on a sofa embracing, Merlin walked in. 

He looked emotionally distraught.  Clearly, he was upset at the sight of me with another lover.  I was quite stunned to have seen him.  Here, if only because he was emotionally spent, Merlin looked weak and ill; he was distraught that I was with another lover. 

Soon, it became apparent that Merlin was still alive.  Truth be told, it was as though I was caught up in another dimensional experience – one wherein Merlin had not passed but one in which I had left him for another lover.  Of all persons, the lover here was Heathcliff Mars-Provencher. 

Quelle heureur!  Feeling immediately desperate, I knew that I had to take decisive actions at once.  Snapping at Heathcliff , I got rid of him telling him I didn’t much see the point to his being around. 

He seemed only there to create trouble.  I told Heathcliff to head on out to Vancouver while I stayed back in Toronto with Merlin.  There were no doubts in my mind that I simply had to drop everything to be with Merlin. 

As ever, Merlin remained my number one concern.  Merlin needed me.  I was immediately fearful.  What’s more, I thought that if he were to become hostile, this could mean that he could alter his will and thereby disinherit me.  

This horrific potential, I could never accept.  This whole interlude was a very lucid, emotional, psychically intense affair.  There was very little being said between Merlin and me; however, we were both very lucidly aware of the other’s every thought.  

So very strange it was to have seen Merlin again, after all this time, and him looking sick.  I found this terribly upsetting. 

*What’s really interesting about this dynamic is that Heathcliff Mars-Provencher is a cadence mate of mine in position five/sage of my third/warrior cadence.  I am of course in the sixth/priest position. 

As an entity mate with such close ties, it is very likely that Heathcliff Mars-Provencher, Merlin and I have been in very emotionally fraught relationship troikas which would have caused no end of emotional distress in lives past. 

Certainly, at no point during Merlin’s lifetime did I ever feel as though he was going to disinherit me.  Frankly, if he had I would not have loved him any less; embittered surely but never would I have loved him no less.  END. 


I was watching a large white jetliner – much like a Boeing 747, in this the second dream, as it made its approach to land.  The airport was on a midsized tropical island and possibly in the Caribbean. 

This was such a slow and graceful approach; it was truly lyrical.  Briefly, it went out of view as it passed behind a hill – rather not a mountain.  Next, I saw it speeding down the runway while going from right to left. 

I was relieved to see that it hadn’t exploded in a fiery ball of death.  The aircraft was at least a couple of miles away as the late afternoon Sun bathed my back. 

The jet’s descent was so fast, near the touchdown, that you could see that the pilots were struggling to keep it from nose-diving.  As the airport was so close to the surrounding hills, this technically taxing approach and landing was customary. 

There had to be a breaking-like effect to the touchdown – much like landing at Hong Kong’s airport which would be replaced in due course.  Long before the jetliner had touched down, the wing flaps were fully deployed. 


I found myself pleasantly at home in Nevis during this the third dream.  The walls of this house were painted a soul-soothing yellow.  Penina da Braga was present and I was surprised to see that she had gotten long-haired – at least for her. 

An uneven afro, there were hues of red in it.  While she was at a blackboard, I tried reasoning with her that she really ought to try and do much more for the children here in Nevis. 

For serving as a tutor to the kids after school, she would be able to stay more out of herself.  I had been concerned that she was spending way too much time alone.  She seemed almost as if in retreat. 

She was doing a lot of intense math equations on the blackboard.  I was, as a matter of fact, quite impressed with her mastery of the discipline.  Standing there in the bedroom, I had intently looked at her left profile. 

I wondered then to myself if she was a king, scholar or warrior soul.  Despite her penchant for being so flippant and light at times, one had the distinct impression of her being a solid role. 

That aside, Penina was dead set against having to deal with anyone and their disgusting children.  Considering that she had taught in the Caribbean before, I felt that it would be good for her to have done this. 

Obviously, she had been adamant about not doing this because she had not been societally accepted for the most part.  She needed to plug in.  I soon abandoned our astral plane visit together as it was fairly obvious that I was not getting anywhere with her. 

*Penina is a mature warrior with a sage task companion and she can be decidedly sagey, this very fun sister of mine.  END.  


A dream set in a house at nighttime, proved the fourth, from which I went to go out into the night air.  Once out on the street, I encountered a group of youngsters. 

I then crossed the footbridge – a wooden affair, over the muddy river.  On getting to the other side, I took to a large stone building with several storeys. 

I had been on the basement level of a large open space.  Here, there was a lot of exposed cement.  There were lots of wooden chairs; none of these chairs were at all whole. 

Some were halved down the back… down the center.  Each was a high-backed-styled affair.  Or they were halved at different places on the legs.  Strange arrangement, to say the least, this proved. 

Each of them was made of untreated wood.  I decided to walk with one of them.  There was a long pole with tons of chair leg-like posts attached with a rope strung through them. 

It was really good to be taking these things, to take back home with me.  I was, of course, stealing.  I must say that it felt deliciously wicked.  As soon as I had gotten the first batch home, I had decided that I would simply have to return later on for some more bounty. 

This time, however, I would run into some trouble.  For one thing, the people re-encountered before crossing the footbridge were being boisterous and unruly.  For another, the bridge was a rattling, unstable, ruined semblance of its former self. 

Quite frankly, it was as though there had been an earthquake.  I was so determined to get back for more bounty that I decided I would come back across on all fours if need be.  This is exactly what I would end up doing. 

I was accompanied by some of the youth who, since they had nothing better to do, thought to help me out.  This time, when we got inside the warehouse of the building, I found there Lars Gamst doing laundry. 

He was old-looking and his teeth were not bonded.  They were spacey, natural and in that sense reminded me of Frederick Hinneault’s.  However, it was not Frederick Hinneault.  Lars’ lips were also rather full. 

