Old-souled artistic shaman weaves his magic

Riga singing bust


While the Moon transited both Aries and my eleventh house, I would dream the next four dreams.  At the time, it was Friday, January 29, 1993 and I was on the cusp of meeting someone who would prove the biggest test of my patience. 

Eventually, this gross amour fou elected to steal some of the choice pieces of my art collection.  He had devised a scheme to have at my art by inviting me to set up a home with him in the States; thankfully, he was into S&M so when it came time to tie him up and truly take the strap to him, his neighbours were little worried. 

I have always looked back at that adventure with the greatest laughter; goodness, if only Philip Emerson were around with whom to share the anecdotal evidence.  Philip was such a marvellous fellow.  Of course, he is an artisan soul and not just any old artisan soul.  Philip is next-door in cadence four of my greater cadence and in the same priestly position as yours truly.  What a marvellous travelling companion he proved. 

Two days ago, proved the 67th anniversary of the start of Merlin’s most recent past incarnation.  So, after having been to my dentist’s for the quarterly scaling, I moved a couple of blocks north on Yonge Street and entered into the glorious park, Mount Pleasant Cemetery.  My, how the trees have grown since I worked there 25 years ago as I chose to deal with Merlin’s end-of-life illness and my fear-based dreams – which simply had to be addressed head-on – of death and mortality. 

It was a fantastic choice to have made.  The other option was to have been prescribed pharmaceuticals and since drugs do you and my dreams are not to be trammelled on, the only way to have addressed the issue served me well when electing to work at a cemetery. 

I noticed drying flowers and fresh broken earth next to Merlin’s lot where his ashes are buried in a lovely dark wooden urn 18 inches below the ant and weed-riotous parched earth. 

Could it be that his only surviving brother had passed?  I don’t know and frankly could not care less.  Looking to the left of Merlin’s marker, I saw the plaque which signified his former parents’ lots – both at this point now astral plane habitués. 

I thought too, as I took photographs, of that stinging indictment – one of way too many suffered,

“What do you know about money like this?  Why should Merlin will you any money?  My god, you’re just from a little island, for crying out loud!” 

To which, I born and bred in the Caribbean and from a genealogical banyan that includes Cicely Tyson, Louis Farrakhan, first U. S. Treasurer, Alexander Hamilton, Brazilian Sephardics  among others, imperiously shot back,

“As is the Queen of England and the Emperor of Japan!” 

Of course, before she could manage a comeback, I dismissingly shut her down in a louder register than hers,

“Good night, Sybil!” then slammed my phone shut. 

Oh what a glorious age that, when you could actually abruptly put end to bothersome conversations by hanging up a damn phone. 

Of course, months later after Merlin’s passing, I had managed to end up in the local paper’s daily police report as someone had roughed me up – after having stolen my bike and my attempts at taking it back did not go according to plan; though, I did eventually get the damn thing back. 

Sybil ever ready to do battle – god these horrid Baby souls, called up full of bile and got my voicemail only to leave a nasty little message – quelle surprise ça – in which she declared that since I had not answered the phone, I was probably laying at the morgue while on route back to hell. 

West Indian to the core, I shot a callous look to the floor and noted aloud to self with steely resolve my rebuttal,

“I will yet piss on your fucking grave!” 

I do not gladly suffer either insult or fools. 

With Merlin’s departure, who were these people to me save persons to whom I was connected by way of legalities?  They made their choices and since fighting is nothing but foreplay, I was game to do battle anywhere, anytime with whomsoever. 

So it was good to stand there, yesterday, and give thanks for having survived it all.  Too, it was so good to know that Merlin’s been reborn away from this place and this time and these truly god-awful people masquerading as humans – betrayers, fools, liars, thieves, STD-riddled whores – the lot. 

They were the swamp from which our love, Merlin’s and mine, lotussed into sublime flower and onto higher octaves as readily these dreams of Merlin in his passing attest.  For that, I am ever grateful; more than that, I am especially grateful neither to have to know nor suffer not one of these persons. 

Enough about, “Wasting time on shit that don’t matter ‘cause it ain’t never the fuck was, ain’t never the fuck goin’ be!” as the very wickedly hysterical and never-too-drunk-not-to-be-‘on’ African-American, Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would succinctly shade-throw. 

Life ain’t no dress rehearsal; pay no heed to the dreck. 

So then, smile, close your lids and enter into the realms of wonder, spirit and abandon – for you and I are magical beings of light, love and joy; as for the rest, hiss and piss on the lot… clearly, it is a fetish of theirs. 

Drink of my spirit and these beauteous dreams – one of them was a lyrical adage into some ravishingly beautiful-of-spirit old-souled artist’s lair.   Sweet dreams you; I love you more. 


There was a really soulful artist, whom I encountered in this the first dream, working on a painting.  Seemingly, it was painting on ceramic and chrome; the work of art was blue-surfaced.  In the centre, he worked with orange and yellow oils. 

Perhaps, it was acrylics.  In any event, the objective was to create a six-panelled evolutionary self-portrait.  The work of art was very wonderful.  There were six equal-sized squares in all that were two to a row, three rows high. 

In the panel on the upper left was the first portrait with the one on its immediate right the second.  The third and fourth portraits were in the second row down from the top, again from left to right. 

He was working in this tiny, cramped untidy apartment of his.  From panel three on, his actual face was painted in focus.  The first painting panel was the most blurred. 

The effect of the emergent face was like the rupturing ovary as the egg explodes from its skin’s pod and becomes life-creating.  Simultaneously, the depicted portrait was as if a giant sunflower explosively bursting into bloom. 

Most impressively still, it was like a Star explosively being born.  The energy of the artist’s attack suggested that the soul, which enlivened the human body, was just as explosive, creative and breathtakingly beautiful. 

A humbling experience it was to have seen this work of art.  The work had the effect, with its progressive panels, of never being static.  As you followed it with the eye, one was readily swept along by the movement which gave explosive birth to the artist’s portrait fully brought into focus. 

A masterful execution of technique, light and genius this truly was.  To have intently studied each panel, which is what I had done, it was possible to see how the artist had deliberately created the veneer of dappled blurring light. 

This affected the building tension that would eventually lead to the explosive revelation of the artist’s august, self-possessed portrait.  This was definitely not the solipsism of a vain superficial individual. 

This was the absorption of a deeply soulful, older-souled artist who poured his knowledge to date, reincarnationally, into his self-portrait.  That, even more so than the light, technique and use of colour was the real impactful power of the portrait. 

This was a cleverly conceived and masterfully executed idea.  He was a very soulful, old-souled individual.  His clothing was soiled and he desperately needed to take a shower. 

He was White, mid-aged and not the least bit caught up in looking presentable.  He had no vanity.  Everything in the apartment was haphazardly thrown about the place and, frankly, he couldn’t have cared less.  His approach was very devil-may-care. 

Whenever he got up, he got up.  He ate poorly and sparingly.  Above everything else, his art was paramount in his focus.  His art hung about the tiny apartment on easels, against the walls and was hung there too. 

As his tiny single window revealed, this apartment of his was high up from the street.  Easily five floors up, from the street, he was.  His tiny single cot was untidy and littered with more soiled clothing. 

So old a soul was he, one had the distinct impression of this man that he was no longer sexually focussed.  His hair was long and unsurprisingly untidy. 

He had a striking resemblance to Scandinavian actor, Nils Alstrop.  However, he was considerably older soul than that augustly handsome actor.  I studied his face in the light of the room, for a while, and was rather warmed by the look of him. 

From the third panel, his face discernibly came through.  His face was realised by the same deft stroke technique as the infamous self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh. 

Here, though, he had then covered those bold strokes with a thin veneer of light paints; this created a veiled look to the finished product.  The execution was quite masterful. 

After a while of standing back and looking at his creation, the focussed self-portraits made me feel as if I were flying in an upright position.  The expression on the face was so enlightened, so Zen and serene, it was mind-altering to have looked at. 

Though his face was set, his eyes were smiling and looked as if they were fixed on the face of his very soul itself.  There was a light illuminating his face which was reflected in his eyes.  This was a truly elevated soul. 

A deeply pensive, deeply sensitive and utterly sensual man he was.  Next to the evolvement of spirit that he possessed, his sloppiness was insignificant.  This glimpse into a great artist’s soul, for me, proved a truly enlightening and awesomely inspiring dream. 

Later on, I would be joined by three guys; we were on the artist’s tiny cot.  Two of them were blonds and another was long dark-haired.  The artist was intensely passionate and gentle but he was also excruciatingly shy.  Very excruciatingly shy, as a matter of fact, was he. 

The guys then began singing a Barbra Streisand tune which left me strangely enough self-conscious.  On lying back, I joined in with them; however, I sang mutely. 

Frankly, next to these orthodontically smug, acculturated showoffs, I was too self-conscious of my looks and bad breath.  By far, they were far too lookist and young-souled in focus.  Then again, they may well have been mature-souled. 

They certainly were emotionally intense.  On laying back my head, I was now resting on the chest of the long-haired guy who was to my right.  He was lovingly running his fingers through my hair and caressing my temples. 

Reaching over to his right, he picked up a rusty metallic piece of pipe.  On the top of it was an ancient, whitewashed African mask.  The design was undoubtedly Dogon. 

The pipe was part of stand which sat close to the cot.  He then, however, began using the hollowed pipe as though he were channelling through some info or other.  From there, I got from the bed and went over to the tiny window. 

