Overleaves Validation and All That Jazz!

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In the lead up to the annual Jazz Festival here in town, I decided to seek a bit of inspiration and take in a couple of documentaries.  Both proved rather satisfying.  On a temperate Wednesday midday in June, I made it to the Bell TIFF Lightbox building, to which I had never been before to indulge.  

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Relaxed in my comfortable seat whilst waiting interminably through too many ads, I focussed on the latest book on my KOBO being enjoyed to the hilt.  Just then the lights began going down and I was about to be wowed by Grace Jones in all her fabulousness.

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Without doubt, Grace is a force of galactic dimensions and thoroughly absorbed and entertained was I.  There was no getting around the fact that she felt like family in her West Indian realness of essence.  Of course, she also happens to be a cadre mate of both mine and Merlin’s.  

Jones, Grace 19/5/1948 Spanish Town, Jamaica

Michael: This fragment is a seventh-level mature warrior – first life thereat.  Grace is in the power mode with a goal of dominance.  A sceptic, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Grace’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary greed, is fixated on accomplishment. 

Grace’s body type is Mars/Saturn. 

The fragment Grace is second-cast in third cadence; she is a member of greater cadence two.  Grace’s entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – yet another cadre mate of Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

Grace’s essence twin is a warrior and her task companion a sage. 

Grace’s three primary needs are: power, freedom and adventure. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin. 

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The weekend prior, I decided to drop everything and go catch the André Leon-Talley documentary.  I knew that it had been playing, Juan-Felipe de Castro — a most exhaustingly funny sage… no, they are not all funny — had raved about it and insisted that I go.  In any event, there was I, playing femme au foyer with my Swiffer and came across the coffee table gem: ALT 365+ and immediately took a shower, booked a ticket, opted for some Tom Ford Black Orchid eau de parfum instead of patchouli, hopped on my bike with my Dorothy Grant messenger bag and my snazzy Wellingtons.  

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I got to King West and John Streets, opted to lock up my trusty bike on John Street and dashed across John for the 40 storey plus condo.  There are too many of these damn hideous things and more people jump from them than one would care to have to admit.  That aside, I made my way inside, for the first time — I never do TIFF — and was wowed by the place; seriously, though, what’s with having to climb stairs when your bladder is about to give out?  

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Comfy, the beautifully interiored salon’s lights went down and thus began the pleasurable and immensely enlightening adventure that is, The Gospel According to André.  Great it was to see the grand dame, Diana Vreeland.  Of course, I was reminded of the summer of 1983 when working in the garment district, running errands for milliner, Frederick Jones; these were all persons whom he knew and with whom I became briefly acquainted for tagging along with him to some mid-afternoon or mid-morning meeting after which we would be off to buy fabric.  Frederick had actually taught me how to block hats, which gladly I did as he feverishly worked away in his West 43rd Street Studio/home.  

Talley, André-Leon 16/10/1949

Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature atisan – third life thereat.  André is in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance.  An indealist, he is in the emotional part of intellectual centre. 

André’s primary chief feature is greed fixated on satisfaction and the secondary, arrogrance.  

André’s body type is Jupiter/Venus. 

The fragment André is fifth-cast in the first cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three.  André’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 414. 

André’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a sage who is known to him. 

André’s three primary needs are: expression, expansion and communion. 

There are 14 past-life associations with Arvin and 10 with Merlin. 

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Last Saturday feeling deathly exhausted and suffering from allergies — my sneeze is phenomenally loud — I debated whether or not to make the Liona Boyd concert at Church of the Redeemer, on Bloor Street West at Avenue Road.  

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Slipping inside the pyramid, I grabbed a clutch of crystals, intently focussed on ridding myself of this allergic morass and dosed off for a spell.  When I came to, sneezed louder than normally I would then found myself nose-blowing and ejecting a pond of phlegm.  At that, I felt grounded, focussed and as though I had never been in the throes of allergies.  I took a cold shower, in my perpetually freezing apartment, the AC is always on at 61° — I cannot abide heat… to say nothing of summer.  

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With unassigned seating, I went and sat at the edge of the last pew in the stage left transept.  No sooner than having taken a seat that the smell of the persons to my right precluded remaining where I was; they, frankly, smelt like burnt flesh which also had a melange that was not dissimilar to the loud smell of a long-haired dog when wet.  Who knows what Canis Major world from whence their hybridised alien stock originates but I always find the smell of such persons off-putting.  

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Thus, I opted to stand for the performance’s duration and a gloriously magical interlude it proved.  This was billed as a celebration of Yorkville in its 1960s heyday.  After the youth choir had opened, out walked Liona Boyd in a flowing white and blue gown, looking positively ethereal.  

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This performance for me was just as bucolic as when passing late afternoons in childhood high up my favourite fruit tree in St. Kitts and being swept along by air currents as the branch on which I would be perched, rocked and swayed, taking me higher as I blissed out to the magic of Beatles’ tunes from the neighbour’s radio; naturally, no such ungodly music was ever allowed in our household.  Great fun it was to hear Liona’s recollections of Gordon Lightfoot, Leonard Cohen, John Denver and others.  For the first time, after her anecdote about working in a London, England studio where also John Denver was working, Jet Plane proved a most poignant moment in the concert.  

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There was a hush after we all sang along to the John Denver tune, with Liona on vocals and guitar, that moment was simply rapturous.  This performance was just as intimate as if we were merely a few persons in a backyard, hanging out by candlelight after a fine meal, good wine and having a sing-along whilst some august soul strummed on guitar.  A truly soul-stirring adage, the evening proved.  I was only too happy to grab my autographed copies of her memoirs — which I have yet to devour.  One had a true sense of communion when singing along and afterwards when briefly chatting whilst she signed both memoirs.  I really didn’t need the overleaves to have validated the connection; quite remarkably she felt solid which is how all soul connections register… at least for me they do.  

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Boyd, Liona 11/7/1949 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature sage – second life thereat.  Liona is in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth.  A pragmatist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Liona’s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary, self-deprecation. 

Liona’s body type is Lunar/Mercury. 

The fragment Liona is fourth-cast in fourth cadence; she is a member of greater cadence three.  Liona’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – Liona is an entity mate of both Merlin’s and Arvin’s. 

Liona’s essence twin is a sage and the task companion an artisan who is known to her. 

Liona’s three primary needs are: freedom, adventure and power. 

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvn and 12 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

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Naturally, no trip to the Royal Conservatory of Music’s Koerner Hall would be complete without crossover from the hall to the old majestic red-bricked building that faces onto Bloor Street West and pay a visit to the Bella Bartok statue.  Vibrationally, I don’t know why, but I am always reminded of Leonard Cohen when looking at this statue.  20180626_194633

Settled in comfortably and it was time to be wowed by Savion Glover and boy did the old shamanic griot deliver!  Never had 1.5 hours of dancing been so phenomenal.  This was sheer uneclipsed beauty of spirit.  Whilst I sat there waiting for the house lights to go down, I poured through photos to include in my instagram account.  

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Just then, I came across the account of someone met days earlier whom I had added to Instagram but who has yet to follow in kind.  Naturally, this lost soul claimed to be impressed that I knew of crystals and had a pyramid but like too many Canadians, he was really big on letting me know that he was too busy to check  his Instagram account.  To look at it, it is the most flaky, crowd-following, lost soul bullshit imaginable.  Of course, this clown is too busy dropping whatever to even know that there is a Jazz festival afoot and likely would dismiss it as not evolved enough.  

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After having been wowed by Savion’s sheer genius, I stumbled out onto Bloor Street West lightheaded both from the performance and the fact that I was quite frankly hungry.  There had been no water in my building all day; not able to cook, I sped to the performance by bike and soon realised that I was more famished than I reckoned.  Throwing caution to the wind, I poured into the revamped McDonald’s across from the ROM (Royal Ontario Museum) — wouldn’t like to be a homeowner in the swank new condo only to have the smell of French fries night and day permeating your tony Yorkville digs?  