Lars seemed terribly poor and of British stock from a couple of centuries earlier.  He seemed a direct throwback to centuries past.  Another guy in the group took over communicating with him because we were caught red-handed. 

The whole thing proved a rather embarrassing affair.  Lars had large, dark soulful eyes.  When I saw that he had such an old haggard-looking face, I realised why he has not had much success at a film career. 

Frankly, he is too old a soul to have such a young-souled energetic focus to his life.  He was a genuinely morose soul. 

*Indeed, Lars Gamst is a first old slave who was the male muse and sometimes lover of the great artist, El Greco.  Too, for being an old soul, here Lars’ eyes were quite soulfully beautiful. 

They were as rich and sensual as the deep, satiated soulfulness and tonalities of a Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio tableau.  This man’s eyes were so large, real, sensual and fecund that to look at them I was immediately satiated of spirit, I experienced a true arousal of spirit. 

Indeed, so besotted with his spirit was I that on awakening at the conclusion of recording the dreams, I sought completion of the arousal of spirit that I felt in the dream and indulged in some truly pleasurable auto-eroticism with Lars uppermost in my thoughts. 

I indulged in that form of auto-eroticism, wherein one lies face down, holding on to the pillow, with one knee drawn up, allowing only the tumescent cock to glide over-stimulated against the sensual caress of bedding, never once hand-touching the aching cock; this leads to much adrenalin and the most pleasurable of orgasms.  Indeed, edging against bedding preferably satin or velvet is most indulgently, exquisitely pleasurable.  END. 


I was walking past a great many storefronts, all to my right, in this the fifth dream.  Upscale affairs, they were all awninged.  As I was always in the shade, it was hard to tell whether it was morning or afternoon time but certainly it was not nighttime. 

There was lots of mist in the air though.  Finally, I went inside to look at a newsstand where there were several Black magazines on display.  There was a tall White male to my left, at a square angle to my perspective, such that I could peripherally see him. 

I never did directly look at him.  He was scoping me out, trying to get me to look at him, and being very psychically invasive.  This, of course, was so much racially-charged WST – waking state transference – all of which I found dismissively boring; for that reason, I simply ignored the stuff. 

Ignoring him, I focussed on an Essence magazine on the rack which was lost in a sea of other Black magazines.  Good it really was to see this degree of Black entrepreneurial focus.  Could not help but think that this was, somehow, an American city somewhere. 

The scope of the magazines was impressive. 


I went to a news box, in this the sixth dream, to collect a copy of the Globe and Mail newspaper.  On opening the box, I found the paper a folded thick edition.  As though they had expanded the size of the paper, it seemed that they had also added a few new sections daily. 

As a result, the paper ended up being a heavy impressive handful.  Also, the paper was now being printed on a darker paper that was sort of light brown-to-copper; this gave the paper an antique aged look. 

This, I think, was of course deliberate.  Surprised at the changes, I was however pleased that I had not opened the wrong box. 


I went into a work-like environment, in this the seventh dream, where I see Lea Hoare, seated at a table.  I had gone and sat at another table where I tried doing some creative work. 

There were no hostilities between her and me.  Pretty soon, I started experiencing a strange phenomenon – my nose started uncontrollably running. 

There was a sudden buildup of phlegm; it was to the point of being near suffocating.  So overwhelming was it that I had to suddenly get up and leave the area in search of tidying up myself. 

As I moved through the doors from the area, I prompted myself to simply awaken and did. 

                                                fDream one.  Alas, I was not fully awakened.  Rather, I found myself now in the presence of Dr. Russell Schluter, my South African-born of mixed blood physiotherapist who happens to be a Mormon. 

This man has the most skilled hands of any professional that I have worked with over the years.  He has got immense shamanic skills, this man. 

In any event, right away, I let him know how pleased I was to see him.  The atmosphere here was truly stilled, real and astral plane-focussed.  This was a direct meeting between us. 

There was a lot of strong, unwavering eye contact between us.  I told him that I needed to have this problem of my dysfunctional sinuses addressed.  He asked me to elaborate and silently, intently listened to everything that I said. 

He then placed me on a stool before him, stood in the bay of my open legs and began addressing my always plugged up right sinus.  Using his left index finger, he placed it at the back and base of the right side of the jaw and began applying the most intense pressure. 

This manipulation proved more revolutionary than if I were to have had my vertebrae manipulated.  Soon, I felt aerated and my right sinus fully opened.  What’s more, it seemed as though I could not only breathe more deeply but I could see more clearly. 

Most of all, afterwards, I became more noticeably lucid.  Once unblocked, I saw my face in the mirror and now my jaw jutted forwards; the look certainly was different. 

I soon welcomed the look for sheer comfort it now afforded and rather enjoyed being so serviced.  I must say that here in this encounter, Dr. Russell Schluter had old tired-looking eyes. 

Perhaps, he is a slave soul or someone with strong oneness to his casting.  He was quite a centered soul.  I thanked him and he gratefully placed his hand on me.  With that, this time, I did so genuinely awaken into the waking state. 

*Apart from his bizarre focus as a Mormon, there is no way to get around the fact that this biracial man is definitely an old soul.  Perhaps, he is a scholar; either way, he is remarkably shamanic. 


Art credit:  The Incredulity of St. Thomas 1601-1602

Oil on canvas – 107.0 x 146.0 cm

Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio

Collection of Schloss Sanssouci, Potsdam. 

© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved. 

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Seven Crows

Seven Crows — painting by Alex Colville. Seven Crows 1980. Acrylic polymer emulsion on hardboard 60 x 120 cm. Owens Art Gallery Mount Allison ...Acrylic polymer emulsion on hardboard

60 x 120 cm

© 1980 Alex Colville 

Owens Art Gallery Mount Allison University Sackville, New Brunswick

Gift of Mr. Ross B. 