Looking out, I directed my gaze down to the empire building that sat at the corner of the adjoining street.  At the top of the ground floor, there was a beautiful bust at the curvaceous corner of the building. 

The design was very empire and majestic – both the building and bust.  The bust, which stood over the entrance to the building, was of none other than Barbra Streisand. 

Though made of stone, it was animated with Barbra Streisand cosmically singing in tune with us.  I initially thought that I had heard her voice and on seeing the long-haired guy channelling in through her energies, I went to the window in search of Ms. Streisand. 

Her voice carried so soulfully that it was sublime.  When I initially had seen the bust, it was of what appeared an operatic figure with mouth wide-opened in mid-song. 

The hues in the stone then shifted as it became animated and Barbra Streisand, being channelled through by the long-haired guy to my rear on the cot, came through singing. 

Throughout, the bust remained stone.  However, her essence came through the rock and sang along in unison with us.  Barbra Streisand’s face was so Zen; her eyes were powerful because they were stone infused with her life-force. 

She was here as if the bust of a Greek goddess come to life.  As if to have witnessed the artist’s beauty were not enough but now this stellar performer. 

My lips trembled awestruck, as tears rolled down my face, as I sang along being blown away by the beauty being imparted by this ensouled marble bust of Barbra Streisand’s channelled creativity. 

The beauty of this moment was rapturous.  Though I was looking down into the nighttime street, as though at times in close-up, it was still plainly visible and experienced in intimate rich detail. 

I guess it was because I was in such a heightened state of spirit when feeling overcome with joy for the artist’s enlightenment.  Too, for singing in unison with Barbra Streisand and the others in the apartment, the experience was that much more elevated. 

The old-souled artist sat about looking at us; though he shyly smiled, he did thoroughly enjoy our august company.  Though this was such an exquisite sight, I never did call the others in the apartment to join me at the window to enjoy this sight. 

The vista outside the window was something that was in a way private and a complement to all that I had so far experienced.  The others also had not been there, for those long moments, while I was alone with the artist watching him painting. 

The revelation and elation that I would experience, for being in his presence and absorbing his art, they had also not participated in.  A truly rhapsodic experience this interlude of sheer dream poetry was. 


Out in the streets, while focussed in this the second dream, I was on the grey-blue hood of a Ford van – one of those Ford vans from the late 70s to early 80s.  Seated there, I looked on as a very soulful, august White couple; they were both blond and were dolorously drunk. 

They were simultaneously talking away and made absolutely no sense.  Of course, their speech was unintelligibly slurred.  They seemed like bag people; they were just a couple of world-weary, very old souls. Quite simply, they needed to numb themselves to the callous hideousness of the waking state’s immutabilities. 

I exactly knew where they were coming from and completely empathised with them; too, I felt enormous compassion for them.  To hell with la dolce vita.  They had settled for truth – the lush life… indeed. 

Unexpectedly, he confrontationally grabbed her by the collar.  There was another couple of drunkards who stood off from them; they were next to a wire fence which they were using as an anchor. 

Here in the dreamtime, the image was at once hysterical because you just knew that were they to have let go, they would begin levitating.  Of course, they were way too intoxicated to have been able to achieve the necessary focus to fly. 

This, of course, was an old soul dilemma more than anything else.  These were not piss drunk, young-souled skinhead/punk rocker types – like those whom I encountered in that dream on September 4, 1992. 

In any event, the blond drunk threw his woman to the ground.  They were beneath a very gnarled, ancient tamarind tree that was spectacularly tall.  Pinning her down, he energetically began trying to ram his cock into her ploughed-out pussy. 

Incensed at the display of male sexual violence, I hopped from the hood and impatiently barked at him.  Grabbing a sizeable heavy stick on the way, I went up to him, placed the stick at the back of his head and coolly told him to get the fuck off her. 

The stick was stabbing just back of his right ear.  Naturally, he assumed that it was a gun.  He stopped what he was doing and got up.  Then when he bore me those eyes, they were indeed none other than a very, very old soul’s. 

Clearly, he wasn’t being sexually aggressive; he was a very robust-bodied old soul who liked to play rough with his woman.  Nonetheless, he took off and left me behind with her. 

I helped her to her feet and she was, from those wide-open eyes, willing to ride anyone.  She did thank me while we stood there.  While looking after him, I was stunned to find no malice coming from him when he looked back at us. 

For a White male, to have seen such lack of hostilities in his eyes – especially in a situation like this – was truly phenomenal.  He was forceful for being robust-bodied and having a ton and a half too much magnetic energies.  Standing there, I thought to myself that he was no doubt a very old-souled King soul. 

He wanted to ravage her because he felt such love and sensual longing for her.  This was not about rape; however, for having been on the hood of the vehicle, it had initially seemed to me like it. 

Here were these two souls that had loved across so many millennia, reincarnationally, and then along came me.  With my interruption, their soulful play was being interrupted by my warrior-spirited need to defend a woman against being sexually overwhelmed. 

Certainly, I can’t be chided for wanting to protect a woman.  Then again, he looked like a real big-cocked ardent lover and which woman wouldn’t want to surrender a little blood to experience such passion. 

After all, by way of the flesh we experience life.  I had totally missed the point of their confrontation.  However, like the truly old soul that he was, he wasn’t going to be confrontational with me. 

I felt so badly on seeing the error of my ways.  I had totally misjudged the situation. 


The next and third dream found me focussed in a darkened apartment whose claustrophobic light caused me to go to the window; I went seeking some light and release from its confinement.  There I saw the actor Katherine Hepburn. 

Looking down into the streets, she wore a white Victorian dress with high pinned up collar; indeed, very straight-laced a look was hers. 

I thought it terribly appropriate for her because she seems such a great New England, patrician archetype of WASP conservatism.  As I looked down into the street, she was waving while walking from right to left. 

She was with a small, exceptionally handsome boy of five or six at the most.  He was on her right as they held hands.  I was five floors up.  Though it seemed like the other apartment, where I had visited the painter, it wasn’t at the same level as his studio/apartment. 

This was a much larger apartment which was cluttered throughout with the finest antiques.  Exquisite rugs overlapped on the floors; still, there were ancient tapestries hung on the walls. 

What’s more, they were still in good condition.  Also, here there was a very eclectic collection of art nouveau pieces.  Pericles da Braga was present and obviously resided here.  He sat with his legs crossed and cut a very regal, princely line. 

I must say that Pericles does rather have a very refined air about him.  When I told him that Ms. Hepburn was down in the street, he went flying out to meet her. 

Sometime later, he returned all aglow.  He claimed that, according to her, she was born in Liberia.  Apparently, she was an expert on African languages and especially dialects of the north-western coast. 

She was fluent in several West African dialects, according to him, which she had demonstrated for him.  As I crossed the room, I had said that the boy was clearly her great-grandson. 

Pericles, true to his waking state persona, was rather warm, handsome and articulate.  He came over and extended me, with both hands, a camera.  The camera had a lot of yellow on it and looked more so like an oversized Kodak film box. 

He told me to load it but I had been looking into the wrong aperture.  Thus it was like looking into the bottom of a pair of binoculars.  Opening it up, I began inspecting it before loading it.  At the time, I was seated on a stool. 

The stool was a wonderfully covered with a rug that dripped with tassels.  Everything here was so incredibly rare and of genuine quality.  All antiques, everything, which had not only been meticulously researched and bought but fastidiously cared for. 

This aspect of his character was borne out, during childhood and early pubescence, in the care that he took of his matchbox cars.  

*Indeed, true Scholar soul that he is, the pride he takes in the eclectic and formidable books which make up his library.  END. 

This was such a beautiful apartment with its richly dark, wood-panelled walls.  Here Pericles was very aristocratic and very much so in his element. 

Sadly though, for having become a rather petty individual, Pericles has lost his nobility of spirit.  What Pericles lacks is the ability to be either tolerant or compassionate… tant pis. 

Then I got the film loaded into the camera and started winding it onto the loop while keeping the back lid open.  Soon enough, the film began becoming exposed; yet it kept on loading, even though normally such cameras don’t once the back lid is open. 

Realising what I had done, I screamed aloud horror-struck.  By that point, five or so exposures had already been lost.  What I couldn’t tell was whether or not this meant that the entire film was lost. 

Assuming that it couldn’t be completely damaged, I decided to go ahead and use it.  There were twenty-four shots on the roll which meant that we had at least 18 left. 

If it were completely damaged, I resignedly reasoned, it would not after all be the end of the world.  Then I proceeded to shoot a mixed Jamaican who sat across the room; he sat on a stool much like the one on which I sat. 

He was next to a table wearing a high hat that was in the Dr. Seuss style.  He was a Rastafarian whose hair was swept up and kept in place under the hat. 

His hair, which at one point I had seen, was exceptionally long and a reddish-blond.  An extremely light-skinned individual he was.  Most of all, he was a very calm and centred man. 

By very warmly sculpting his left profile through the lens as I set up the shot, I then began taking his picture.  Somehow, it was as if, I was able to make love to him by way of the lens. 

Of this he was completely aware and reciprocated.  No one else in the room was aware of this or, for that matter, picked up on our telepathic dialogue.  They would have deemed it as my merely taking his picture by deliberating while I got the right lighting and pose. 

Of course, what it did was afford an opportunity to achieve essence contact with this individual.  This in the end was exactly what was going down between him and me. 