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After having repeated my order three times to the vapid-looking but shade-throwing Southeast Asian server, I finally spoke up 15 minutes later, demanding to know what was taking so long.  As the order got to me, I was so bored of having to look at stupid, overbred fools, I took the food said my best “fuck you/thank you” and departed the store.  When finally, I opened up, glad to be able to dig into my two McChicken sandwiches, the above is the sight with which I was presented.  Inside the clear top of the container, which would normally hold eggs, pancakes or other breakfast fare, were two greasy, deep-fried patties that for all the hell I could have cared might have been dog as it certainly was not chicken.  Not in the mood to row with anyone just then, I ubered some Jerk chicken and some coconut water.  20180626_194039

Almost an hour after initially I had ordered food to address my hunger along came my order.  Sure enough another overbred fool presented with the most god-awful malodorous bouquet of smegma, dirty arse, armpits, curry and bad breath that suggested that he had at least half a dozen cavities.  Right about then, I was one none-too-thrilled and hungry motherfucker.  So repulsed was I that I simply tossed the food in the fridge and had one of the coconut waters.  How unaware must one be that you are going to have the fuck-all temerity to serve the public and smelling as unhygienic as is humanly possible?  

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Another day and another church for sinner man moi to grace.  The Jazz festival this year was missing its usual verve as the concerts would usually be hosted by on-air hosts from Toronto’s JazzFM.  Since a couple of months earlier, the absence of Garvia Bailey from the airwaves on her morning show and I began counting down the days to her return from holiday.  Of course, this being Canada, I always worried when Garvia was away from her show as being Black in this country means that job security is as rare as pussy at a bathhouse.  

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Never before had Garvia been missing from the airwaves this long; heck, I had even called the station one Friday to ask when she would return and was told that she would be back on Monday.  That Monday rolled around and Mark Wigmore, who had previously worked at the city’s Gay radio station, was still hosting and now there was no more mention of Garvia Bailey.  Now I was beginning to get more than a little bit pissed off.  Was she ill?  Had she quit?  Had she been fired?  At least, Garvia was still there on her twitter account.  Then one day, I looked at the JazzFM website on-air host page and Garvia’s name was gone.  Wow, I would really have to start rethinking my support.  

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Then the unfathomable unfolded as I opened the day’s Globe and Mail newspaper to read that five on-air persons had been fired and there had been a string of sexual harassment allegations against Ross Porter.  Brazenly, he was still on-air and the station, which relies on listener support, had the gall to keep Ross on-air.  Regardless, there is nothing more odious than having to suffer someone who has been the focus of sexual allegations, true or not; it is just immensely disquieting. 

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So there was I to see Cecile McLorin Salvant weave her indelible magic.  I sat in the back pew in the balcony which afforded a commanding view of the stage and in particular the very engaging drummer.  Cecile was in superb form.  Next to me sat a couple, who clearly did not care to be there; one had to buy tickets in blocks of three concerts — at least for that venue.  Naturally, the night before conflicted with the Savion Glover concert at Koerner Hall.  The third concert would be the day following and as life is about making the most discriminating of choices, I had positively no fuck all intentions of time-wasting seeing another fraudulent arsed Canadian ape black culture and turn Jazz singer because, let’s face it, there is no such thing as a viable pop music career in Canada especially if you don’t stand a chance in hell of crossing over to the America market.  Besides, from my years of crawling the halls of the CBC when Merlin worked there, being the product of the moneyed classes and being able to buy a career does not a Jazz singer make.  Besides, ain’t nobody gots time for chit the day after Cecile’s held court and wove her magic.  

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So as I bobbed and weaved, enjoying the soulful groove that is Jazz — black high art — the Indo-Canadian couple next to me could not have been more disinterested.  She, seated closer to me, kept her hands clasped at her cross-legged knee.  He on the other hand kept on slamming his back into the pew as protest for my enjoying myself.  I think she might have clapped once or twice.  What really struck me as the couple next to me engaged in the usual passive-aggressive BS that one fully expects to manifest partout from tout le monde , is that as JazzFM restructures and returns with new on-air hosts, it’ll doubtless be persons of their ilk who will be the chosen replacement hosts; god only knows, the landscape has been deftly rid of all semblance of blackness in the television medium of late.  A true mystery to me how Canadians can so blithely whistle Dixie whilst purporting to be enamoured and passionate about Jazz, all the while slowly but irretrievably excluding blacks — whatever did we black have to do with Jazz; surely, we must be mad if we so much as entertained the notion that we could have done something so phenomenal as having invented the art form and that there is anything remotely ‘black’ about Jazz.  Indeed, the Canadian way…  That aside, I really missed having the on-air hosts from JazzFM being part of the hosting lineups during the annual Jazz Festival which was exquisitely memorable.  

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 Until next year, as the full moon in Capricorn climbed high in the sky above Yorkville, I say, sweet dreams and as ever thanks so much for your ongoing support.  

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©Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved 2013-2018.

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Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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After having waited months on end, the day of the royal wedding arrived and there was I sporting a killer headache – one of which I have not had in long ages.  What with the inordinate negativity of trolls online and the utterly disgraceful meltdown on the Markle relations on the father’s side of the family, I just wanted the bloody wedding to get going.  Moreover, I was hosting, in my art-filled home, a right English royal wedding breakfast: six different teas, smoked salmon, scones, Johnny cakes (a West Indian variation on scones) champagne, jams including, of course, guava jams.  As busy host, I missed a lot of the goings on as it unfolded live.

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Rising at 0300, I was up and ready, making the first teas as guests soon thereafter began arriving for the 0400 starts of the live broadcasts.  Naturally, we looked at the BBC coverage whilst multiple broadcasters were simultaneously taped: PBS, CBS, CNN, ABC & CBC.  Pandora my lovely sister was in town with her urbane hubby and overnighted at my place so that they would not have to travel far at 0300.  Also present was Dr. Lucian Mann-Chomedy, who left his sprawling mansion atop the hill in Hamilton, to be with me; he is a world-renowned expert on Voltaire.  Eventually, along came siblings Rio, Penina and Isha with legal professional, like Pandora, Hyacinth Fitzroy-McIlroy.

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Though I wanted to take an Advil, I knew that copious amounts of champagne to follow would preclude doing so.  Alas, I drank fresh-squeeze orange juice and lots of water.  Finally, the fare catered by Daniel et Daniel arrived at 0459 sharp – I am better at working magic in the bedroom rather than the kitchen, so why sweat it!

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In between fussing with the catered fare, I caught a glimpse of George and Amal Clooney looking like the power couple that they are.  What a gorgeous colour and her hat was fabulous.  I especially loved the Valentino worn by Sofia Wellesley with her diminutive hubby James Blunt, a man whose devastating wit makes following his twitter account a must.  There was Oprah Winfrey looking regal; she is of course a member of entity seven of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414, which would make her a cadre mate, along with other notables who are also cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s, like: Sir Anthony van Dyke, Sir Peter Paul Rubens, Jim Henson, Vaslav Nijinsky, Rudolf Nureyev, Natalie Cole, Grace Jones, Annette Bening, Warren Beatty, President Barack H. Obama, Joshua Redman, Katherine Hepburn, King Richard I, George Benson, opera singer Maureen Forrester, Painter Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Giovanni Canaletto, Camille Paglia, Cassandra Wilson, Art Blakey, sculptor Henry Moore, River Phoenix, Halle Berry, Victor Brauner, choreographer Merce Cunningham, Charles Mingus, Esperanza Spalding, Alvin Ailey, Zora Neale Hurston, Lena Horne, Jazz drummer Tony Williams, Otis Redding, Vasco da Gama, Roy Hargrove, Toller Cranston, Oscar Peterson, Jennifer Holliday, Roger Hodgson, National Ballet of Canada founder Celia Franca, Constantin Patsalas, Charles Baudelaire, Liona Boyd, Tina Turner, Marvin Gaye, Youssou N’Dour, writers Gabriela Mistral & James Baldwin and comic genius, Robin Williams.  Of course, many of these overleaves are to be found across the six-volume opus of Michael Overleaves appendices which accompany my dream-filled, and sex-besotted memoirs a first in all of human civilisation… because someone had to do it first and naturally yours truly has got to represent for the old 1/7/414!  Enough of digressing and coming off like that blasted ham, who in true American fashion, the right rev’ron thinks that his grandstanding noisemaking at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex was a hit – sorry it was not; it really did a number on my headache.

