40 x 40 in
© 1989 Robert Davidson
I love the warm, soulful embraceable lushness of the oceanic blue.
© 2014 Arvin da Braga. All Rights Reserved.
40 x 40 in
© 1989 Robert Davidson
I love the warm, soulful embraceable lushness of the oceanic blue.
© 2014 Arvin da Braga. All Rights Reserved.
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.
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 (www.ago.net) 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.
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.
© 2014 Arvin da Braga. All Rights Reserved.
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.
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.
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.