A most soulful incredible experience was this.  The camera was being used to draw him closer by way of the lens.  He felt it all and totally approved of it.  This all happened in utter slow-motion and timelessness. 

As the telephoto lens brought him closer, in one long lyrical movement, the experience became heightened and more intimate.  This had the appearance of it being a long crane shot that came into a tight close-up. 

Of course, what was being brought closer to me was the window of awareness which allowed his very spirit to move in closer to finally embrace and enrapture me.  This was fully reciprocated and left me feeling absolutely wonderful. 

Across the room, we managed to have dissolved the barriers of space, time and ego to simply experience the other at the level of soul.  This was no light matter and was utterly profound. 

Simultaneously, we were fully aware the other was cognisant of the other being knowledgeable of what was taking place.  Quite simply, there was no way to deny this experience which we both knew to be a real and valid experience. 

A very rapturous dream this was for both him and me.  While in the middle of the experience, it dawned on me that I was having a rather high incidence of uplifting experiences in the dreamtime of late.  I rather enjoyed this man’s energies. 

Meanwhile, Pericles was there adding his own august, refined energies to the salon and affecting the right mood.  This he did by merely being there.  Hanging back, he was observant, non-intrusive. 

The essence contact never did become a three-way experience but was very much so a non-sexual, spiritually expansive interlude between the subject and me.  A thoroughly pleasurable moment this proved. 


I was in the work place, in this the fourth dream, standing beside the offices next to the QRBs.  Aida Pearl and I were speaking; she was being very warm towards me.  Meanwhile, another half dozen of her peers were on looking at us. 

She assigned me to go work on QRB #21 but I ended up going to the one that’s next to #16.  There were two middle-aged women, who are quite neurotic, working at that machine.  They were quietly waiting for the mechanic to fix the broken machine. 

They seemed to be full-timers from the day shift and no one whom I readily recognised.  The machine area, where the mechanics worked, was horribly filthy.  There were large grey balls of dust everywhere. 

The whole thing made me feel as though I was on the verge of a sneezing fit.  Though I realised that she had meant well, I was nonetheless impatient with Aida’s almost condescending approach to me. 

Finally, I decided to not bother with such trivialities and awoke. 

© 2014 Arvin da Braga. 

Posted in Art, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Michael Teachings, Reincarnation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


Manawanui 2006



30.5 x 30.5 inches

© 2006 Todd Couper/Susan A. Point/Roi Toia


The count of my serigraph is not especially high but it is rather invaluable to me as it was a gift from a lost friend.  


© 2014 Arvin da Braga


Posted in 21st Century Art, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Canadian art, First Nations Art, Haida Art, Maori Art, Private Art Collection | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Helena Bonham Carter


Helena Bonham Carter

Oil on Canvas 

101 x 101 cm

© 2013 Jonathan Yeo


My favourite actor by my favourite living British portraitist.  


© 2014 Arvin da Braga


Posted in 21st Century Art, 21st Century British Art, Art, Art Collection, Art Exhibition, Contemporary British Art | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cinematic tour de force.


While the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house, I would on Tuesday, February 9, 1993 dream the following two dreams.  The second dream being of focus herein concerns that most sublime of experiences one can experience when incarnate: essence contact. 

This was truly poetry of souls.  As such moments are rare, fleeting and utterly experiential mere words could never adequately do such moments justice.  The dream was a rhapsodic moment – a rare dance of souls. 

To say the least, I awoke from this dream and immediately placed a call through to Kaarlsohn, with whom I had not spoken in long ages, and we continued our soulful commune begun in the second dream.  A marvellous life this in which I choose to be focussed; thanks for vicariously coming along on my journey by favouring this blog. 

Sweet dreams as ever. 


I was on the veranda of 20 Amelia Street, in this the first dream, where it was very sunny out.  I had been asked to help wash a woman’s hair in a salon.  Standing with my back to the street, this also occurred on the far left of the veranda. 

A white towel thrown over my shoulder, I stood behind her as she reclined with her head tossed back towards me.  I began washing her hair and gave her scalp a very intense, deep massage. 

She was a very dark-skinned, tall, refined-looking Black woman.  As I began wringing her hair dry, I noticed, the nappier it got the more I washed and rinsed her hair. 

Initially, it had been quite relaxed hair that grew coarser and closer to its natural state.  I then went inside the apartment and looked at this tuber plant while sitting on the white sofa. 

I was really pleased to see that it had begun putting out three new shoots.  This tuber’s leaves were large, heart-shaped and beautifully healthy.  I was amazed to see that it was doing so well. 

Hurriedly returned to the veranda, I had heard a commotion going down there.  There, I found a beautiful, youthful Black couple; she was quite beautiful.  Myself, I became quite self-conscious and uncomfortable for being in their presence. 

They were very smug lookists.  They were fabulously wealthy people, were ridiculously good-looking and dark-skinned ,too, both of them.  He did have a striking resemblance to the pop music performer/producer/songwriter, Kenny Edmonds aka ‘Babyface.’ 

Then two people went up towards the backyard; supposedly, they were going for a tour thereof.  However, it was obvious that they intended to go fuck their brains out in the backyard. 

I thought of going back and playing voyeur but, in the end, there was far too much pigeon poop back there to make it worthwhile.  On seeing Elektra Munk-Ejoohoè, I went down into the street. 

She had just come up off of Metcalfe Street, making a left onto Amelia Street, heading for Parliament Street.  She was in the midst of crossing Amelia Street, to the north side, and on seeing me, she abruptly turned back to walk along the south sidewalk. 

Unperturbed, intent on confronting her, I went running out into the street.  The closer that she got, however, I realised that it was not Elektra.  The woman wore a wonderful long – to mid-calf – floral-printed summer dress. 

She had the same fabric, wrapped about a four-inch band, about her forehead which served to pull her wonderful mane off her face.  She was considerably younger than Elektra is. 

As a matter of fact, this woman was that Jewish mother who lives on Metcalfe Street and does have a striking resemblance to Elektra.  When she got to the lawn of 19 Amelia Street, next door to Jacques Blanc’s cottage, I realised that it was pointless to be in this state. 

Not because it was not Elektra but even if it had been Elektra, there was no point being served by behaving in this manner.  So right away with a young female dancer, I began doing double tour en l’airs which were perfectly executed. 

My concentration throughout was intense beyond the norm.  At times, I was able to move during the tours as if in slow-motion; this slowly made it possible to see the blur of my arc as I turned in midair. 

My control during this movement was exceptional.  Each time that I would land, I would melt into the most elastic, slow, perfectly turned out fifth-positioned plié. 

Then I began changing the landings so that I would end up in plié but in every arabesque and attitude position.  This proved a great deal of fun.  I had begun dancing to celebrate having overcome these base emotions that had sent me bolting down off the veranda. 


While on a film set, in what proved the second dream, I climbed up these white stairs then turned left.  With that, in order to get a shot of the two actors, I wanted to float through the air.  They were acting out a scene, as musicians in a living room, which was one level up. 

They were visible, from beyond a veranda, through a set of opened French doors.  This was a very sunny tropical setting.  I had, however, gotten there on foot rather than flown. 

Then, after having had a scene with a young White man, who had the fullest lips and did so remind me of Prashant Sharma, we went to hang out.  However, what with his airheaded personality, this man was more so like Dave Stamp. 

In a terribly untidy apartment, we sat together on a futon.  He was seated, when I kissed him, on my right and was quite shy.  I had done so seductively, gently on his full-lipped mouth. 

Throughout, I had been making the most direct, hypnotic soulful eye contact.  The experience was rather sensuous.  This was definitely an astral plane encounter that we shared. 

I then got into the coral-papaya-interiored set and found out that one of the two actors was, Kaarlsohn Frieden† or someone with an uncanny resemblance to him.  Of course, Kaarlsohn does bear a striking resemblance to the film actor, Willem Dafoe. 

He wore a loose-bodied tunic to mid-thigh.  Beneath that, he wore a knitted, white cotton bodysuit.  The tunic went down to mid-thigh.  His cock was so aroused that it bulged open the fly which had no buttons. 

As he sat forward, on the edge of the sofa, I could see his balls as they fell through the fabric.  The slow, sensual fall of his balls out his pants, and the brush against the fabric, had made him instantaneously grow tumescent. 

Next to the other actor, who played the role of the musician, he sat on the sofa.  At the time, the other actor was playing an acoustic guitar.  The aroused actor was on the other’s right side. 

I chose to keep the camera focussed on his genitals.  I soon realised that he was hard because, through the music, they had become intimate on alternate levels of reality.  The slowness of the guitar playing had caused them to achieve an intellectual high in which they had temporarily lost themselves. 

Briefly, I tried training the camera on his face, then to try and pan it to the open, star-filled sky.  However, instead of automatically focussing when going to the long shot, it remained focussed as before. 

As a result, the stars appeared as a swollen darkened sea of soft lights.  The image was truly breathtaking.  This had the effect of when travelling through space at such high speeds that the stars become a streaking blur. 

This is seen commonly in most sci-fi films in which crafts are said to be jumping from hyper-speeds, to near or faster-than-light speeds.  In this instance, though, the stars did not appear streaked in the least. 

All the stars appeared so glowingly soft and matted.  Beautiful, very soulful, indeed was the effect.  How utterly appropriate that the sky, in its soft sensual glow, should reflect the essence contact that both men were experiencing. 