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I especially loved it when the royals began entering from the Galilee Porch into the chapel and took their seats.  HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal’s reaction to the guests assembled across the aisle was priceless.  Indeed, Ms. Markle had really sprung the big guns, namely Ms. Winfrey on them.  There sat Oprah at the very back where she got a good view and strategically enough, she uncomfortably sat across the aisle from that flat-arsed, no-calved pretentious bigoted boor, HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  She is such a pitiable lost soul, she with the million and one tiaras (google image her); she and her tiaras, looking like a third-tier drag queen who’s not done too badly for herself on the pageant circuit.  God when will people like her realise that on this planet melanin trumps blood.  Oprah’s presence was a none-too-subtle missive, keep up with the racist charades and there will be an Oprah interview.  Seriously, that Blackamoor brooch last Christmas worn to the Buckingham Palace as Ms. Markle made her debut was as coincidental as if HRH Princess Anne Princess Royal were to have worn a swastika for the inaugural Christmas at Buckingham Palace when Princess No-Calves’ coke-headed son brought along his Jewish wife for the first time.  Poor thing, what was she to do, to look right across the aisle at St. George’s Chapel, there sat Serena, reminding her of one of two of her black sheep named Serena & Venus; to then look left, there sat Oprah, looking as though famished and ready to feast.  Matters not, from here on out the Princess Rhino will have to curtsy to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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Wonderful it was to see Jack Brooksbank greet his mother-in-law, Sarah Duchess of York, who thanks to HRH Prince Henry of Wales’ insistence was invited to attend the wedding of the year.  Whilst many came and went past the tomb of HM King Charles I whose art collection retrospective at the Royal Academy ranks among my favourite exhibitions, there stood George and Amal Clooney holding court; at one point, they were joined by the dashing Dan Snow with his statuesque wife and sister to the very eligible Duke of Westminster who is godfather to HRH Prince George of Cambridge, who looked smart in his Blues and Royals uniform as page boy which smartly matched those worn by both his father HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his uncle the groom, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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Loved watching the always elegant Victoria Beckham being greeted with a bear hug whilst in the company of her husband David Beckham and a decidedly matronly looking Sir Elton John and his partner, David Furnish.  Serenely composed was the twenty-three-year-old Indian charity worker, who looked exquisite in her saree.  Though I had envisioned her in saree, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s friend, the actor, Priyanka Chopra looked no less lovely in her lilac suit with matching hat.  By far, one of my favourite royals was the very expectant Zara Tindall whose husband now looks even more handsome after corrective rhinoplasty.  Whilst the Chicagoan made an arse of himself in the pulpit, there sat Zara who with a look made us all roar with her wary side eye.  Seven years earlier, I was equally charmed by her beauteousness as she smiled whilst slipping a breath mint as the soloist sang and the bridal party, TRH Duke and Duchess of Cambridge et al, were off in St. Edward the Confessor chapel at Westminster Abbey signing the registry.

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Indeed, Central Casting could not have scripted a more gloriously perfect day.  There is a special magic to the isle of England; it goes without saying that it is vibrationally harmonised with much of the West Indies.  I truly do feel at home when in England; of course, much of that is because I passed a ‘high-point’ life there in late 18th century London and Windsor and as well Merlin was then present with me.  One thing that I have come to realise that many past-life dreams afford one the perspective of the former incarnation.  As a result, as is always the case when happening on a place where I have been before and had past-life dreams thereof, I am always mildly surprised to find that the waking state reality is a 180° reversal of the past-life perspective from the most lucid dreams of questing to previous lives.  For instance, Windsor Castle in past life dreams where there is much wood fire smoke, horse activity and the fashion are specific to that time frame, the castle always sits on the north bank of the River Thames with the majestic Eton College Chapel lording over the southern bank’s landscape, looking pretty much like Valhalla rising from the mist.

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My first visit to London was so thoroughly confusing, everything proved back-to-front as it had always appeared and been experienced in the most lucid dreams.  In such dreams, horse drawn carriages are everywhere with the loud smell of smoke, horse dung.  Strangely enough, in many of these dreams, my breath tends to be foul with drink, though, here in this lifetime, I hardly ever drink.  This past spring, as I moved through Windsor Castle’s St. George Hall, I was surprised to find the ceiling so far removed.  Later, during conversation with a gentle-souled female manager at the castle, I was reassured when she shared that after the great fire of 1992, the hall’s ceiling was raised considerably.  I had a really visceral response to seeing the bullet that felled Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson; he, of course, has a storied connection to Nevis.  I also knew him in that 18th century past-life at court when then a countertenor and Merlin, then female, was my accompanist on harpsichord.

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There were moments this past March when in certain rooms both at Hampton Court Palace but especially so at Windsor Castle that everything was back to front and I felt what I refer to as being “In-Between” – one does not exactly feel faint but you experience a moment of feeling as though you were vibrationally tuning in between here and elsewhere in time.  Finally, with a second round of tea being served, I was able to take a breather and start looking at the arrivals; currently the minor royals were arriving.  Good it always is to see the gracious HRH Duchess of Kent in a lovely black and white ensemble; I was purse-lipped as she was being helped to her seat.  Finally, a Benz minivan pulled up at the bottom of the middle ward and out sprang two dashingly handsome men, wearing Blues and Royals uniforms.  Straight away, I was teary-eyed; of course, it goes without saying that on occasions such as this, one cannot help but think of their lovely mother, the late Diana, Princess of Wales.

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Champagne nicely chilled was on standby, awaiting the taking of vows to be popped.  I love the fact that Chelsey Davy was at the wedding of her ex, HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, along with Cressida Bonas.  I love this aspect of English aristocratic society; their weddings almost always feature exes… and why not?  Theirs are very tight, limited circles and exes are likely to be, in some cases, godparents.  When finally, I was able to watch the wedding uninterrupted, for having played host the day of, I was truly spellbound and stunned by what an absolutely beautiful wedding it was.

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was nothing short of Arthurian as she entered St. George’s Chapel alone.  At once she was magical, empowered; a queen staking her claim both on history and her throne.  Nothing was more beautiful than watching the Mulroney twins in their matching Blues and Royals uniforms, carrying her sixteen-foot veil’s train, which was decorated in the flowers of all 53 nations of the Commonwealth and California’s state flower.  After moving through the gorgeous boughs of white roses and peonies, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was then met by and escorted by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, a man with whom one always enjoys the most august dream encounters.

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Seeing the uneclipsed look of love in HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s eyes and written all over his face as he drank the intoxicating drink of his bride approaching with his father, no less, made me come undone.  Uncontrollably, I cried out for joy and began crying.  I cried out anew when with a stride no less confident than Queen Maxima of the Netherlands’, the day she walked down the aisle of Westminster Abbey on April 29, 2011 as TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge were wedded, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did an energetic shake of her head as she beamed at her lover, her champion at her warrior-prince.

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At this point, my whole body was awash in glorious ripples of adrenaline as these two souls, who happen to be both entity mates along with HM The Queen, celebrated their twenty-first incarnate relations.  The way that this man looked at this woman with open love for her, was the most soul-warming adage imaginable.  His cheeks aglow, he blushed, smiled and declared his love for his lover for all the world to see.  Long had I forgotten how beautiful it used to make me feel when Merlin would look at me exactly with the same magical glow and twinkle in his eyes.  I was so immensely happy.  The way they chatted, the way he looked at her whilst falling in love all over again, was the most beautiful sight.  Even the way that Jessica Mulroney reached across and rekindled her vows in a touch with Benedict Mulroney was wonderful to have witnessed.

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Uncovering her face of the veil and revealing the Queen Mary bandeau tiara in its uneclipsed glory, just as the first time after they had made love and reaffirmed their soul connection, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex said a warm, hi; they were two familiar souls, looking into each other and keeping aglow the fire of their unbreakable bond.  Entity mates in love is a most beautiful thing, there is no greater bond.  They way that they looked at each other, spoke to that enduring love that had endured across twenty prior lifetimes.  Now here they are, of choice, he an older soul (fifth-level mature warrior — fourth life thereat) she (mid-cycle mature artisan — third life thereat); there is nothing that this formidable team cannot accomplish.  As it is her third life at the level, expect her to be accomplished, ambitious, daring and a force to be reckoned with.  Like his second-level mature artisan mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has an innate sense of theatre, which was dramatically on display as she walked the aisle to stake her claim on history and validated that she had twice previously been a high-ranking member of the British royal family.  Truly regal was she as she walked the aisle to take her vow and return to life, for the third time, as a member of a much-loved institution, the House of Windsor.