Yesterday I did lunch with a friend from Montréal and we then went to the AGO ( to take in the recently opened Alex Colville show.  I paused and actually lost tears on seeing this masterpiece.  I have always like his works and was not familiar with this piece.  This masterpiece manages to perfectly encapsulate the utter abandon one experiences when focussed in flying dreams.  For me the moment was truly rhapsodic.


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.  



Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th century Canadian art, 20th century Canadian artists, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Art Exhibition, Artists, Award-winning artist, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Canadian art, Painting, Private Art Collection | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Pink Chair


Artist Proof I/III


© 1990 George Hawken

This is a large piece, I’d say 3.5′ x 4.0′ and I/III is my copy.  

At the time, I was fast asleep and, of course dreaming, after having riotously ploughed the artist late at night at his loft.  The piece was created from a photograph – Polaroid, if I am not mistaken.  Hard to believe that it was 24 years ago… phenomenal.  I especially love it because the artist exquisitely captures the expressiveness of both my feet and hands.  Too, I love that my lids are collapsed on those soulful eyes whose vision captures such astonishing vistas of imagination and intellect.  

Hey… modesty is of negligible worth.  

Indeed, from Otto van Veen, to Peter Paul Rubens to George Hawken, I am fulfilled for having been a muse and passionate lover.–faculty-members/george-hawken


© 2014 Arvin da Braga. All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th century Canadian art, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Canadian art, Etchings, Lithography, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Private Art Collection | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The journey back.

Teleportation portal

While the Moon transited both Leo and my third house, I would wander in astral consciousness to fathom depths of intellect not often quested to.  At the time, it was Tuesday, February 14, 1995 and when not asleep I spent more time in Vancouver’s Stanley Park than my West End apartment at 878 Gilford Street. 

Alas, I had only recently discovered the sweet carnal abandon of sex in the city’s 1000 acre park, lorded over as it is by 500-year-old-plus Sitkas which meant that in winter the park was guaranteed to be at least two-four degrees warmer than the rest of the city which would normally be about 15 degrees Celsius. 

Oh to grab a conquest by the hand in the light-starved night woods and venture over massive fallen five-foot diametre trunks for greater privacy where there, one could pin down hungry manwhores their cheek into the muddied mossy soil beneath riding booted-foot while riding to the hounds with the vicious sounds of raccoons fighting never far off. 

Too, by that point, Frederick Hinneault and I were long parted; he had taken ill; he had recently gone full-blown with AIDS, became embittered and shoved me aside.  I did not persist in knowing him; he had welcomed me to the true spiritual heart of West Coast civilisation.  He had given me the key to a true sense of belonging, of being at home in Canada; it was the greatest gift. 

So then, exhausted from a long debauched night deep into the moss-high-up-my-sinuses woods of Stanley Park, just two blocks from home, grounded and feeling decidedly shamanic, satisfied my soul yearned to explore even more.  Off I slipped into readily astral-projected sleep and soon dream-quested to far-flung reaches of the universe. 

Come fly with me and savour the sweetest of dreams… I wish you same in your spiritual journey.  I love you more! 


In what proved the first dream, I dreamt of Maria di Caspieri-Dragan to whom I had sent a Michael book, the first of the trilogy by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. 

This was to have gotten her started on getting acquainted with her overleaves.  There wasn’t much else about this dream that I can now recall. 


I received a phone call from Niles Ben-Daniel, in the second dream, who called up to let me know that he owed me $30.00.  This was something with respect to the Merlin’s estate. 

After having spoken to him, I couldn’t then recall whether it was 30.00$ or 30, 000.00$.  Frankly, considering the extent of the estate, I don’t see where 30.00$ would be applicable here.  I should think that it was the latter. 

In any event, I simply instructed him to deposit the funds into my checking account at the Bank of Montreal.  However, I was keen on not giving him my account number. 

I told him to check with, Leda Tsoukolou the manager at the branch and that she would be expecting to hear from him. 


I lined up with lots of other people, in this the third dream, waiting to get into an event of some sort.  The locale much reminded me of being at the Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. 

If this were said locale, then we would have been on the north side of the building and close to Marva Green’s house.  Here, there were lots of young sunny-personalitied kids everywhere. 


There was a police investigation underway, in this the fourth dream, into a recent shooting.  The murder occurred in a tiny two-roomed house whose walls and floors were multiple layers of paints and shellac. 

There was one bullet – silver, which was still active.  The bullet would simply levitate then begin darting about the room and ricocheting at breakneck speeds. 

Stranger still, instead of ricocheting off the walls, it would simply bounce off the air as though there were invisible force-fields off of which it was being repelled. 

In that sense, as though it were sentient, the bullet seemed to have had a life all its own.  Meanwhile, the people who were there to clean up, after the messy murder, were dressed like astronauts. 

They wore the most bulky-looking gear that was obviously bullet proof.  My perspective here was one of detachment and invisibility.  I was completely protected from being in any way hurt. 

I was as if astral projecting.  I was completely not in my dream body, for being able to experience the interior of this tiny house, which remained standing outside at some distance and safely removed. 

Nonetheless, there was nothing but pure pandemonium here.  At one point, there was a lightning flash which then left me flying effortlessly through a liquid blue sky. 

This was such an utterly serene movement.  The flight left me feeling so transcendent that I had to wonder if, in fact, I had been struck by the bullet.  For already being out of my body, to have experienced this adage was truly sublime. 

Everything about the experience, as it was sensed, was so richly detailed and intense.  A stark contrast it was, too, to the ricocheting madness of the runaway bullet that seemed to have had a mind all its own. 

Once in flight, and my vision had adjusted, I discovered that I was aloft over the most beautiful landscape imaginable.  Here, there were two hundred-foot-plus tall, cedar-like-trunked deciduous trees. 

Furthermore, they were the greenest trees imaginable.  All the colours here were so incredibly vivid and crisp; too, everything was perceived in enriching detail. 