The scene then broke; at which point the short very Aries-energied Kaarlsohn-like actor went bounding down the hall towards a counter.  He got changed and when returned he now wore a bold-striped – white with tubular azure stripes, business shirt. 

The shirt was pinned all the way up to the top button.  On his return, he approached and spoke to me.  He was very remote and intent on being very professional.  I was so aroused by the sensual glow of him that I awoke. 

What was really upsetting about this was that it proved, in fact, to have been Kaarlsohn.  He, however, wanted to remain detached from the role that he was playing. 

This seemed the only way that he could cope with the homoeroticisation he had experienced when intimate with the other actor.  This, however, was not something he was prepared to acknowledge or address. 

He chose to ignore me and focus on being ‘in character’; so as to deny emotional issues that were too complex just then to handle.  I had been standing there in the living room, on set, while other aspects of the film shoot were being set up.  I had stood there intently looking at him. 

He seemed younger; his head was a little bigger than I had remembered it.  Though short, he did have a full head of hair and, as I suspect is the case in the waking state, he was in the process of going silver-haired. 

To say the least, it was really good to have seen him.  I was quite pleased to have seen him and rather enjoyed being in his commanding presence again.  Vicariously, as I looked through the camera lens, I had also experienced essence contact of my own. 

This was not lusting but genuine soul-stirring love.  For being so connected to Kaarlsohn, while on set with him, I was able to touch levels of their intimacy. 

Until he had come and stood within arm’s length before me, I had not been able to validate whether or not it truly was him.  However, they unmistakably were Kaarlsohn’s eyes. 

I became so overstimulated by that sense of intimacy, that they shared, that I had become aroused of spirit to the point where I awoke. 

Finally, that is what great acting is all about – being able to emotively project to the point, for the cinematic audience, where the experience transcends the vicarious.  

This was as intimate an experience as being at a piano recital and being swept away by the artist’s sensitivity and sublime interpretation. 

Being on the set, and vicariously sharing in their intimacy, was just as valid as being at such a piano recital and experiencing essence contact. 

†Kaarlsohn Frieden’s Michael Overleaves can be found in the Michael Overleaves Index page.  

© 2014 Arvin da Braga


Posted in Film, Michael Teachings, Shamanism | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Shoshone Allure


Oil on canvas

48 x 36″


© James Ayers


Exquisite… Truly love this masterful American painter.  

© 2014 Arvin da Braga

Posted in 21st Century Art, Art, Art Collecting, Contemporary American Art | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Beaver and the Mink I


Beaver and the Mink I


© 1985 Susan A. Point

20 x 20.75inc


© 2014 Arvin da Braga.

Posted in 20th Century Art, Art, Art Collecting, Canadian art, Shamanism | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Shaman dances, vocaleses, flies and weaves a little magic

Eucalyptus tree

These next dreams were dreamt on Thursday, January 14, 1993 – three days before the rather operatic dreams previously shared herein entitled, “Time-travelling late-Georgian/Regency Dandy.” At the time, the Moon then transited both Libra and my fifth house which, incidentally, is intercepted. Not surprisingly, too, my Neptune which is nicely aspected resides in my natal fifth house.

I am creatively fulfilled for expressing myself through dreams. More than that, keeping that creativity spiritually focussed is what’s of paramount import to me. One of the reasons why these dreams were so fulfilling is that during the course of the twelve dreams, I was dancing, flying, vocalesing and scatting during the dreamtime which, of course, led to much shamanic activity – as you will yet see.

Dreams are so remarkably uplifting; I trust that these of mine richly inspire your own spiritual growth. Love. Light. Sweet dreams and always remember to push off and start flying!

I was in the yard of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house, in what proved the first dream, at nighttime. I was outside the boys’ bedroom where it was unusually dark.

Not a great deal of light here, as a matter of fact; it was as though there was a black light embalming the place. Peculiar it truly was. Here, there were some massive trees all about the yard.

They were very thick-trunked and evergreens. These were such ancient trees that they had pulled up the earth about their trunks at the roots over time. There was an old stone wall which was seemingly from some Welsh highland property.

Looking beyond it, I looked up to Morton and Tara Weir’s. Here, it seemed as though the entire John Pole properties had been brought by one interest and then converted into a large compound.

Tara was leaving her kitchen carrying a kerosene lamp that was held up close to her face. From her movements and the lamp’s placement, it was almost as though she were going blind.

She went around to the side of the house and entered it on the left – at the northern side. This was, of course, not the arrangement in the waking state. I found it so strange to see her enter the house thus between the two side windows.

While looking at this, I had been hiding behind one of the massive-trunked trees. This was in place of where the lemon tree stood back in the 1960s to 1970s. My reason for hiding out was that I knew intuitively that Tara was a spy.

Whoopi then came out into the yard to play. There already was a black cat which was hiding out in the hopes of ambushing her. By the time that she had noticed the stalking cat, it was too late.

Whoopi didn’t escape without having been bitten. After having attacked her, the interloper then effortlessly scaled the wall. Another cat would soon show up and this one I favoured.

So I tried catching it, to play with it but this ginger-coloured cat promptly bolted and took flight over the wall as soon as it had arrived. Both cats were considerably larger than Whoopi; they were both easily 25 pounders and very healthy-looking.

I was standing in line in a bookstore, was how I found myself next focussed in this the second dream, while I waited my turn. Signing autographs of his book, an author was seated there at a table. I couldn’t quite make out who the author was but I also wanted to get his autograph.

As I waited, at one point, I had turned to the left. I wanted to inspect the large array of science-fiction books. They each had very well mapped out histories. One of them, in particular, really caught my eye.

The novel seemed to be one in the series of the Star Trek books. The cover was moss-green with vertical white streaks and red lettering. The novel was a paperback edition. The light was the same illusory tone as the aurora borealis when filmed.

The story specifically was about a race of Blacks on a planet, in a star system, which was fairly close to Sol. There was a stout White male there who was similar, both in look and energetics, to James Tramble.

Like James Tramble, he was also spectacled. On seeing me looking at the novel’s cover, he came over and asked me about the storyline. As I started telling him, of what so far I had gleaned, I realised that it was a sci-fi novel that I had written.

These Blacks were far different to human beings here on Earth. This was, of course, the story of the Fazoattz about whom I had written back in 1985. Right away, there was a cutting hyper-cynicism in his tone as if to say,

“What’s makes you think that intelligent life, ‘out there’ would be Black?”

He was really intent on being very negative which I frankly did not want to have anywhere near me. I told him that there was less of the waking state maya as their waking state Black counterparts on Earth had to endure.

Went on to explain that for being in an altogether different galaxy, where they experienced totally unique electromagnetics, this led to their developing along completely different lines.

While I spoke to him about it, I wondered what it all meant about my soul type vis-à-vis the Michael Teaching.

A tall, stout White man appears, in the third of these dreams, and encouraged me to come closer. His back, however, was turned to me. Eventually, I would learn that he bore a computer printout which he and I studied.

Though I had come around to stand at his side, I had never looked up to his face. He was quite tall and rotund with great magnanimous energies about him.
A rather soulful individual was he. The printout concerned my natal data in which the time of birth would be closer to an early Virgo rising than not.

Instinctively, he was intent on keeping with that datum over several others; he felt that it was in keeping with who I was. I found him to be rather final and matter-of-fact.

For whatever reasons, I had assumed that he would have been uncertain as to which chart stats would be the definitive one. I had been of the impression that he would have favoured the cancer rising which finally I suspect is the correct one.

An ultra-modern depot, of a Japanese automobile plant, was where next I was dream-focussed in the fourth dream. This was definitely located in Japan. The colours here were yellow and orange with glass walls.

A very tiny, flat-to-the-ground building, it was a single storey high. Interestingly, everything here was on such a more compact scale than the familiarity of the spaciousness of the North American approach.

A vastly different sensibility operated here. This consideration for little land per population led to a different architectural sensibility. There was a guard standing at the doors to the building.

Out in the company’s parking lot were several tour buses. Along the plant’s fencing were a stand of tall elegant poplars. The use of glass was ingenious and afforded the workers contact and inspiration with nature and the outdoors.

This led to a feeling that one was not confined. This probably greatly affected the productivity and motivation of the workers. A female worker, who looked very scientific in her white smock, came out and greeted me.

She bowed a great deal and was very gracious. Japanese, in that traditional, self-effacing style, she was. On the contrary, the guard was very stern and cold. He was doing his job and that’s that.

A brittle character; he was a very repressive sort. Not a whole lot of fun sexually, you could just tell. In any event, I had purchased a couple of tickets, while back on the tour bus, into the metropolis.

While waiting outside, I saw a Japanese man in his late 40s who drove a bus. Another tour bus, it was filled with Japanese tourists. Much like a wide-bodied airliner does, these buses were unusually wide with two aisles.

There were two central seats, between the aisles, which were raised higher than those on the sides and next to the windows. What’s more, the entire roof was made of glass and afforded everyone a good view of things as they took in their tour.

All the buses were of the same design. Another bus then pulled up on the other side of the parking island. This one had passengers on board.
Right in front at the door, eager to disembark, was Pandora da Braga. She casually wore a thick scarf about her shoulders. She did look rather stylish which, I must admit, was rather uncharacteristic of her.

Getting off the bus, she ran on the platforms but then rushed past me. Hurriedly, she made for another parked bus which was not the one that I had been scheduled to take into town.