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Seated there in that beautiful blue dress, I was reminded of Lynn Woodman, actor Wayne Robson’s wife in the way that Jessica Mulroney’s smile and eyes warmed me each time.  Of course, horrified was I last summer just before departing for London, England to learn from Xerxes Hamelin, my ex-wife and now transgendered to a bald and bearded marvel of modern medicine that their only son Louis had died at Christmas 2016.  Straight away, all those dreams of Lynn looking forlorn on grey-skied, rainy days and always on a bridge before a swollen river made so much sense.

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Britain Royal Wedding

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Britain Royal Wedding

Britain Royal Wedding

As the service progressed awash in the magic that is evoked by two souls with strong reincarnational bonds, I took a look at the gathered souls.  Loved the look of Sam Chatto, he of the pronounced spiritual focus in this life as he sat two to the left and west of HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  Also, on that upper row was the young Duke of Westminster, Hugh Grosvenor, whose father, Gerald Grosvenor, sixth Duke of Westminster, like HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, was the same soul age and role in essence — seventh-level mature warrior soul.  His older sister, Edwina had earlier been chatting with George and Amal Clooney with her husband Dan Snow as the guests arrived.  Good it was to see the always regal HRH Princess Alexandra whose father, the very dashing HRH Prince George, Duke of Kent after his untimely death may well have recently been Diana, Princess of Wales — this is just a suspicion of mine and not channelled information.  I could not though help but think, whilst watching Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being wedded then later in the evening when emerging with her husband in that glorious white halter neck Stella McCartney dress, that Diana’s soul may well choose to reincarnate to her former son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and his very elegantly stylish wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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First Duchess of Sussex, where previously the first Duke of Sussex fervently supported the abolition of slavery, a cessation of the persecution of Jews, now here were these entity mates — HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and first Duchess of Sussex, Meghan, taking up the noble mantle of HM Queen Victoria’s uncle and HM King George IV’s younger brother, HRH Prince Augustus Frederick to work and help develop the potential of the developing nations of the Commonwealth.  Sadly, for most persons, these two souls chose to be part of the BRF by unique circumstances; when you consider the impact that black Africans have had on the wealth of the BRF and much of West Europe, it would seem fitting to these two souls and those in agreement within the BRF for them to have chosen to be an interracial couple.  Of course, it must not be forgotten that without exception, all Caucasian persons who are gap-toothed were in their immediate past life, black.

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When you keenly pay close attention to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex’s life, you will see this being validated.  This man has always had an ease and affinity for blacks whether in the diaspora or in Africa.  There was nothing more glorious than watching his soul bleed through its reincarnational awareness, when on a trip to Jamaica, once invited by a young girl to join her dancing to Bob Marley’s soulful singing, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex danced with an ease that immediately made everyone black warm to the core; in his movement, we instinctively recognised his ‘blackness’ – we were responding to the fact that this was someone whose soul had been black in his immediate past life.  The way that this man slipped into the groove and wind his waist was as groovy as if hearing Marvin Gaye soulfully crooning.

Britain Royal Wedding

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Britian Royal Wedding

There is a purity of spirit that HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex possesses, which speaks to the very nature of his soul.  More than that, it does speak to his having inherited his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’ empathy gene.  For me a man is most beautiful when he openly displays his love for another human being; there is no denying that as they took their vows, here was a man at his most beautiful.  Throughout, there sat Doria Ragland, mother of the bride, a study in dignity, pride and reserve.  Of course, any mother who calls her child ‘Flower’ is a mother who will ever be proud of how her daughter has blossomed into her own woman.  This love saw Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become a woman of substance and a truly dignified human being.

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One interesting to note is how truly simpatico both Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall and Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex are.  Of course, the reason for that being, is that they are both exactly the same soul age and both are living their third life at that level.  What that, of course, means is that warrior soul HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales will always be warmed by and favour Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  Though both are mid-cycle mature souls on their third lives, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall is, however, a scholar soul.  Keeping her grounded and focussed with uncharacteristic drive is Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s warrior task companion.  That warrior, however, is not her husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex; it does, however, prove grounding for her, to be wedded to a warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

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All warriors live by a very grounded motto: feed me, fuck me but do not annoy me!  To say the least, Lady Kamasutra aka Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is ably qualified to ever keep her husband engaged both physically, emotionally and intellectually.  Warriors make the best of partners because when the love is strong, they are the most loyal and devoted of souls.  Regardless what those on the outside may think – and god has there been a spate of dissenting opinions about their union; fact of the matter is that they are more suited to be man and wife and life partners than most persons in the public eye.

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Without doubt, no one wore a more stylish hat than did Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall.  I also loved the wonderful hats worn by Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and Lady Kitty Spencer, daughter of Earl Spencer, niece of Diana, Princess of Wales and good friend of Viscountess Weymouth who would have looked smashing had she attended the wedding.  Not wanting to be the butt of every joke, this time around, the Princesses of York wore hats that were demure and understated.  Reminiscent of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, HRH Princess Eugenie, soon to be wedded to Jack Brooksbank this autumn, wore a lovely white pillbox hat.  Ever exuberant, it was good to see Sarah, Duchess of York greeting her son-in-law at St. George’s Chapel, though, she did not sit with the royals but across the aisle with the invited guests.  Kudos to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having invited and included her in the Sussexes wedding gathering.

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After that solipsistic buffoon made a point of overstating the obvious – if I were not hosting, I would have readily tossed a box of Kleenex at the screen, it was good to have been wowed by the Kingdom Gospel Choir.  I thought that at least one of the female singers in the front row was a priest soul, along with the choir leader; if not a priest, she definitely would have strong priestly makeup in her casting.  Their presence and performance were one of the many details, which went a long way towards making this wedding one of the most memorable.  Finally, after old windbag’s grandstanding, it was time for the lovely couple to take their vows.  Yet again, I was moved to tears.  Doria seemed at times to be experiencing rapture during points in the ceremony. Britain Royal Wedding

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Like Mr. Curry’s grandstanding, there was also a moment that left me disquieted.  The moment that she entered St. George’s Chapel off the Galilee porch entrance with the other royals, I was disappointed at the sight of Lady Louise Windsor, daughter of TRH, the Earl and Countess of Wessex.  Back in Spring 2016 on a tour of the Bahamas and Cayman Islands, there was Sophie HRH, Countess of Wessex wearing the same dress that her self-conscious daughter wore to a wedding that would be globally televised.  Nothing like human society to straitjacket children into rigid social roles.  It would have done a lot of this young woman’s self-esteem if she had been bought a new dress for the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  There is nothing empowering for any young woman, having to wear their mother’s hand-me-downs.

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That aside, there was nothing more glorious than the prodigy, Sheku Kanneh-Mason masterfully weaving his magic on cello.  Later, as the married Sussexes emerged from the beautifully boughed St. George’s Chapel into the crystalline blue-skied day then kissed, the most glorious thing then happened.  As the unmistakably in love couple stood on the lower steps, the gospel choir again began singing.  As if it were not moving to watch, Diana, Princess of Wales’ older sister, Lady Jane Fellowes who gave a reading during the service, there was she bobbing and dancing whilst enjoying the gospel music.  And what glorious music it was too.

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That song, This Little Light of Mine, was a favourite of mine since childhood.  Back on Sunday, August 2, 1964, I had gotten a good spanking, on my birthday no less, from Harella my mother, whom I had always been convinced was not my mother as she was all of forty years old when I was born.  I wanted that day to wear my favourite pair of shorts to church – it was after all my birthday.  However, the shorts were dirty and crumbled and expected to be washed during the week.  Nonetheless, I threw a tantrum and got to wear my shorts after having my naked bottom spanked – therein lay the seed of my crop and riding boot fetishistic sex.  Sitting there in church, which Harella owned, I began singing at the top of my lungs, the song of protest.  Whilst my mother looked at me, utterly sure in her conviction that I was demon-possessed, I looked away and out the door to the east and the mountain ridge in St. Kitts.  Just then, the sparkling sun struck something within the growth of the foothills and it caused a blazing reflection that danced and shone even more blazingly than the sun; indeed, it matched my singing.  I knew that day that my mother would never succeed in having me sublimate my will to her and her mad and make-believe god.