For being here and in flight, it was as if I had complete detachment.  My mind here was sponge-like and so very lucid that I was able to sense everything independently, yet, simultaneously.  These trees were so spherical that they looked pretty much so like topiary. 

These trees were so phenomenally tall that it was hard to conceive how teams of arborists could sculpt the trees into such marvellous visions of geometric perfection.  Here in the dreamtime, it was also obvious that these arboreal giants grew this way. 

Incidentally, these trees did so remind me of those wonderful trees that I encountered in the dreams on Thursday, February 16, 1989.  Here, as in that dream six years earlier, there was the same degree of intensity to arboreal life. 

Too, there seemed to be none of the industrial pollutants in the air which has so gnawed at the fabric of the waking state for the last two centuries now. 

In the dream, six years earlier, the arboreal life in the valley – to which I looked from across the street while seated on a bench, to the right of which was the almost jet-black, archly hirsute, red-tipped flared nostrilled extra-human – was as if bonsai.  Now in this dream, all the life here was exactly the same densely packed foliage and intensely negative-ioned life-forms but with one exception. 

Here, the arboreal life was some 100 times larger than in that dream on Thursday, February 16, 1989.  Six years later, it was as though one were having complementary experience of arboreal life.  These arboreal splendours were as if the macroscopic versions of the tiny, perfect, almost sentient-vibrationed bonsai-like plants that were so densely foliaged that they appeared as if clusters of macroscopic moss. 

As compared to these arboreal life-forms today, perhaps, they were indeed the equivalent of moss.  Indeed, the arboreals here were so large that they could be more appropriately termed gargantuan. 

Greatly inspired, I swooped down through the air and flew through the lush thicket of one of the arboreal giant’s crown.  The arboreal giant’s crown was covered in the largest orange blooms which were set against the greenest leaves. 

In the sense that the bloom had three petals, they were not unlike the floral petals of a trillium.  Behind those and in between those spokes, the leaves would then branch off in three skinny formations. 

In that sense, it was as if the leaves formed another trillium-like formation in back of each colourful bloom.  Looking at the bloom head on, the leaves in the back of it were placed in the negative space as it were. 

In that way, for never being obstructed by the marvellous large blooms, the leaves were never blocked from direct sunlight.  Truly intense was the sunlight here which made one conclude that, perhaps, it ought well to have been called starlight rather than sunlight. 

Next, I was met by the sight of the most beautiful young girl.  She was almost like a Nymph.  Unmistakably, she was High-Yellow and wore a diaphanous, light blue tunic. 

She was lower down in the tree and sinuously perched on a branch while smiling up at me.  Hers were the most invitingly seductive of eyes.  I was instantaneously aroused. 

I was then reminded of the Brooke Shields lookalike whom I encountered in that very eventful dream on Saturday, December 31, 1988.  The one interesting feature of the Brooke Shields lookalike in that New Year’s dream was how very familiar she was. 

Of course, it was not Brooke Shields and for the life of me, I could have sworn that she wore my eyes.  A very futuristic, technologically advanced society it was in said dream. 

Either this was myself in a future or past-parallel life or even my essence twin.  A very soul-arousing dream experience it was too. 

I soon then bolted in flight from the tree and made my way for the large spaceport.  Massive, too, it was too.  The spaceport was some four miles in diameter and in the shape of a brown amphitheatre-like structure. 

This proved a teleportation system where a large single central portal slowly and iris-like closed.  In so doing, it blocked off the intense flow of intense blue-white light. 

Speeding along in flight, I hurried to make it into the portal before it could completely close.  If I were to make it safely back to ‘Arvin’ here on Earth, I knew that this is what I had to do. 

This dream experience was clearly set in another dimensional universe altogether.  The immensity of this structure was awesome.  Furthermore, the vibration that it generated was like nothing ever experienced in the waking state. 

The blue-white intense light had a powerful vibration all its own which gave some glimmer of the potency of the soul.  After all, this was merely a conduit through which the soul could project and thereby explore other dimensions. 

A lone sentry who looked very much so like a Maasai, he even had the red clay-covered hair of a Maasai, presided at the portal.  He was the one in charge of operating the portal and quite a spiritually august soul he was. 

He seemed very priestly as though from his tribe, men – and possibly women – were trained to serve as guides to getting one to the other side. 

He did let me know that once started, the process of closing and opening the portal could not be stopped; this, by the way, he telepathically shared with me.  What truly amazed me about him was how evolved and loving he was. 

Indeed, all this racist Eurocentric bias as to what it is to be Black, to be African was truly nothing but the projections of a collective psyche living at odds with nature. 

Although Maasai are notoriously tall, this man was easily in excess of nine feet tall.  In the true sense of the word, this man’s beauty was simply stellar. 

The blackness of his skin simply glistened as it became aglow with all that intense blue-white light.  For the blue-white light interacting with his skin’s rich melanin tone, there was an added hue of blueness to his skin.  It was very good to have been around him. 

This man was a truly evolved being. 

As it closed shut, I felt an overwhelming pang of dread and desolation.  This site was very much so like the massive alien complex which was first discovered in the original Alien film starring the actor, Sigourney Weaver and designed by superior creative genius, Hans R. Giger, the Swiss painter. 

That famous archaeological find that they made, in the film, in the form of an architectural structure of massive proportions that had a somewhat art deco look to it by way of Hans R. Giger’s stark visionary beauty. 

Here too in the dreamtime, the central hub of the teleportation system was considerably raised.  From the hub radiated a series of large spokes that were rather mechanical-looking.  Regardless of the protocol here, I simply wanted out. 

Just then another richly-complected Maasai-looking gentleman had come by.  He bore a flatbed-like shuttle with portals.  Since I had missed the colossal column of blue-white light, he told me that I was supposed to get into the shuttle craft. 