Her behaviour had caught me by surprise. Eventually, I then went and followed her and boarded the same wide-bodied bus. Though indistinguishable to the other buses, I knew intuitively that it was for the French tourists.

Pandora sat in the front of the bus which I really didn’t want to do. Frantically, she went searching through her purse; she had been looking the receipt for the prescription drugs that she had just bought.

Eventually, she found it on the floor; by then, it was a filthy mess. There was slush inside that had made it indoors from all the dirty trammelled snow outside. However, it was not too cold out.

Outside in the platform area there was no snow, though, there likely was snow beyond the complex itself. Pandora then began playing with a child across the aisle and this she did for the benefit of others.

They would see her as being a nice person – an all-important assessment when one is Black. Dieu! She was so alarmingly servile and self-deprecating that it really turned me off.

I found it all repulsive and, for that matter, completely ignored the child. Not only did I not approve of Pandora’s behaviour but I also didn’t much like being in the front of the bus.

A large cavernous building, which was seemingly a film studio’s sound-stage, served as the setting for my next and fifth dream experience. Not unlike the early film studios, out in Hollywood, was this site.

Standing off in the near dark distance, I hung back while observing the goings on. There was no crew about; however, there was a group of White actresses getting dressed and made-up.

They were getting ready for a shoot. Just as in the old days, their dressing room was not in a trailer. Rather, it was a far section of the studio beneath the building’s distant ceiling.

An actress in white period costume went through her character’s lines. Seated at a mirror being made up, the actress was quite a lively little tart. This was, as a matter of fact, all very 18th century. As I looked on being unseen by the others, she was to my left.

They were boxed into a cage of two-inch vertical slats while seated on stools. A blonde, who wore her hair in a high loose bun, was rolled by on a cart. The dress that she wore was white lace. She seemed very much so like a princess from Camelot.

The tart was heatedly telling another actress to take off her lipstick; she then turned and asked my opinion. I didn’t even know that she could see me.
Again, this woman was much like Francesca. Clearly, if this was not a past-life of mine, it possibly was that of either my essence twin or task companion. This, too, was an astral plane encounter.

She had a ton of energy and reminded me, unsettlingly so, of myself. The concern here was as to whether the lipstick was right for the period. This was a dry flesh-toned colour.

My point was that they didn’t have such dark lipsticks during that epoch. The actress’s point, about which she was very insistent, was that it was historically inaccurate.

Her peeve was that the orthodontically full-lipped actress in question was totally out of line; as far as she was concerned, the character would then not have been that full-lipped.

In addition, she should not have been wearing the lipstick over her lip line – that only made already too-large lips appear even larger.
She argued that even if they were going to have such a 20th century-mouthed actress, they could at least get her to adhere to the strictures of the epoch’s style.

The tart was very self-possessed and focussed. Her concentration when applying her makeup was phenomenal. To have studied her, it was almost as though she were getting into a light trance to channel through the character.

She was very intense and detailed when applying the eye makeup. Hers were very dark eyes and the way that the light refracted from the mirror didn’t facilitate a close look of her eyes.

Rather, the lighting was ideal for skin tones and getting the makeup right. All very subtly applied, she wore several layers and tonalities of kohl. This served to matte the intensity of her dark rich eyes.

The actress next to her was using a brown, phallic-looking powder puff. The powder puff was in a black with floral print velvet bag. Her lip makeup, however, had been really overdone.

Clearly, she didn’t care what anyone said; she had no intentions of not wearing her makeup as she chose to. Whether on or off set, in or out of character, she wore lipstick the same.

She had no need of anyone’s opinions. Quite simply, it was her way of doing things and that was that.

While I was working, in this the sixth dream, a very lively discussion was taking place in the RXD suites. Gabriela Denmann and Evgenia Sgambati were having a very hearty laugh as they visited and chatted away nonstop.

Evgenia wore this wonderful black skullcap that flared out to a broad, upturned white rim. This was the most gloriously stylish look and she is a seasoned glamour puss in the waking state.

Here, in the dreamtime, Evgenia was very regal and aristocratic. She does have this quality in the waking state but it has become overtime too lost in maya and conceit.

Here, in this the seventh dream, it was very rainy and dark out. The look outside was downright foreboding. While cautiously stepping out, I went onto the balcony of this cluttered tiny apartment.

Looking down, it was some four to five flights to the rain-drenched street below. There I saw a Bentley landau; it was very old, very English and marvellously stylish.

A truly stately car, there was a lot of wood-panelling with plush, red leather interior. Though this high up, I microscopically projected my vision to take in the car’s every detail… inside and out.

The gentleman of the house had left me in charge of looking after the house. He was, as a matter of fact, heading out to the airport. However, as the car was backing out into the traffic, this harpy came and threw her body in front of the car.

Going into operatic mode, she began bawling and ululating. She turned out to have been his mother; even I found her display embarrassing. Silently, I retreated from the balcony back into the posh apartment; it was much too creepy a scene below.

No sooner than had I gotten inside that I kept moving about and eventually left the apartment. I went out into the exposed cement staircase. There, I visited the apartment across the way.

Hearing music being played inside, I curiously knocked on the door. A young, wonderfully ectomorphic guy came and answered the door. He was White, dark-haired and beautiful.

I was simply blown away by how uncanny a resemblance he bore to Merlin. His look had stopped me dead in my tracts. Energetically though, in spite of the fact that he looked so much like him, it was definitely not Merlin.

Long-haired, he was very magnetic. His were the most beautiful eyes imaginable; they were so magnetic that they were hypnotic. He let me know that he had a set of keys to the gentleman’s apartment but since they had just left, he hadn’t intended to come by so soon.

Suggesting that, perhaps, he would like to come back to the apartment, he took it as the transparent come-on which it was. I wanted to know if he would like to come and visit with me.

Said he, he would rather go down in the back alley for a jam session with his friends who were waiting there.

What’s really interesting is that when Merlin was this guy’s age, he had played in an afterschool rock band. So too, this guy was about 18 or 19 as Merlin then was.

He so reminded me of Merlin in every way. Then he gave me his set of keys, to the aristocratic man’s apartment, thereby declining my invitation of being together. This was done with the greatest subtlety and graciousness.

Nonetheless, I was bruised-egoed over the whole thing. Standing there, I watched him walk away down the stairs to go join his chums. Out through the backdoors, he slipped into the alley.

For some reason, it was sunny and not dark out.

*I must state here that that afterschool rock band of Merlin’s also included one musician with whom he would have serious disagreements. In the end, as he related to me, he left rather than further enduring the edge between them and kept up with pursuing theatre instead.
Of course, the band member with whom he did not see eye-to-eye would turn out to be none other than, Neil Young who also attended North Toronto Secondary with Merlin. END.

Pandora and I were together, in this the eighth dream, in this crowded place which much reminded me of Sandy Point High School. However, it was not that school.

There in the thick of persons, I recognised Paul Gable. On noticing the other, we walked to meet each other. Paul proved to have a very penetrating warm stare.

He was so sublimely old-souled that it looked almost as if he were a wasted drunkard. His energies were so potently soulful that I could actually feel the depth of him through his eyes.

I was in drag, as a matter of fact, exactly as I was dressed at work on Halloween. Sitting there on a stack of upturned school desks, I alluringly crossed my beautiful legs.

I sat just inside the door to one of the classrooms. As a matter of fact, it was exactly like being in 3A1. This was as if Sandy Point, St. Kitts in an alternate reality.

For that reason, the school here was considerably larger than in the waking state. Of course, that alternate reality is ultimately the astral plane. While there, I was being teased and ogled by a very muscular and bearded guy.

Pandora was just outside the doors to the classroom. She was with friends talking about how many celebrities in Hollywood actually were Gay. She mentioned that Prince was, George Michael, Richard Gere, Tom Selleck and several others.

Of them, she said that they all claimed to be other than Gay but that their private lives could be revealed to be otherwise.

There was a massive hall, in this the ninth dream, like the auditorium at Sandy Point High School but this one was much bigger. Here, there were many people about and in different groupings.

The atmosphere was very lively and filled with noise as persons excitedly talked and laughed. As such, it was a very pleasant environment all around. The spirit of the place was elevated… refined.

There was a tall, august slightly rotund man who was very psychic. Wearing a dark blue tunic, he began speaking, not to anyone in particular.
He seemed nonetheless to be the magnetic centre of the room’s considerable energy. One topic which he touched on was the economy which, up ahead, he said would experience some disturbances.

Jobs, in Ontario in particular, would be affected by this downturn in the area’s economy. As he spoke, I became quite self-confident and began sashaying along in my sexy little dress and high heels.

Sexually sure of myself, I glided past him and went to the front of the hall. En route there, I had passed Jovan Svenin and some other supervisors and ignored them in the process.

My strong sense of self left me feeling so liberated that I began expressing this through movement. I was now dancing in a very soulful manner.
This was a dance of sheer joy.

There was considerable passion as I stomped my heels and danced about. Full of soul and fire, I was as if a woman dancing flamenco. Added to all that, my voice was on fire as I vocalesed scatted away.

The dance was chiefly en place. There was a cluster of persons down to the left and front of the stage in the auditorium. Incidentally, the stage had always been empty. On getting ahead of that cluster, I turned around and began dancing.

At that point, I noticed Paola Pileggi in the front row. She had become uneasy on seeing me, got up and rushed away. At that, I laughed, leapt into the air and continued my scatting.