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As the gospel choir sang, I began tearing up again, as the camera pulled a lovely crane shot back from the top of the St. George’s Chapel’s west door, steps and the couple below preparing to get into the landau, beyond lay the lowlands of the magical kingdom.  In that moment, I was suddenly struck by the very real sense of Diana, Princess of Wales.  Yes, indeed, her lovely boys were now wedded and to beautiful strong wives at that.  Her work here was done; now she could fly off as that crane shot implied to the west, the horizon, the astral plane, the future and to lives up ahead.  Diana, Princess of Wales had made a handsome success of life and with both TRH Princes William and Henry fully grown and wedded, her work was done.  Even, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was every bit a loving, older soul – seventh-level mature warrior and entity mate of king soul and Canadian artist, Robert Bateman.

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Without doubt, this was one of the most glorious weddings in long ages.  To be sure, it is always good to see two souls with an abiding soul connection, renewing and validating the ties that bind and truly matter.  Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex!

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©2013-2018 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

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Winnie Mandela… Amandla!

Winnie Mandela

For standing up to the absurd indignity of the racial predator with their absurd construct, Apartheid, in your homeland, Winnie Mandela thank you so much; were it not for you, Nelson Mandela would never have made it out of Robben Island alive.  Amandla!  Sweet and blissful dreams be yours… you were nothing short of an African Queen in full; you were not perfect but triumphant leaders are never without their flaws!  Amandla!  You were unwavering in your conviction that your noble people would be free of the absurd indignity that was Apartheid, in your lifetime.. and that they were, in very large part to your able leadership.  Amandla!  

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©2013-2018. Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century African-American Artists, African Leaders, African-Americans, Africans, American Artists, Award-winning artist, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Divas, Mature souls, Michael Teachings, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Singers, South Africans, Statesmen, Video, Visionaries | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Stephen Hawking’s Supernova

Stephen Hawking

Hawking, Stephen 8/1/42<O>14/3/18

Michael: What you are seeing in the fragment who is now Stephen is a seventh level old Scholar in the observation mode, with a goal of growth, a sceptic. 

This is his first life in the last of the physical cycles but we note that there has been tremendous progress here in that this fragment is for the most part transcendent in his ability to leave the body at will and travel through the limitless leaves of the Tao. 

Yes, of course he chose to have a frail unworkable body.  He did not specifically choose amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.  The choices are not that limiting but he did choose not to have to be bothered with the physical body, so that he could finish what he needed to do intellectually. 

We did not give a centring here because this fragment spends a great deal of time in touch with higher centres, although he is, as you might suppose pretty much centred in the Intellectual part of Intellectual Centre but is able to use the Higher Emotional Centre at will. 

This fragment is lively, bright, fairly happy and although aware of his severe limitations, not in the least sorry for himself.  This fragment has been literate over fifty times.  He was nine times the tutor to royal children.  He was an inscribing monk and did beautiful illuminations during five lifetimes. 

He was a scribe to the fragment who was Julius Caesar.  He was a lector for the emperor Marcus Aurelius.  He was a Grecian scholar on the Isle of Rhodes, during the height of the golden age of Greece. 

He was an Arabian mathematician and was instrumental in giving the world the zero to work with, which greatly improved and facilitated the study of higher mathematics.  He was a geographer twice. 

So, this fragment is no stranger to the world of study, however, this is the life he chose to make his greatest contributions.  Many of you could speak with Stephen in the dream state, for he is very accessible.  This fragment has many things he could teach all of you. 

He has a great deal of recall that he puts to good use in this life.  The age of this fragment’s soul accounts for his ability to detach from the physical body.  A younger soul could not do this with such élan. 

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At the time of Diana, Princess of Wales’ death (August, 1997) Sarah J. Chambers, channeller of the original Michael Group, shared Dr. Hawking’s overleaves with me, along with those of HRH Prince Charles Prince of Wales, Madonna Ciccone, Prince and Michael Jackson.  Though it is not listed in the overleaves, Sarah stated in an email communiqué that this would be Stephen’s final life; his soul would no longer reincarnate at the conclusion of this life, which would occur near 21 years later.  

Interestingly, as it was his final life, Stephen Hawking in a wrap up of having downloaded his vast intellectual awareness as the ultimate scholar soul would pass or, more appropriately, supernova at the time of the most intense solar storm in long years… there are no coincidences.  I was once guided in a dream and told that the Sun and all stars are the portal through which all sentient and reincarnating souls pass between the planes on reincarnating and passing.  Obviously, there was a great celebratory event as Stephen Hawking at the conclusion of his reincarnation cycle returned to his entity one last time — hence he was facilitated via the solar storm.  

Back on Monday, March 5, 2018, I went to see Darkest Hour with Gary Oldman at the Vue Cinemas in London’s Leicester Square.  Comfortably seated in theatre 8, about halfway into the film, I began witnessing a fair bit of paranormal activity.  I sat in the back row between two English couples, neither of whom were amorous.  From time to time, when actors on screen were in closeup, their eyes would suddenly become black-within-black with fully dilated pupils.  There were times, when I was able to make out Kristin Scott-Thomas’ aura — I found her performance exacting and intense.  More than that, I witnessed foggy, grey-white tall humanoid forms simply getting up from the seats in multiple rows ahead of me, turn either right or left then simply walk through the dark walls of the mid-sized theatre.  

I chose to remain composed because having a fearful response, is all about losing control and homie never plays that.  As the experience unfolded for about 20 per cent of the film, it next ventured into territory with which I had long grown familiar.  Off to the right corner of the theatre and at the ceiling, there was an aperture of light with opened.  Slowly, the light expanded and began a portal of the same soft-focussed yellow/golden light.  I have seen this many time before.  Next, a series of light beings, say the size of a raven began manifesting.  These light beings are illumined from within and have large gossamer, illumined wings which are two-thirds the size of their tiny bodies; the wings also flap about not unlike an elephant’s ears do. 

These creatures arose from the seats before me and progressed from left to right and up and into the light which radiated from the portal.  Soon enough, I was keenly aware that I was the only person experiencing this; I was never fearful.  I did, though, remind myself that personal truth is the only valid reality — at least at moments such as this.  Previously, I have experienced this manifestation when persons close to me are about to pass; this can manifest either at the point of their departure or as early as up to two weeks in advance.  This has never occurred after the actual passing and never more than two weeks out from the actual passing.  What I have learnt, for having done as many overleaves as I have, is that these persons are with few exceptions either entity or cadre mates.  

Where they have not been thusly related to me, they have been famous persons on the global stage.  The last time that this had occurred was at Nelson Mandela’s passing.  This, by the way, I did not experience when the 20th century’s most famous woman, Diana, Princess of Wales, passed.  

With regards to Stephen Hawking, I feel that for being in London and 9 days out from his passing, I was being attuned to his preparations to cycle off his final incarnation.  The movement of the levitating illumined, winged tiny beings towards the portal of soft-focussed light is always a slow, languorous adage that seems to occur within an aqueous medium.  Also, at the time that the overleaves were shared, in a subsequent email, Sarah had shared that he was in greater cadre 4 of pod 129 — the rest of his casting I do not know.  

I have known two persons who passed of ALS, which Stephen Hawking had for decades.  Both persons, as is customary with ALS, passed within a year of being diagnosed.  In the case of one female coworker, she simply became all-consumed and grew fear-shrouded and cocooned.  There was so much fear readily discernible in her eyes.  Incidentally, when she passed, I had the exact same aforementioned paranormal manifestation.  I have not yet done her overleaves but would not be surprised if she comes back as an entity or cadre mate.  Also, after her passing, she appeared to me, in the most intensely lucid dream, very radiantly and thanked me for my support and assured me that she was now at peace with where she was.  Obviously, she was aware that I was distressed at how fearful she seemed at the prognosis of imminent death.  