Nonetheless, as much as I wanted to get back home to ‘Arvin’ in the end of the millennium waking state Earth, I was hesitant.  Soon, it turned out that a river of yellow-golden, red-hot light was poured into the tiny shuttle. 

Indeed, I thought, all the more reason to decline the lift.  So far as I could see, this would have meant instant cremation for me.  Thank you very much but I would rather not.  With that, I bolted from there toute de suite. 


Attended a soirée, in this the fifth dream, where Rio da Braga, Harella da Braga and others sat at picnic tables.  Harella sat atop a picnic table while looking on at others as they promenaded the lawn-turned dance floor. 

So very bucolic it was here.  Some truly soulful, ancient trees were scattered about the sprawling grounds.  Harella and Rio were there to see me off because my fate, as it were, was sealed. 

They were rather resigned to my fate being the sorry mess that it was.  In a bid to be removed from the probity of their psychic touch, I then went off and asked a young woman to dance. 

Here, everyone was dressed in Edwardian garb.  Here, everything was very codified and strict too.  My partner was socially inept and giggled much too much. 

This young woman was much too naive for her own good.  She was a bubbly pretty sort who only needed to be properly conned and she would be set up for life.  All that she saw, she had bought and believed lock, stock and barrel. 

Being able to dance, liberated me as I did so feel entrapped for being there in both Rio and Harella’s presence.  From there, I took my leave returning to the higher plane where I encountered an old White man in a salon. 

I got him wasted on chocolate and liqueur.  On the surface of everything was a sticky film of liqueur.  At this point, there was an attempt to apprehend me but I managed to have escaped. 

I then returned to the hut of the original dream where, again, I was met by the sight of all that layered paint and shellac.  Now the surfaces here looked like uneven bronze or even steel. 

My next effort, though, was to try and make it back to the teleportation system.  All I wanted was to get back to ‘Arvin’ at home here in the waking state. 

The old White man did so remind me of the men whom I encountered in that dream on Thursday, February 16, 1989.  In particular, I refer here to the red-tipped, large and broad-nostrilled men who were exceptionally hirsute – and mellow too. 

They were very solid and had august warrior-energied faces which were shamanic to the core.  So, perhaps, these were king souls as possibly could have been this man. 

This race of men were all exceptionally tall – both Caucasian and Black men were and their noses were just as strikingly colourful as the cheeks and nostrils of gibbons are. 

This old man’s nose, however, was decidedly human and distinctively aquiline in a Teutonic sense.  Despite the normalcy of his nose’s look, one had the sense that it had the capacity to glow red when he emoted – just as those of the men in that dream six years earlier were capable of doing. 

Meanwhile, he remained seated in a rocking chair in the center of the room.  This comfortable room looked every bit like a much-loved library.  He was contained and a controlled man. 

However, he did have a weakness which immediately I took advantage of and fed no end.  He was partly why, I could possibly not have made it back to the teleportation system in time and for a second time at that. 


Photo credit: Alien cockpit of H. R. Giger’s Alien film set.  1978

© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved. 

Posted in Dream Shamanism, Dream travel to distant worlds, Dreams, Dreams of ETs, Flying dreams, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, OBEs in dreams, Out-of-Body Experiences, Shamanism | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


Horizon oil on canvas 2012

Oil on canvas

100 x 76 cm

Commissioned by & featuring, Russell Poad

© 2012 Mark Jameson

Such engrossing splendour… this is such an elegant masterpiece.  


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All Rights Reserved.  


Posted in 21st Century British Art, Art, Art Collecting, Artists, Award-winning artist, Contemporary British Art, Painting, Portraiture, Private Art Collection | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Motor rally, famous person dream sex and memories of former reincarnational cycle.


These next dreams, spanning three sleep cycles, were dreamt on Sunday, August 28, 1994.  At the time, the Moon then transited both Taurus and my twelfth house.  These proved rather insightful dreams and as for the dream of sex with famous persons, what can I say, I dream it, I faithfully document it. 

I have never had the slightest interest, libidinal or otherwise, in either famous person in said dream.  Dreams are the stuff of magical souls; more than that, dreams are the hallmarks of older souls in bliss. 

As for me, it is proven fact both in science and this blog’s irrefutably formidable evidence: persons with higher IQs dream with greater frequency and élan than your garden variety, overbred/inbred simian mammalian-stocked fare – whose sphinctered psyche, truth be told, tend to hardly ever stray beyond the mindlessness that is dogma. 

The three sleep cycles that day were not sequentially recorded.  At the end of the rather sexualised dreams in the B sleep cycle, I indulged in loud and raucous self-pleasure went back to bed after a shower and dreamt the C sleep cycle’s dreams. 

On awaking less than two hours later, I immediately went about committing the racy B sleep cycle to audio-cassette recorder first.  The dream intimacy was intensely lucid and astral plane-focussed. 



A wild marathon was being raced on a Sunday afternoon, during the first dream, in a tiny town.  From the safety of a treetop, I watched its approach.  The tree craned from the gutter which sat to the left of the road. 

The earthen affair was dusty and litter-filled.  The route was well-travelled with dirt bikes, motorcycles as well as race cars, pick-ups… you name it. 

Every manner of transport save animals, thankfully, was being used.  At one point down the road, there was a burst of vehicles bouncing over the hill at the end of the road. 

The motorcycles flew high into the air with their tail ends turning to the right.  On landing, there was much dirt sent flying as they gripped and skidded in search of proper traction. 

All this left a great cloud of dust everywhere in the wake of the breaking, speeding marathon vehicles.  Some vehicles jackknifed at 90 degrees to the road and in both directions. 

Lots of breaking and fast thinking here to have corrected things and to have manoeuvred their way back on course.  One motorised dirt bike went careening over the parked cars then perilously landed close to the lip of the gutter. 

Seconds later, he and bike did go flipping over into the gutter.  His blue-helmeted, blue-suited body went flying clear of the handlebar in the process. 