Finding myself in flight, I stopped singing and began enjoying this new plateau in my enjoyment. This proved the most syrupy, slow-motioned flight imaginable.
This was akin to the slowness of movement that I experienced on Wednesday, November 30, 1988. More precisely, it was an OBE – out-of-body experience – back then in which I danced in an aqueous medium of blue-white light; I was then in my astrally projected light body which was long and cetaceous.

Here, I literally had to swim through the air. Sailing just a couple of feet above everyone’s head, I moved about the hall and rode on the magnetic energies of the robed shamanic magus at the centre of the hall.

Quite simply, it proved a most pleasurable experience. Amazed, everyone stopped and silently looked at me. Realising that I was too free to come down, I slowly made my way out of the hall.

I made it outside where I alighted; this was after having soared high into the intensely blue sky. Before I had left the hall, the august-robed man had turned to silently look up and over at me.

While looking at me, he was filled with silent rapture. There was such intimacy and knowing between us. He gave me an approving raise of his brows and let me know that he knew what I was all about.

I could feel him intimately close; he was so telepathic.

Next, it was a sunny, peopled beach, in this the tenth dream, where I stood before a six-and-one-half foot high stone wall. Looking at the throngs, I kept my back to the awakened, knowing ocean.

The caress of the breaking waves was the most intimate caress that I had felt in ages. There was a postcard of persons posing which was to be sent to Calgary. Although, at the time, I thought that it really ought to have gone to Montréal.

At one point, I painted Calgary on a very serene-blue picture; strangely enough, I had used my blood to do so. The postcard was hung out on a clothesline while I did this.

The light here was so intense that it felt crisp on making contact with the skin. The magnitude of the Sol’s brilliance was considerably intense. I really wanted the card to go instead to Montréal.

I had been eating an orange, at the start of the eleventh dream, then returned to the similar school complex to the one in Sandy Point, St. Kitts.
Going out onto the corridors, I saw Joseph Manchester who had been the principal there when I was a child. He was seated in his office while busily working away.

Outside were some dancers who busily rehearsed a number. They were between his office and the teacher’s staff room. Though their energies were quite warm and inviting, I chose not to join in.

Leaving them, I happened onto a courtyard which was in back of the stage and which does not exist in the waking state in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. This courtyard was enclosed with buildings all around it.

They were all three and four-storeyed buildings where members of the community worked. Strangely though, even to the ground of the courtyard, it was all whitewash-walled.

There I saw Allan McBride who worked briefly at my current employer’s. In his right ear, he wore a large, silver loop earring. In his green slacks, his body looked very HIV-infected and even to being on the verge of being full-blown with AIDS.

He came in after I had inspected the two large, graffiti-covered fridges. The colours used on the graffiti job were yellow, red, black and green. The graffiti also covered the walls, though, not all of the walls.

For that reason, one did not immediately notice the fridges on entering the ten-foot square courtyard. At the point where I had entered the courtyard, there was an awning hanging down from the second storey. I stayed beneath its cover.

Across to the opposite wall, there was light flooding into the courtyard. Above in a second floor, a window sat wide-open. Since it was dark on the inside, it was hard to tell if there was anyone inside.

The shadowed mystery left it uncertain as to whether there was anyone up there who presently peered down into the courtyard. Allan approached me asking me to come back with him which did not sit well with me.

Before I could decline, a potentially awkward situation was averted when another guy entered the tiny courtyard. He wore khaki pants and right away, after a long knowing gaze, we began fondling each other.

Seeking more privacy, out of view of the opened second storey window, we crouched where we were. Somehow, there was a sense that one was being observed just back of the veil of the white lace curtains.

Allan came almost immediately and was never fully erect. He seemed incapable of a full erection. The other guy had a monstrous piece of manly meat for a dick.
Allan’s dick was no roaring hell and skillfully, I had slipped the not fully eaten orange into his pants. Keenly, I had noted how Allan’s profuse sweating was further indication of his being more than likely HIV-infected.

Though a woefully puny-assed dick, Allan did come tons and tons and tons. I found it hard to believe that a human being could produce so much ejaculate.
With that, I too came soon thereafter; I was overcome by the sight of Allan’s orgasm. The guy and I did little else beyond wanking off, though, it was not mutual masturbation.

On returning, in this the twelfth dream, I found a video performance in the school yard which recently I had left. Walking along the corridor, I saw a large crowd of local students down the corridor.

They were gathered there looking at the video filming gear which were down on the fields towards the sea. A Black American Hip-hop group was performing.
They were able to pull off movements in slow-motion which made it look as though it were filmed with slow-motion film. Though not moonwalking, à la Michael Jackson, it was similar. Very avant-garde dancing it was too.

A dark brown Doberman Pinscher suddenly appeared, flying through the air, and directly made for me. Not for one nanosecond did I flinch. For steering it down, blocking its hostile fear-based energies with great love, the strangest thing happened.

In the midst of its lunge through the air, the Pinscher simply disintegrated. Shattering into a thousand pieces, it then exploded outwards and came towards me with great force.

Here again, as though shot by slow-motion film, the movement was arrested. As the transformed lunging dog moved outwards, on making contact with my aura’s force field, its multiple fragments slowly disappeared into thin air.

Then two other dogs appeared; firstly, there was a black one, followed shortly thereafter by a white Pinscher. Calling them to test my powers, they came towards me on foot.

As they were trained to attack, they would soon try making a lunge for me. Each time they were driven off and sent running as I repelled them by sheer telepathic power.

As did the first, these two didn’t have the capacity of flight. The first dog had flown at me and was not, in fact, controlled by my will.
Its progression through the air was such that it more closely resembled a shark, moving in for the kill, than a mere dog. Its face was torn back and revealed its bared, grimacing teeth.

© 2014 Arvin da Braga.

Posted in Adult Content, Dream sex, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of Merlin, Flying dreams, Michael Teachings, OBEs, OBEs in dreams, Past-life dreams, Reincarnation, Shamanism | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Two Souls, One Spirit

Two Souls, One Spirit

© 2012 James Ayers
Oil on Canvas
36 x 36 inc.


Sublime. Here’s my salute to the proud, ennobled peoples who are the very soul of this continent.

© 2014 Arvin da Braga

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Owl’s Bouquet

Owl's Bouquet

© 2007 Kenojuak Ashevak

24.5 × 30.25 inc
Stonecut, Stencil Edition of 50

Happy Birthday Canada!

For me, it doesn’t get any more Canadian than Kenojuak.

Her overleaves to follow:

Ashevak, Kenojuak 3/10/278/1/13 Baffin Island

This creative fragment is a fourth level old artisan. Kenojuak is in the perseverance mode with a goal of acceptance. An idealist, she is in the moving part of emotional centre.

Body type is Venus/Mercury.

Kenojuak‘s primary chief feature is stubbornness and the secondary is self-deprecation.

Casting for Kenojuak is sixth-cast in first cadence; she is a member of greater cadence one. Kenojuak’s entity is three, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Kenojuak’s essence twin is an old artisan incarnate and her sage task companion is deceased.

Kenojuak’s four primary needs are: expression, security, freedom, adventure.

There are 8 past-life associations with Arvin.

© 2014 Arvin da Braga

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King holding court.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis


These next six – the sixth of seven is omitted here – dreams principally centred around someone recently made passing reference to in this blog.  As this dream deftly betrays, she – Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis – did seem every inch the king soul; as with the dream, my experience of her also bore out her young-souledness as these are persons with whom I almost never enjoy good social relations. 

These souls tend towards being very callous, rude and confrontational with me.  Well into my sixth decade, I have come to simply ignore them and dismiss them as who they are: young souls with limited awareness or compassion. 

Too, there is mention made of David Peregrine; he was a member of the Royal Winnipeg Ballet who when I studied there at its school was the only company member who actually spoke to me.  The last time that I saw David, he was on the weeks-long break in summertime 1983 when company contracts are either renewed or not. 

David was in town with his girlfriend, Jackie Sloane; we met up and took ballet class together in New York City where I then lived and danced at the Upper East Side’s Harkness House, where the Salvador Dali-designed urn containing wealthy arts patron, Rebekah Harkness’s cremains perpetually rotated on display in the lobby.  In any event, after class where Cynthia Harvey and a few other dancers from both Alvin Ailey Dance Theatre and American Ballet Theatre were present, we walked down Madison Avenue – on the west side under a cloud-naked, blazing summer-sunned sky. 

As we progressed southward another of Manhattan’s ubiquitous black limousine pulled up and out stepped the most iconic of New York City’s famous persons.  Standing in back of her was companion, Maurice Templesman.  Wearing those iconic shades which were ridiculously large, Ms. Kennedy Onassis made a direct approach towards us and stood there. 

All her energies were directed at David and nowhere else; in a breathy voice as both Jackie and I stood back arrested by her force-of-nature persona, she intoned,

“David!  How are you!” 

I haven’t a clue what the usually soft-spoken David said in response.  They then said a few more words while she kept up that clipped famous smile and eyes – which were never legible beyond her shades – remained hidden.  She seemed larger-than-life… almost predatory… almost extra-human. 

Here was the one person in all New York City’s galaxy of famous persons, who reigned supreme, stopping to talk to David Peregrine.  Just like that, she smiled more widely and while all three of us remained in place, she disappeared into the Polo Restaurant followed by Mr. Templesman with a lethal-looking member of her security detail close at hand. 