Clearly, one can’t claim to know what she must have felt at the time; she, however, had simply become straight-jacketed by the fear of death and her own mortality.  Stephen Hawking endured for decades with ALS, likely the first such documented case in medicine, because he had conquered the fear of death.  He was totally at peace with his reality; moreover, he was more focussed on being in the now and completing his task of disseminating as much of the knowledge that he had acquired during the course of his reincarnational cycle.  There was nothing to fear.  Indeed, his overleaves of being a seventh level old scholar soul on his final life was thusly validated as he could not have cared less.  Death he had conquered long ago; the body and obsession therewith served no purpose for him.  He just wanted to get on with the task in hand of sharing his intellectual gifts with humanity.  

More than any other human being of the last two millennia, Stephen Hawking will be remembered and celebrated two millennia hence.  Sweet and blissful dreams and it was good to have been illumined by the stellar light of your accumulated intellectual gifts.  

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and sweet dreams!   

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©2013-2018 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

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All Too Human… And Then Some!

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Well, after having been dazzled by Natalia Osipova, there was no doubt what next adventure my soul had to devour.  I arrived at Pimlico Station and enjoyed the cool brisk walk to the red and white gorgeousness of the neighbourhood architecture.  I arrived at 08:50, a good hour ahead of the opening.  I took the time to place my palm on as many of the august sycamore trees in the neighbourhood as I could.  There were some high-end cars waiting out front of the Tate Britain Museum to take in All Too Human as yet another jetliner roared towards London Heathrow.  Definitely bulletproof, a stately Benz sat closest to the entrance with a smoky grey Bentley, SUV no less, parked furthest of the cars.  

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Eventually, persons began turning up and the engaging West African security agent who had the same strong, proud, full-lipped mouth as Leontyne Price’s closed one of the two heavy black doors to protect me as I waited outside the main glass sliding doors as a private event was underway — thus one couldn’t be allowed inside.  Finally, persons began leaving, one of whom — in a beautifully vivid red coat — was Cherie Blair CBE, QC.  She was proud-looking and had the kind of broad body that as I child was so familiar when growing up in the West Indies.  She had that air about her that bespoke a life in the public eye; someone made a curt remark and she was quick on the rebuttal.  I was much humoured and reminded of Saddam Hussein trading insults with the men who moments later gladly terminated his life.  

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Finally, it was on to the business in hand and what a beautifully stunning exhibition; one of the best contemporary art exhibitions that I have attended in years.  The greatest discovery was the lush, richness of the Lucian Freud still-life, Two Plants.  Thoroughly layered, engrossing and lyrical in its deft vividness.  I was left teary eyed by its sublime beauty. 

Sleeping by the Lion carpet Leigh Bowrey

Of course, I was moments earlier moved to dewy-eyed focus when drinking in the rich tableau of the portrait of creative artist and true eccentric, Leigh Bowery whom many years earlier I had seen perform in New York City.   I was reminded, of course, in Leigh’s passing of the countless many whom I have lost along the way to AIDS.

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The poster for the show at Russell Square Tube Station in Bloomsbury.  A wonderful tribute to Leigh who covered a fair bit of ground during his lifetime… sweet and blissful dreams be yours…  

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Naturally, I booked my flight based on two things: one, Giselle with Osipova and secondly, a joint exhibition featuring Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon.  For that, I would gladly hop a Tesla to Iapetus.  Of course, this exhibition was a pilgrimage of sorts for me and it was a way of paying homage to the artistic accomplishments of cadre mates.  

Study for Portrait of Lucian Freud Francis Bacon

As per the portrait of Lucian Freud above, these two artists are cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s.  Lucian Freud is a mature priest in our entity (6).  Along with Rudolf Nureyev and Grace Jones, Francis Bacon is next-door in entity 5 of our cadre.  Francis is a mature artisan, Grace Jones a mature warrior and Rudolf Nureyev a mature sage… and how.  I was thoroughly warmed to have drunk of their spirits.  

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne 1966 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

This particular portrait, Isabel Rawsthrone, I especially loved.  Raw, primal and emotionally intense there is something decidedly operatic about the focussed intensity of this portrait.  After initially getting over the intensity of it, it proves rather warm and enveloping.  

Three Figures and Portrait 1975 by Francis Bacon 1909-1992

This was a thoroughly arresting and soul-stirring adage; it was a beautiful way to have begun the day’s adventures.  

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After walking past the noise of the construction/renovations taking place on the first floor — one of the workers was a real pulse-racer, looking as he did like no end of hot, rough sex and in work gear no less!  Then it was downstairs to take in the Impressionists in London exhibition.  I did not buy the catalogue.  I always am a bit put-off by the association of the word “dream” when describing the works of impressionists.  There is nothing unfocussed or diffused about dreams.  Trust you me, as someone who recalls at least half a dozen dreams on average, oftentimes, dreams prove the most lucid part of any given day.  Perhaps, it was all the wine the French impressionists consumed but the maudlin-feeling lighting just doesn’t do it for me… most times.  

Notting Hill Gate

Having had my fill, off I went from Pimlico to Nothing Hill Gate in the wet snow and made the long trek to Kensington Palace where one of the most glorious flying dreams in this lifetime was set — also, in that dream was a then incarnate, Diana, Princess of Wales with her two beautiful-spirited sons, the future HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry of Wales and Duke of as-yet-known after he marries his beautiful bride, Ms. Meghan Markle — a mature artisan, to his mature warrior and an entity mate of his no less.  

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On the long trek along Broad Walk in Kensington Gardens from the high street, I enjoyed the look of snow everywhere.  The odd flake fell from time to time as joggers braved the fierce wind off the park.  One brave soul with a shock of close-cropped red hair, sported the greatest thighs as he jogged strictly in a pair of wrestler’s shorts.  He proved warming for my blood, indeed.  

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As I got towards the edge of Kensington Palace the handsome raven above swooped in from off my rear right and towards the palace.  He alighted, cocked the head at me and kept taking to the wind to come closer, all the while fixing me with a hard gaze.  “Yes, of course, you can see my heart.  Love is the password” I said aloud to the totemic creature as it kept on calling at me and edging ever closer, though, not being confrontational.  Satisfied with my password, seemingly, it bobbed and took to the air never to alight again.  I rather appreciated the warm welcome.  

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I loved the sparse beauty of the King’s Gallery at Kensington Palace, which — for me at least — was lauded over by the Equestrian Portrait of HM King Charles I by Sir Anthony van Dyck, who happens to be in entity 1 of my cadre; he, presently incarnate and one of my oldest friends, shortly is about to return from his winter stay at his Acapulco penthouse; I will be visiting him later this spring on the Canadian west coast.

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A truly beautifully tailored, handsome suit, this one.  I am not a big fashion person — I believe that one is best dressed when naked and preferably tumescent.  I did, though, rather enjoyed the movement through the Diana, Princess of Wales exhibition.

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A very beautiful second-level mature artisan, she was too.  

HRH Catherine Duchess of Cambridge

Having been inspired by Diana, Princess of Wales’ portrait, I made my way to Charing Cross Station in Trafalgar Square and cut across the street where there was a broken water main flooding the street.  As usual, Yoda was there doing his routine and, no doubt, earning a pretty quid.  I took in the HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge-curated exhibition, which had opened two nights earlier on my arrival.  Though, I had stood outside the National Portrait Gallery to catch a glimpse of her arrival, I soon dashed off in the increasing snowfall, if I were to make my Jazz at Lincoln Center performance across town at the Barbican Center.  So, having missed seeing her in person, the next best thing was to go gaze at the portrait of HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge.  I love it as it is so layered and complex; she is a late-mature warrior soul.  

National Portrait Gallery

As I move very, very quickly, I was out of there and soon grabbing a take-away fish and chips at Ben’s on Shaftesbury.  I then headed back to my hotel, ate, napped and got ready for a night at Royal Albert Hall to see OVO.  

Royal Albert Hall

Never before had I taken in a Cirque du Soleil performance — I have my reasons…  Nonetheless, I just wanted to enjoy anew the ambiance and acoustics of the marvellous auditorium.  

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The show was no more engaging or exciting than bad bathhouse sex, which if it weren’t so late, one would never have bothered engaging in.  A perfectly forgettable tourist sort of thing to indulge when there was no other nighttime entertainment going that was worthwhile.  I could have taken in 42nd Street in the West End but I had already seen it at least a dozen times when then living and dancing in New York City in the early 1980s.  The idea of taking in 42nd Street was only slightly less irritating than the thought of messy bathhouse sex… options… choices, indeed!  