He agilely recouped and gingerly scampered up the hill; he was a determined soul who sputtered away purely on adrenaline.  He clawed his bike up; the look of fierce determination was written all over his face.  Never once had he lost his grip on the bike’s handles. 

His helmeted head and visor kept obscure his eyes; the helmet stayed in place throughout.  When he got back up the incline, he did abandon the bike when sent bolting in a quick jettisoned direct flight as he was broadsided by a heavy truck. 

He certainly seemed stunned.  With such high concentrations of adrenaline coursing through his system, he did seem very warrior-spirited. 

Not missing a beat and in a bid to stay in the marathon, he went running down the road on foot.  His behaviour was truly hysterical.  There was no way, in this man’s mind, that he was not going to win. 

He had endlessly prepared for the moment and nothing was going to stop him from realising that goal.  Along with the locals, I screamed my head off humoured by his tenacity. 

Though we laughed, we didn’t do so at him.  Rather, it was the sheer raw willpower that he exhibited which passionately moved us.  He was as if a chicken running around without its head. 

This was because he had in mere seconds had the wind knocked out of him; all this, after having clawed his way back up from the gutter.  He was truly out of his body in all of this. 

He had been so programmed to not quit that he went on sheer instinct towards the finish of the marathon.  He was, though, truly without a clue as to what was going on. 

So in a state of shock was he that I was certain that he had no idea that he had been struck by the truck.  Impressed by him, I pushed off the tree and began flying ahead of him. 

I watched as he drew alongside a white tube van and then tried climbing onto the driver’s door stand.  The front of the truck’s vent, however, then morphed and came around to the driver’s side.  Once morphed, it then opened and exhaled a sepia-toned exhaust cloud of fumes. 

This indefatigable soul simply shrugged off the attack as being pointless.  The driver assured him that it was a lethal gas that would get him soon enough. 

I was soon upset at this lack of fair play on the part of the driver.  An admirable display of courageousness and tenacity was this man. 


I looked at the actor, Kirk Douglas, in this the second dream, who was seated on a curved, blue leather sofa.  On his right sat the actor, Jack Palance.  Both men wore faded, baggy khaki pants with their legs wide-opened. 

Each conveniently had his elbow on the sofa’s armrest propping himself up.  Jack Palance was ribbing Kirk Douglas about his wild days as Hollywood’s number one stud. 

Could he still go the distance? Jack Palance had teased with a sly wink; it was as if to boast of his being still high in the saddle.  Meanwhile, his son, Michael Douglas had long ago eclipsed the old man, Jack Palance had competitively added. 

Kirk Douglas, dimpled and obstinate-looking, began teasingly groping his cock.  His cock rode down his long left thigh.  Overcome with desire, I dropped to my knees about seven feet before them to which Jack Palance wickedly laughed. 

With that, he groped himself too.  This man had a wicked ribald sense of humour.  There was a lone woman present who chuckled; she thoroughly enjoyed their cunning.  She was a little to my left and rear. 

Mesmerised, I scurried up undaunted and began groping Kirk Douglas.  All the while, I directly looked into his intense, fiery blue eyes.  Goodness, he was magnetically handsome. 

Like some strange boa constrictor, his cock energetically throbbed as though protesting my grip to rein it in.  I was amazed at the size of his cock; it was easily eleven inches, though, not a big-headed affair. 

Skinny, it tapered off towards the head.  I was voracious and ripped open his pants and fed on his wunder-schlong.  Throughout my exquisite fellatio, I made direct, soulful eye contact with Kirk Douglas. 

This was a very intense, real experience.  Not only could I taste him but the smell of his sex was loud and musky. 


 sparrows feeding


I saw, during this the first dream, a couple of sparrows in the famous genip tree of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts, house.  They were low in the tree, in the southeast sector, and close to the mango tree that I had planted. 

There in a little half-nest were their hatchlings.  In another fully covered nest, which dangled from the bottom of the same branch on which their parents were perched, was another set of hatchlings. 

Though I interacted warmly with the hatchlings, I chose to keep my distance and be brief.  I didn’t want to have their parents possibly abandon them for having been imprinted by human contact. 

Prior to that, I had been down in the gut with a large collection of chocolates that I had gathered with Heathcliff Mars-Provencher.  I was getting them together to send off to Vanessa Banks-Abella and her children. 

We then picked some cedar boughs to place atop each parcel; the intention here was to give the gifts a really fragrant smell on being opened. 


 Eagle birdman


While high up in the air, in this the first dream, I observed a young White pilot flying a rust-coloured, old air force jet.  I sped along at great speeds, as he went along at equally great speeds, hugging the coastline of a tropical island. 

There were several fighter carriers moored in the cover of the bay with their bows facing out to sea.  This was a bluffed landscape which was a nice, U-shaped enclosed area. 

This cul de sac was a deep-water bay for these large, grey aircraft carriers to be comfortably anchored there.  Speeding long, both the jet and I passed six or eight fighter carriers all of which were very rusty-looking on deck. 

None of them had a single fighter aircraft on board their decks.  Though foamy in much of the bay, the sea proved intensely blue.  Very bright out it was here. 

After having ascended almost vertically, the pilot then tumbled the craft to his low altitude flight.  At this point, he headed back down the shoreline and passed the aircraft carriers again.  This time he did so with the aircraft carriers on the right. 

A tarmac came out to sea that had led to an airfield just beyond the bay.  The pilot followed it at low altitudes but never landed.  Simultaneously, we then veered off to the left of the runway and entered a dark, canyoned deserted city. 

Here it was instantaneously nighttime.  He flew at times sideways to negotiate the narrow streets with their ubiquitous tall towers.  Every one of these buildings was long-ago deserted. 

The pilot was being reprimanded by officers at the controls of the air force command.  He ignored them and continued on while I trailed him at a safe distance. 