We ambled down the avenue for a few more blocks giddily star-struck as can be expected.  I never did see David or Jackie again; however, six years later in 1989 and months before Merlin’s passing both David and Jackie died when the plane that he piloted crashed in the Canadian Rockies. 

David was an immensely beautiful-of-spirit soul. 

As politics ever decide how one is related to, the same cannot be said of his frequent partner, Evelyn Hart who made a point of acting as though the school’s only Black student – yours truly – was utterly invisible.  Alas, since I grew up in the Caribbean at one point with three maids, kissing up is anathema to who I am… indeed, in my experience, no David Peregrine was she. 

That aside, Evelyn is one of the most remarkably beautifully lyrical classical dancers of the 20th century.  So very good it was to have been inspired by her creative genius. 

Alas, not wanted on the voyage, the door was resoundingly slammed shut in my face in Winnipeg.  Shaman to the core, rather than grow embittered – besides, rejection is the nature of the beast called showbiz – I simply upped my vibration and seamlessly stepped through the damn door, only me could slam doors on me, and found myself removed from Winnipeg and awakened into that most glorious of dreams, New York City, where there I found the real stuff of magic, Merlin. 

These dreams were dreamt on Wednesday, December 30, 1992 while the Moon then transited both Pisces and my tenth house – lorded over as it is by retrograde Chiron which is conjunct the MC no less. 

Dream with renewed vigour – you are the stuff of magic incarnate.  Sweet and flying dreams as ever and thanks for your support; I am enriched and fulfilled for being of inspiration to you. 


I was on the wonderfully sprawling grounds, in this the first of several dreams, of a truly wealthy estate.  The grass here was very green and plush.  The part where I stood was sunken, some two feet below a terrace that sat close by. 

The terrace led up to the wonderful stone mansion.  Large majestic trees, that seemed more tropical than not, were lording over the grounds.  Harella da Braga was here as well as Pericles da Braga, Penina da Braga, Isha da Braga and Pandora da Braga. 

Yet another dream in which everyone familial is present with the exception of the enigmatic, Rio da Braga.  A long table was spread in the garden which comprised a number of picnic tables joined together.  They were all untreated exposed woods. 

They were set for a wonderful sublime meal.  The shade of the trees was just the right touch and made the lighting and ambiance just-so perfect.  All down the length of the table, all the seats were joined to the tables. 

As is expected of most picnic tables, in public places, these were not green.  Down the length of the table were two rows of large-rimmed vases.  They were extremely large and presently were empty. 

This impressed on me the need to go off and pick some flowers for the vases.  There were several beautiful flower gardens scattered about the grounds.  Most of the flower gardens were currently in the shade of the afternoon Sun. 

The gardens, though, were all strategically placed.  One had a sense that the gardens were designed such that they afforded a pleasing vista from different quarters in the sprawling mansion.  Though it wasn’t overcast, it wasn’t too bright either.  This was, as a matter of fact, a cloud-naked sky. 

This was a terribly serene setting and it really affected my mood.  The locale enabled me to be in good spirits and made my family that rarest of crowds… pleasant company.  The hostess then began making her way from the house, by way of the terrace, to join us at the picnic tables. 

Again, I realised that there were still no flowers in the vases.  It then dawn on me that the wide-fluted vases could have served for candleholders, shortly, with the waning Sun.  However, they still seemed to be very nude while emptily sitting there. 

My instinctive response was to go get some flowers to add more beauty to the table.  This would have done so much more for the overall aesthetics of the table.  With the flowers, to me, it seemed that there would be wholeness and completion to the table setting. 

All that food, wine and company, I felt, needed the added fragrance of beautiful flowers.  I was really not settled without their being there.  Meanwhile, looking at Harella, she was very serene and centred. 

The hostess then came down and joined us and proved unmistakably to have been, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  This woman was supremely beautiful.  Moreover, she was supremely powerful. 

She affected the fabric of space itself.  By the sheer magnitude of her powerfully focussed energies, she warped everything within her vicinity.  She was serenely regal. 

There were, too, times when this woman appeared to be a High-Yellow woman of great wealth.  However, I am certain that she was Mrs. Kennedy Onassis who was not the fair-complected individual that I had thought that she would be. 

She is after all very dark and, in that sense, not unlike, Maria Callas her great rival.  The grounds of this estate seemed to be some semi-tropical place; it was not unlike those evocative impressions of suburban Washington D.C. that Gore Vidal paints in his novels. 

This was probably somewhere in Virginia, to which high-bred American Brahmins, like the Louis Auchinclosses and others are born and hold court. 

As the evening wore on, though, I became convinced that this woman was more so Black.  Too, I felt that my initial impression that this was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was misguided. 

Although, it was most confusing, she had the same breathy voice and that distinctive compacted-toothed smile.  What really struck me about her was the unusual space between her brows and how wide-set the eyes were. 

When I did stand before her in July 1983, on Madison Avenue, as she stood speaking with David Peregrine before whisking into The Polo Restaurant, I did read her energies. 

She was distinctly male-energied and a titanic force of nature.  Here too, this woman was exactly the same.  I can only wonder here, if this were not in fact Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis in her most immediate future life – one in which, perhaps, she will be of mixed blood and again extremely wealthy. 

After all, it would not be surprising to find her looking fairly similar in her next lifetime.  She glided down from the terrace and moved over to the table where she ended up sitting down on my immediate left. 

*On awakening, I was left to wonder – because of her proximity to Harella da Braga at the table, if this woman were not in fact the infamous, ‘An Bel; Annabel King, Harella’s mother. 

I had never met her but I am certain, too, that Annabel King, my maternal grandmother, was not that light-complected.  Besides, from all accounts, this was one very feisty individual and not half as regal or refined as this very polished lady of high birth was.  END. 

Regardless, this woman was very magnetic and extremely grounded.  She was serene and she did set the mood at the table.  The balance and civility was chiefly affected by her merely being present at table. 

Looking back over my right shoulder was my self-conscious, neurotic response for being seated so close to someone so powerful.  There to my rear was a wonderful old wall; seemingly, it was the edifice of an old building. 

The site had centuries earlier been part of the estate but was no longer used as a living space.  All that was left was the exterior of it.  One of its interior walls still stood and had these ceramic portraits set in the coral pink stone. 

These inlays ran up and down the wall and were a very beautiful decorative touch.  I thought it a shame, really, that they should be sitting out as they were. 

Such that they seemed part of a mosaic from Roman times, these ceramic pieces were time-yellowed.  A very soulful ancient relic of a building it proved to be.  The structure was up on the terrace and some two feet from the sunken part of the lawn. 

All throughout, the building was covered with the same grass, as our lawn, instead of stone flooring.  The portraits were of persons so blurred by the wear of time on the ceramics that it distortedly made them come to life. 

For looking at them long enough, a patina of their true identities bled through; it was like some ghostly bleed through of their former selves.  This gave the sense, on looking at them overlong, that they were constantly in motion and never static. 

A sense of time’s continuity was achieved by Harella’s presence as well as these portraits’ elasticity.  You had a sense that these were as if aspects of one’s entity who are discarnate or even such ancient souls were they that they have already completed their reincarnational cycle of lives. 

Excusing myself, I got from the table and ventured indoors to check on the food.  Soon, I got caught up in the large industrial-style kitchen and on-looked at the food preparation approach of the staff. 

I had totally forgotten about the dinner so when I had subsequently made it back, I had missed out on much of the meal.  They had all gone ahead and eaten without me. 

Somehow, I had felt that I should have gone in to check on things.  Frankly, much of my reason for leaving the table was due to the fact that Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis did not approve of my being at the table.  I was too uncomfortable to stick around her energies. 

Not having done much indoors, I returned to find the meal wrapping up.  There was lots of laughter and camaraderie, all around, with the hostess genuinely enjoying their company.  Before I could reach the table, they had gotten up and started approaching me. 

The hostess walked with Harella and was about to take us on a tour of the grounds.  Interestingly, Harella seemed to have been familiar with the place and helped Mrs. Kennedy Onassis give me a tour of the grounds. 

The lawn throughout was so green, plush and moist underfoot that it was almost ticklish.  The feel of it was such a pleasurable experience that it could almost have inspired one to levitate. 

Never before had I experienced grass that was so potently pure in healing energies.  Zinging with life, this grass had a truly magical energy.  While on tour, we came to this wonderful flower bed with, among other things, large rose blooms. 

All the blooms were larger than normal – even the clusters of hydrangea blossoms.  A myriad explosion of colours rioted for the honour of fragrantly inspiring their audience. 

There were pastels vibrant colours and the most unusual colour combinations on some of the standard blooms.  Some of the hydrangeas had red streaks of vibrant colour that stabbed through their eggshell white centres. 

Several peonies were also in bloom.  Here, there were simultaneous blooms of species that never bloom together in the waking state. 


In this the second dream, I was next in a wonderful, old wood-panelled bank and again with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  Even here, she was ignoring me as I stood in line behind her. 

I could tell from the way that she ignored me, back on the tour of the grounds, that she wanted to have nothing to do with me.  For being in such close quarters with her, this discomfiture left me feeling self-conscious. 

While touring the grounds of her estate, she basically dismissed me as being stupid and not worth wasting time on.  I was keenly aware of how her assessment of me made her that much more appealing to Harella and, in particular, Pericles. 

I was simply not at her level of society and as such was of no consequence.  Indeed, at her level of society, one just doesn’t suffer fools, undesirables, the poor or, for that matter, humanity. 