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After the show, on the long walk from Royal Albert Hall to South Kensington Station, a young mesomorph asked me for a fag — I don’t smoke — but it was obvious what he was after.  He sat across the narrow aisle on the eastbound Piccadilly Line ride and the rest proved a rather memorable night.  

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The morning after the night before, it was off to Windsor Castle, of which I will next blog.  

All Too Human Catalogue

As ever, sweet dreams and thank you for your ongoing support.  

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©2013-2018

Posted in 17th Century British Art, 17th Century Flemish Art, 17th Century Flemish Artists, 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, 20th Century British Art, 20th Century British artists, African-Americans, Americans, Architecture, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Art Exhibition, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Award-winning artist, Black Americans, Books, British Art, British Artists, Creative Genius, Diarists, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Dutch Artists, Eminent World Leaders, Flemish Artists, Flying dreams, Irish Artists, Lucid dreams, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Oil on canvas, Oil paintings, Opera, Opera diva, Painters, Painting, Portraiture, Private Art Collection, Reincarnation, Royalty, Self-portrait, Spirituality, Stage performers, Visionaries, Visual Artists, Visual Arts, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Two Albrechts but what a Giselle!

Giselle Royal Ballet

Second night in London and there was still lots of snow — at least, by London standards; after Montréal where three feet of snow is no horror, 1.5 inches seemed to have arrested London in its tracks — I was all excited to see David Hallberg whose recent memoir I read on the flight over and carried in my custom Ruben Mack messenger bag, to have it signed after the performance.  Enjoyed my glass of champagne and being in the balcony at Royal Opera house was magical.  My seat was smack in the middle of three Japanese young ladies who were being chaperoned by their lovely teacher.  I negotiated and they excitedly expressed their appreciation at being able to switch with me being on the end so that that they could all sit together.  The closest two sat on their coats and I even offered the tinier future Giselle my coat to sit on.  

Natalia Osipova Matthew Ball

Naturally, I was returned to London as last June, I had pleasantly discovered Natalia Osipova dancing in Marguerite and Armand and was instantly a fan.  There was no way that I was going to miss her Giselle.  Midway through Act I of Giselle, David whom I had never previously seen perform, failed to have impressed.  He seemed not to be dancing full out and the partnership seemed strained; it was as though they had not had enough rehearsals.  Then after intermission and really good champagne, the company’s artistic director came to the stage to announce that Mr. Hallberg had been injured during Act I and would not be proceeding; he then announced that the youngster, Matthew Ball would dance the role of Prince Albrecht in Act II — the house went wild as he had days earlier made his debut in the ballet.  

Natalia Osipova

What then unfolded was the most glorious of evenings in the theatre.  Ms. Osipova, who has the most phenomenal ballon ever witnessed on any ballerina — to say nothing of her turns — danced as if truly overjoyed.  Mr. Ball was also fantastic and I howled for joy at their curtain calls.  Heck, I, who never go backstage, went in hopes of having Mr. Hallberg sign my copy of his book; however, he was a no-show.  Ms. Osipova, inordinately gracious and an ecstatic Mr. Ball, who had had to dash back to the theatre that evening, was only too happy to sign my copy of the program as a steady drizzle fell beyond the double, glass stage doors.  

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Of course, the night prior, I had trekked in even more snow out to Barbican Centre to catch yet another performance of the Jazz at Lincoln Centre Orchestra led by the unparallelled genius, Wynton Marsalis.  The programme was exclusively Leonard Bernstein in a celebration of his centenary… and what a phenomenal show it was.  London’s Jews were out in force to be sure.  I sat next to a princely 93-year-old Jew whose energies were rather like those of Yehudi Menuhin and boy was this man gracious of spirit.  To say the least, I had a ball.  

Barbican2

Naturally, one goes to a Wynton Marsalis performance for the encores!  And boy, he did not disappoint.  As always, I unashamedly howled like mad at the end of all that.  This musical genius’s fabulousness is out of this world.  This truly was a marvellous way to celebrate  a homecoming of sorts; London truly does feel like another West Indian isle.  As Merlin and I shared a rather accomplished life as court musicians in late 18th century London, it is always great to be in London.  

Arvin da Brgha 1.3.2018 Royal Academy London, England

Though I had downloaded the app and had planned on biking whilst in London, the snow everywhere precluded any such adventure.  So there was I next morning — the night of which I attended Giselle, leaving my hotel in Bloomsbury and making it from Russell Square to Piccadilly Circus to, of course, look at art.  

Royal Academy2

Naturally, I had arrived at the Royal Academy at Burlington House to see what for me was the most eagerly anticipated art exhibition in years:  Charles I, King and Collector.  I was the first to have arrived for the show, slipped inside from the snow before being asked to wait outside by security.   Whilst waiting at the head of the queue, there were three gentlemen who arrived, all on the other side of 70 years of age and they were the most urbane aristocrats whom I had ever encountered.  The way they spoke; there was no denying that they were posh.  Moreover, it was more than their accents; their use of language made it sound as though they were speaking a form of English which was mannered, musical and as though another language entirely.  

Royal Academy

Finally, once inside the exhibition, I was truly enthralled, moving from salon to salon as though in the most lucidly captivating dream.  Here were all my favourite Sir Anthony van Dyck paintings in one place — plus, there were some which previously I had not seen… at least, in this lifetime.  Naturally, there were also some rather intimate Sir Peter Paul Rubens in the exhibition, which featured the art from the impressive collection of HM King Charles I… that ode to swaggerliciousness and a young sage to boot.  

HM King Charles I Three Positions Sir Anthony van Dyck Oil on Canvas

I had managed to snap four paintings whilst moving through the first of ten salons when a kindly security agent asked that I obey the rules and refrain from taking photographs.  This truly was as though caught in a flying dream as I moved intoxicated of spirit from salon to salon, I managed whilst looking at murals in one of the larger salons, to make my way to the inner sanctum where the most glorious Sir Anthony van Dycks were hung — the two equestrian portraits one from the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square the other, which previously was hung at Buckingham Palace; there was also that most striking portrait Charles at the hunt which normally is hung at Musée du Louvre.  A lovely henna-braided African security agent informed me that I had progressed improperly and ought to retrace my steps and view the art in the salons on the periphery of the three large internal salons where murals, tapestries and the prized, aforementioned van Dycks of the Royal Collection collected by HM King Charles I were hung.  

Sir Peter Paul Rubens Self-Portrait Oil on Canvas

At the point at which I was about to leave one salon for the next, I suddenly and distinctly thought of Kritika Bhatt the Michael channeller who had been trained by Sarah J. Chambers one of the original channellers in the Michael group.  I thought it odd at the time as I only ever would think of her when a request for overleaves are outstanding and my impatience is having her surface to mind as I wonder if I would be receiving the requested overleaves that day.  Since this was not the case, I thought per chance, that I was thinking of her as she is known to have King Charles spaniels.  Yes, that must be the out-of-nowhere association, I concluded.  

Esther_before_Ahasuerus_(1547-48);_Tintoretto,_Jacopo

On entering the next salon, I immediately moved towards the largest masterpiece and was struck by its depth and impressive use of strong bold colours.  What’s more, I had never seen the painting before.  Fascinating, I whispered before heading to the title to see the title and artist.  I was struck dead in my tracks when reading, Esther before Ahaseuras by Jacopo Tintoretto.  Wow!  I exclaimed.  Years earlier, in an email regarding the overleaves for other artists, Kritika had made mention that her current son had previously been the 16th century Italian artist, Jacopo Tintoretto!  I was floored and for me that out-of-nowhere associative thought of Kritika was validation of the overleaves and information shared years earlier.  