Several times the rouge officer would scrape his wingtips against the buildings.  The right wingtip he had scraped against the asphalt below to break his speed. 

He then deployed the fighter jet’s tiny parachute and then did a loop about a dozen or more thick electrical cables.  This entangled his chute’s cabling and allowed him to completely break. 

In the end, after the cables had been stretched then snapped, the craft crashed into the street below.  There was a fireball of blue-white sparks and flashing light when this occurred. 

Immediately, he deplaned and briskly walked away.  On his face he wore an obstinate grin.  When he returned to the plane, there were workers there removing the neck-braced body of a no-more-than-ten-years-old boy. 

The child had the same thick mane as his.  Nonetheless, the pilot was not the least bit emotionally engaged at any point as the workers delicately struggled to remove the injured boy. 

The child had seemingly been injured prior to the crash landing.  Perhaps, too, the paramedics had placed the neck brace on him before removing his frail body from the craft. 

I should think that during the crash his body had suffered much, if not all, of its injuries. 


I entered a tiny, dark marble affair, in this the second dream, where a female attendant waited on a princely man.  This man had the most beautiful skin and smile.  His were the most magical eyes. 

The man sat, off to one side in a tiny curtained alcove, reading a book.  There were two tubs side-by-side where he had recently taken a bath. 

On his friendly invitation, I had climbed into one of the tubs.  Enthralled and aroused by his magnetism, I soon realised that I had stepped into his dirty bathwater; I did not appreciate this cunning on his part. 

For the life of me, I couldn’t get the dirty bathwater to drain out.  The woman was a smiling, serene, repression-moded lovely woman.       She seemed the type who was possibly in acceptance, though, maybe submission. 

I looked on as he held an over denture in one hand.  He was a tall warrior-prince of exceptional good looks; he may well have been a dark Amerindian, Hawaiian or even Maori. 

He was more the latter, I would say, with a Jovian radiance to him.  A truly refined princely gentleman he was.  I wanted to bed him.  Putting down the book that he had been reading, he then placed the over denture onto his natural front teeth. 

Concerned, he hurried to my rescue where he profusely apologised about the dirty bathwater.  He then hurried about and poured me a fresh bath; this time he used clean water.  This man had the same graciousness as does Oleg de Brontë. 

The colour schemata here were of a red-brown stone throughout.  He sat wrapped in a white cotton tunic.  His large-nippled chest and soft shoulders laid bare and exposed in amongst the softly draping fabric. 

His body looked as smooth as the finest silk.  I was completely enamoured of him.  A very soulful and intimate affair this dream encounter proved.  Though there would be no sexual intimacy between us, there was an immediate connectedness there. 

This bond seemed to be born of essence connectivity.  I haven’t the faintest idea who he was, if he was my task companion or seeing myself in my most immediate future life. 

This was a highly spiritual experience and informed of the soul. 


I was next, in this the third dream, with a stout, middle-aged, knowledgeable White male.  He placed his right index finger into my mouth.  With that, he slipped into a trance and channelled that I was one of them. 

Said he, I was one of the lost tribes that includes the sci-fi writers, Frederik Pohl and Piers Anthony.  I then saw a couple of novels that had been penned by me with the covers portraying what my native race looked like. 

Dark-plumed bird-men with fierce warrior faces that were possessed of the most striking eagle eyes was this ensouled species.  On the cover of one novel, a dirty blond boy was accompanied by one such bird-man during an interstellar adventure. 

The other cover was from a trilogy which chronicled the history of ‘my people’ – the bird-men ensouled species as it was still fresh in my mind.  There was a Darth Vader type in a blue-black cowl riding a tiny craft with several others in a squadron about him. 

All of the others were to his rear.  I had a strong definite reaction to this man.  I then told my human guide not to bother getting me the books as I had my covers at home in the waking state.  These were my exact words too. 

This was the story of a people who had fled a warrior race who, on coming here to Earth, were still traumatised and were at times hunted as they carried this dread of being hunted. 

This, of course, led to a self-fulfilling prophecy in these souls whose reincarnational cycle was continued here on Earth.  These fears of being persecuted elsewhere were here on Earth being acted out chiefly as when some humans are being racially predatory as experienced by me. 

In this lifetime, my experiences of being racially preyed on served to trigger and surface these memories of my former race in another species elsewhere in the cosmos.  This did not, however, mean that Blacks were descended of this race.  This present awareness and experience of racism, chiefly from some Whites – of being preyed on by the racial predator, for me, served as a parallel or trigger of those former times’ painful memories. 

The experience of being racially preyed on in this lifetime mirrored the painful memories of the parallel experiences had during the reincarnational cycle of the bird-men species elsewhere.  While telepathically harmonised with the channeller, there were lots of tumultuous experiences felt anew. 

I felt as if strapped in and unable to transcend these experiences.  At the time, it was as if I was standing in the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house’s door from Harella da Braga’s bedroom while looking to the backyard that faces both the genip and mango trees. 

This was a very vivid and serenely experienced encounter. 


Photo credits: Motorcyclist/Sparrow’s nest/detail of Bill Reid’s Haida Gwai sculpture.  

© 2014 Arvin da Braga. All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in Dreams, Art, Canadian art, Sculpture, Michael Teachings, Shamanism, Flying dreams, Adult Content, Reincarnation, Dreams of famous persons, 20th Century Art, Dream sex, First Nations Art, Haida Art, Artists, Award-winning artist, Contemporary Canadian art, Canadian artists | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Introducing… Albertina Hunter!


Mid-week on Wednesday, August 24, 1994 as the Moon transited both Aries and my eleventh house, I would dream the following five dreams.  In the first dream, I found myself focussed all dolled up in drag doing a show.  This was quite a departure for me and something I have never done in the waking state. 

The photo used to accompany these dreams is of Jamaican-born Toronto drag star, Michelle Ross.  Back in 1978, while Owen Hawksmoor and I were living together, one evening we went out on the town.  That night, I would attend my first drag show; it was the most riveting bit of theatre. 