This was someone, who although she seemed very old and soulful, there was a shrewdly callous materialist focus to her; she was in essence young-souled to the core.  This therefore meant that it was against her nature to have to suffer someone such as myself. 

So I told the woman next in line, to my rear who was Black, that it really was Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  I added, however, she was actually in disguise so that she could get about on errands unnoticed. 

The woman readily believed me because she and everyone else had suspected as much. 


I returned home after the banking, in this the third dream, to an extremely spacious, high-ceilinged apartment.  There inside, the walls were a soothing soft tone of blue.  They left me feeling at once serene. 

Here, again, I was in the presence of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis – at this point, there was no mistaking the fact that it was her.  She sat directly opposite me while I sat in a high-backed armchair.  She was seated in a similar chair completely detached while fully focussed on some needlepoint work. 

At the time, she was weaving quite delicate work.  As much as she was internalised on her needlepoint work, she was also psychically tuning in to me. 

As I sat there, I became suddenly compelled to reach into my pocket.  There, I found an envelope that I could not recall having put there.  Putting it on the glass-topped table beside me, I realised that it was stuffed with money. 

Knowing that I was in the bank earlier, I still couldn’t figure out how it had gotten there.  I had been at the bank to get money to send to Pandora da Braga in Paris. 

Instead of the usual money order, there was a thick wad in the envelope.  Still, there was more than just the wad of cash.  Apart from the $500.00, $100.00 and $50.00 bills, there were some notes there with them. 

I soon became concerned knowing that I did not have that kind of money.  In the middle, there were a dozen or more scraps of paper.  Some were business cards and ID for the proper owner of the loot. 

The envelope was a brown legal type and stuffed to the limit with all that money.  There was easily 3 to 5 thousand dollars.  There was no doubt in my mind that this was an obvious error. 

All the while, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis silently looked at me monitoring my every action.  Though I tried to be casual about it, she keenly observed my every move. 

The idea soon occurred to me that more than likely that the old, tall White woman, who came in wearing a head kerchief, was the likely owner.  She wore an old, orange and yellow polyester coat in the middle of summer climes. 

Clearly, she was a bag lady who was searching for her lost money.  She was very mesomorphic, tall and Germanic-looking.  She was a real study of the warrior soul archetype when female-bodied. 

Hers were very strong high cheekbones – a Scandinavian look to her heredity much like, Morag O’Hoare’s handsomeness – which, of course, got warped by her bloodied karmic tango.  She did seem a bit damp as though it had been raining outside. 

Perhaps, she was now a bag lady because she had been released from a mental institution low on funding.  However, it was obvious that she really shouldn’t have been out on the streets. 

If she hadn’t already suffered some major nervous collapse, she clearly seemed on the verge of going senile.  Rejecting the impulse to go over and return the envelope to the bag lady, I abruptly got up and took my leave of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. 

This, I soon realised, was also yet another mistake of mine because there was now nothing to stop Mrs. Kennedy Onassis from tipping off the authorities about me. 


Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside on a wide sidewalk in broad daylight.  Turning left, I walked briskly to the end of the building then entered a narrow garbage-strewed alley. 

Though deserted, the alley was still pungent with the smell of alcohol and too much stale loud-smelling urine.  Thankfully, it was still daylight out because it was a fairly darkened alley. 

In the end, one could only see so far up ahead.  On either side, there were two high-rise apartments in one of which I had just been in the company of a needle-pointing Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. 

The more that I thought about it, the more I realised that I would likely be informed on by Mrs. Kennedy Onassis.  Making it out onto the next block, I turned left where I saw a taxi cab. 

The cab was one that looked like the black and orange, Diamond Taxi Cabs, here in Toronto.  Making a real sharp right turn, it turned onto my street.  I stood there excitedly hailing it in hopes of taking it in hopes of clearing out of town real fast. 

The driver, though, then pulled up to the curb behind another car.  He cockily hopped out, looked at me then went across the street.  Nimbly, he climbed the back fire escape landings in the rear of his apartment building. 

He got up to what looked like a fairly tiny apartment which looked out onto the street.  This five-storeyed building was not a very upscale posh affair.  Wooden-exteriored, it had the colour of spaghetti squash-through-to-pinkish-orange. 

Just before going inside, he looked back and fixed me with a very nasty look.  His was a fairly hostile posture.  The cab driver wore a leather bomber jacket.  Suede boots came, to cover his tight blue jeans, all the way up to knees.  He was a dark long-haired man. 

Though he reminded me of Dave Stamp, it was actually not him.  He was very WASP-looking.  After he rudely took his leave of me, I began walking away and decided to make my way to home base on foot. 

Although for the life of me, I had no clue where home was supposed to have been. 


At daytime, in this the fifth dream, I arrived to wherever home base was.  There on the sidewalk, I had a nasty spat with Isha da Braga who was prodding me to give her more money. 

Somehow, she knew that I had gotten the wad of cash.  I had no idea how she could have found out about it but she definitely knew of it.  She was so manic and greedy that I immediately became impatient and repulsed at the sight of her. 

Violently, I wanted to beat the living shit out of her.  Instead, I firmly let her know that she had already been paid.  After all, it had been part of my reasons for going to the bank. 

*My darling sister, Isha has a chief feature of greed which, of course, makes it near-impossible at times to be around her.  Knowing this affords one the ability to be more compassion and objective in the knowledge that none of us is perfect and we exclusively are finally not our overleaves.  END. 


Next, in this the seventh and final dream, I was on a cement pier, near the end, where it fanned off into the top of a capital T.  Standing there, I looked down into the dark foreboding ocean. 

This affair was a very heavy-looking body of water.  Though the Moon wasn’t in the sky, it presently was clearly high tide.  Grey and stormy out, it was also quite cool. 

The water was a dark, mossy green in colour.  The air hung damply with excessive moisture.  The ocean and the light combined to make for a very soulful, sublime experience. 

Somehow, it was almost as though the ocean were talking to me.  Seductively, it seemed to be yearning me to come in and join it.  There was a definite magnetism to the connection we shared; the ocean had a visceral pull to it. 

Here, the ocean was so green and murky, close at hand, yet out in the distance it was blue-blackened tonality.  There was an urge to simply throw caution to the wind and leap in. 

However, I cautiously kept on holding back.  Afraid of the ocean’s mystery, I somehow thought that there was possibly large predatory life that lurked below the surface. 

I knew, too, that if there were sharks native to this locale that they would appear white – albinos.  This was because the water here was such an umbraed, dense mess which effectively filtered out most of the light. 

Furthermore, this particular place hardly ever had many days of sunlight.  Even at seven feet down, aquatic life would be indiscernible or recognisable.  This was simply not the most inviting of prospects… finally. 

There was no need to go diving into such a potentially hostile environment.  This left me very afraid to jump in and take the plunge.  In the end, I was left feeling very upset and regretted that I hadn’t jumped in and taken the plunge. 


Peregrine né Evans, David 19/9/54 Wales<O>7/6/89 Canada

This fragment was a sixth level mature artisan – second incarnation at this level; David incidentally has recently reincarnated and again is studying art but this time through the brush in Spain. 

David was in the perseverance mode, with a goal of growth, an idealist, in the emotional part of moving centre. 

David had a Saturn/Mars body type. 

David’s primary chief feature was arrogance, with a secondary of self-deprecation. 

David was sixth-cast in a fourth cadence of the fourth greater cadence, entity two, cadre five, greater cadre 2, pod/node 414. 

David has an artisan essence twin and a sage task companion. 

David’s three primary needs are: expression, communion and exchange. 

There are 8 past life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 


Hart, Evelyn 4/4/56, London, Ontario

This is a fourth level mature artisan in the passion mode, with a goal of discrimination/rejection – functioning for the most part in the positive pole of discrimination but occasionally, reaching across to the negative pole of acceptance, which is ingratiation.  A sceptic, Evelyn is in the intellectual part of moving centre. 

Evelyn has a Mercury/Lunar body type. 

Evelyn’s primary chief feature is stubbornness and she has a strong secondary of arrogance. 

She was third cast in her cadence and her cadence is second in the greater cadence.  She is a member of entity two, cadre five, greater cadre 44, pod/node 414. 

She has an artisan essence twin, who is alive; however, there are no plans to meet.  Her sage task companion is discarnate but she did meet this fragment, who died of AIDS in 1988.  At that time, neither fragment had transited the fourth internal monad, so they did not have a chance to work together in this lifetime. 

This fragment has danced in many lifetimes.  The first time this fragment danced professionally was at the royal court Babylon in the fourth century Before Common Era.  As a male, this fragment danced again in the first century Before Common Era, not professionally but as a shaman in the jungle of what is now Brazil. 

The fragment danced again in the third century of the Common Era, again as a courtesan in Turkey and, again, in the court of Saladin in the twelfth century of the Common Era – Arvin was also present then and female and a dancer who knew former Evelyn then. 

As a male, this fragment danced ballet for the first time in 1581 at the French court of Catherine de’ Medici, daughter of Lorenzo.  As a prima ballerina, she first danced La Sylphide in 1832.  This fragment also sang opera as a castrato in the seventeenth century of the Common Era. 

The life at the de’ Medici court was a pivotal life for this fragment, in that it was the first life in which he was valued as a person by his patroness, who also served in the compassion position in his support croup. 

The fragment who was Catherine took this young dancer under her wing and taught him much about the history of the world. 


© 2014 Arvin da Braga. 

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