Thirty six years later and Michelle Ross is still going strong and weaving her magic.  Of course, I could have used another drag queen’s photo but it is a tribute to Michelle’s staying power and fierce professionalism that I use her photograph here. 

I am still convinced that Michelle does the best Diana Ross going.  Whether at the club where first seeing her perform – at the northeastern corner of Church and Carlton Streets which is no more or the Club Manatee on St. Joseph Street, which this being Toronto is now no more, as a 45 storey condo is currently being built there – a Michelle Ross performance was the highlight of clubbing on weekends back in 1978-1980.  

Here’s to great memories which are like the most memorable lucid dreams.  Sweet dreams, I love  you more! 


I was at the front of a house, on a very low stage, in this the first of five dreams.  This was more so a stage in a theatrical format.  I was at a standup mic in drag. 

I was a camp drag queen and my stage name happened to have been, ‘Albertina Hunter’.  Though I quite enjoyed myself, for the most part, I was being heckled by most of the fat White queens in the audience. 

Nonetheless, I persevered being larger-than-life, by way of performing, being over-the-top.  My hair was quite big and naturally it was all mine.  I sashayed my way in, in a pair of very high, high heels which is why the flat-footed bitches were hissing. 

I wore a tight red number and had big boobs.  God, I was sexy as all fuck.  The fabric was a stretchy affair that had been sequined; very nice, this outfit full of and dripping sex, sex and more sex everywhere. 

*I was not lip-synching, rather, I was doing a gruff vocalesing routing à la Alberta Hunter and Betty Carter.  END.  


I had a very long detailed conversation with Agapé Quétaine, faux Michael channeller, in this the second dream.  He spoke of the exigencies of channelling Michael.  This, said he, involved a great many long, deep intense breaths. 

To be sure, all of this tended to be very hard on the body.  Said he, it was no picnic to be under the thralls of so much power.  Indeed, added the failed actor-cum-charlatan, it was very easy to become lost – as so clearly has he. 

With so much power taking possession of the mind, Agapé Quétaine said, it definitely was no picnic.  He added that it was a great high but also ravishing. 

I had suspected that it was likely the case as he had stated.  Said he, the amount of information that they shared was so overwhelmingly mind-blowing that it could become quite addicting. 

As he spoke, I had a sense of a large opening and the actual manifestation of Michael.  Here, I experienced a blue sphere of blue flames.  I got a close-up of a particular section of the blue light sphere which represented the Michael entity. 

During the process, it was as if one were seeing with the third eye.  Into the blackness of space was this incredible sphere of blue light that was aflame.  A very intense, sky-blue light that was soothing to look at it proved. 

A rich intensity of energies flowed from it; the effect of the transference was empowering.  Spatially, it felt as though it were tumbling through space at great speeds directly towards me.  At once, I felt supremely connected and energised. 

The light radiating from the blue flaming orb was white, rather than blue, and very intense.  Though powerful, the energies were simultaneously both loving and potent; this was an expansive experience that proved rather healing. 

When I got a close-up of one of the sectors, I looked on as it tumbled down into view.  This revealed a forest of sitkas and cedars which were all of the same blue schemata as the flames.  Very interesting a manifestation this proved. 

So potent and totemic was this experience, I was there and then reminded of the events of Boxing Day 1972. 

*I will say this much that Agapé Quétaine proved a truly cretinous little charlatan.  A truer faux Michael channel there could not be found throughout the universe.  Blasted jackass!  END.  


I was following a young dark-haired White, in this the third dream, who had a leonine mane that cascaded down to mid-back.  Ectomorphic, he wore faded blue jeans with matching jean shirt. 

He went off the road to the left, cutting through a field, following the earthen footpath that ran diagonally.  He then went down the side of the hill and slipped out of view. 

Though I followed, after having apprehensively looked back at me, he had sped away.  The light of day was late afternoon and warming.  I did feel somewhat upset at having lost contact with him.  On the whole, I was rather intrigued by him. 


A fourth dream was set in a street at nighttime and down in the valley past a three-sided, dark wood busshed.  Inside, was a man with his German shepherd-like dog. 

The dog was hostile and acutely uneasy in my presence.  I simply stared it down and stayed my ground.  Telepathically, I was able to arrest the dog’s rage. 

The man had had to pick up the dog and comfort it because when I had entered the creature’s mind, it had been terrified at having been psychically overwhelmed. 

The experience was a traumatic one for the dog which had caused it to violently shake its head in a bid to be rid of my touch.  The man was in his forties and White. 


I saw that stout, blond casual worker; he was in line, in the fifth and final dream, getting ready to punch out at the end of the shift.  We cruised each other but nothing came of it as, finally, there mutually was a lack of interest. 

Finally, he was not whom I had been interested in.  Though he served to remind me of a dark-haired ectomorph with whom I had been earlier interested. 

This blond was, though, a very beefy, warrior-spirited self-possessed individual. 


Photo credit:  Michelle Ross, Toronto drag star. 

© 2014 Arvin da Braga.  All rights reserved. 

Posted in Dreams, Jazz, Michael Teachings, Dream Shamanism, Shamanism, Dreams of famous persons, African-Americans, Black creative artists, Michael Overleaves, Singers, Stage performers, Blues | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Old hot-head stirs.

Stone Samurai

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. 

Posted in Dream Shamanism, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, OBEs, OBEs in dreams, Out-of-Body Experiences, Reincarnation, Shamanism | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment



15″ X 22″ 
Intaglio Solar Etching
Akua Intaglio Ink on Stonehenge Paper
© 2013 Hooman Haghbin
Simplicity is always masterful.  I love it!
© 2014 Arvin da Braga
Posted in 21st Century Art, Art, Contemporary art, Etchings | 1 Comment