Sir Anthony van Dyck Self-Portrait with Sunflower Oil on Canvas

Earlier, whilst moving through the first salon, I had never come so close to Sir Anthony van Dyck’s Self-Portrait with Sunflower before.  Taking the time to really study the painting, I was struck by my response; suddenly, at my solar plexus, I began experiencing a — not though rare — thumping which was independent of my cardio rhythm.  Never before had I been able to so closely inspect the eyes in the self-portrait.  What was really interesting was the look of the artist’s left eye in the painting; it really was a darker version of my Dutch born and oldest friend, Joop who previously had been Sir Anthony van Dyck.  Though Joop’s eyes are a strong, soulful blue in this lifetime, they truly are the same eyes as Sir Anthony van Dyck’s in the self portrait.  Different colour, same vibration… same intensity.  I had not been expecting that and just as later whilst moving from one salon to the next, I was not expecting to have the Michael Teachings and overleaves validated.  Nonetheless, there is was, two instances of overleaves validated and that was the kind of bonus that one could not have anticipated whilst planning this trip.  

Fortnum &amp; Mason

After purchasing my lovely catalogue of the exhibition, I moved across the street and did some shopping at the grand old dame, Fortnum & Mason.  Let’s face it, I was there to slip into the eatery and score myself the best free lunch in London… and as ever, the bites on offer did not disappoint.  I bought marvellous teas as only can be found at Fortnum & Mason then hopped onto a double decker, driving westerly along Piccadilly.  Making my way up the stairs, I soon had to double back on myself when realising that the upper deck was packed with a sprinkling of London’s homeless, who obviously had been afforded refuge out of the cold and what for London was unheard of snows.  God it smelt atrocious.  As the bus made a right onto Buckingham Palace Road, I hopped off and made my way past the Royal Mews which were closed owing to snow and made it for the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace.  

Charles II Art &amp; Power

I was there to be wowed, though, sadly was not by the Restoration exhibition.  Naturally, how could it have been a show to rival that at the Royal Academy when most of that art had been sold off by the time of HM King Charles II’s coronation.  I would have been rather underwhelmed, had I gone to London just to take in this show.  As it was, it served as ample reason to have appreciated the Royal Academy show even more.  

HM King Charles IIb

Really got off on the vibration exuded by HM King James II as he held court in all his glory in the portrait in the same show at the Queen’s Gallery Buckingham Palace (following painting). 

HM King James II when HRH Prince James Duke of York

Well having had my fill of the Restoration art or the paucity thereof, I enjoyed trekking in the snows along Buckingham Palace Road to Victoria Station and descended into the depths of London’s Underground for yet another adventure.  

St. Paul's Cathedral

Emerging from the bowels of London, I made it to the soul of the nation to pay homage, yet again, at St. Paul’s Cathedral.  

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I wanted to go and light a candle, I lit two actually, in homage to the ennobled lives that both Merlin and I enjoyed in this glorious city three centuries earlier — the memories of which readily surface in the dreamtime.  

St. Paul's Cathedral3

Before one gets too old to be able to make the trek, I managed my way to the whispering gallery, sat down and caught my wind back whilst reflecting on my life.  

Henry Moore

This place so rich in history, is also the sacred shrine where entity mates have left their mark.  Henry Moore is an old artisan in my entity.  

Arthur Duke of Wellington

Of course, no visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral would be complete without paying a visit to the soul of the nation at its crypt and paying homage to ennobled souls who’ve made an indelible mark on London… on history.  There is great and fittingly so, grandeur in the tomb of Arthur, Duke of Wellington’s resting place.  

Admiral Nelson

Of course, the other tomb which dominates the crypt at St. Paul’s Cathedral is that of Admiral Nelson, whom both Merlin and I knew during that incarnation.  Doubtless, it was his passion and tales for and about Nevis, which planted that seed that sparked three lifetimes later with my soul’s choice to reincarnate into Nevis; indeed, it has proven an isle no less magical than his captivating anecdotes then must have been.  Days later, of course, I would see the bullet which felled this great man whilst visiting Windsor Castle; that is for another post.  For now, I rushed home, took a dream-filled nap before heading to Covent Garden and being wowed by two not one Albrechts and the most exciting prima ballerina on the planet… at least, as far as I am concerned.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and look forward in coming months to book three of my dream-filled memoirs, mandated by Merlin and which prove human civilisation’s first dream memoirs.  

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©2013-2018 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 16th Century Italian Art, 16th Century Italian Artists, 17th Century Flemish Art, 17th Century Flemish Artists, 20th Century British Art, 20th Century British artists, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century British Artists, African-Americans, American Art, American Artists, Architecture, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Art Exhibition, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Award-winning artist, Black American Art, Black Americans, Black Art, Black artists, Black creative artists, Books, British Art, British Artists, channelling, Creative Genius, Dance, Dancers, Diarists, Divas, Dreams, Dutch Art, Dutch Artists, Flemish Artists, Flying dreams, Jazz, Lucid dreams, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Musée du Louvre, Musicians, Oil on canvas, Oil paintings, Old souls, Painters, Painting, Past-life dreams, Photography, Portraiture, Reincarnation, Religious Art, Renaissance, Renaissance art, Renaissance Artists, Royalty, Sculptor, Self-portrait, Spirituality, Stage performers, Visionaries, Visual Artists, Visual Arts, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

President & First Lady Obama.

President Obama

Oil on Canvas

©2018 Kehinde Wiley

Provenance: National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.  

 

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Oil on Linen

©2018 Amy Sherald

Provenance:  National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.  

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Beautifully exquisite!  Happy Black history month.   Love the fact that Mr. Wiley captures the essential warmth of President Obama as reflected by the glowing light of the President’s left eye.  Both artists, Amy Sherald and Kehinde Wiley masterfully used the medium in which they chose to work, linen and canvas respectively.  First Lady Michelle Obama is wearing a design by fashion designer, Michelle Smith @MILLY on Instagram.  I cannot wait to see both in person.  Thanks again for your ongoing support and as ever, sweet dreams.  

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©2013-2018 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved. 

Posted in 21st Century African-American Artists, 21st Century American Art, 21st Century American Artists, 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Black Artists, African-Americans, American Art, American Artists, Americans, Art, Art Collection, Artists, Authors, Black American Art, Black Americans, Black Art, Black artists, Black creative artists, Contemporary American Art, Contemporary American artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Artists, Contemporary Black Art, Contemporary Black Artists, Creative Genius, Oil on canvas, Oil on linen, Oil paintings, Painters, Painting, Portraiture, Statesmen, Visionaries | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Dream Chamber

Pyramid2

With some lovely sandalwood incense going, a beeswax candle and some late 18th century harpsichord breezily distant, evoking deeply buried memories of life at court in Regency London as a countertenor, thus one slips lucid, fecund and supremely feminine into sleep’s warm embrace.  For me the day begins at bedtime, the beauty of sleep is, one can never imagine the bounty of vistas and dream experiences about to be lived a few shorts breaths away.  So come with me, take a few deep breaths, feel the bedding lovingly warm against your wide-open naked body.  You are a soul about to unfurl its wings and take flight into the dreamtime… what happy quests await…  As ever, sweet dreams and thanks for your ongoing support.  Thank you Robert Davidson, Susan A. Point, for sharing your inspiring light with me.  Windows are highly overrated intrusions.  

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©2013-2018 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, 20th century Canadian art, 20th century Canadian artists, 21st Canadian Artists, 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Artists, Authors, Black artists, Black creative artists, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Chakras, Coast Salish Art, Coast Salish Artists, Creative Genius, Crystals, Diarists, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, First Nations Art, First Nations Artists, Flying dreams, Haida Art, Haitian Artists, Indigenous Art, Lithography, Lucid dreams, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, OBEs, Out-of-Body Experiences, Photography, Printmakers, Printmaking, Prints, Pyramid, Reincarnation, Serigraph, Shamanism, Singers, Spirituality, Stage performers, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Here’s to You!

Just a wee glimpse into my magical life where dreamquests are all begun in the groovy comfort of my collapsible pyramid.  I have had a pyramid since 1984 in one form or another.  This incarnation of my dream chamber, I rather love.  Being surrounded by art is about being greatly inspired.  

Happy New Year!  Thanks for your ongoing support and here’s wishing you the very best this year!  

Sweet dreams as ever! 

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©2013-2018 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 21st Canadian Artists, 21st Century Art, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Black Artists, 21st century Canadian art, 21st Century Canadian Artists, Actors, African-Americans, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Artists, Authors, Black Art, Black artists, Black creative artists, Books, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Chakras, Coast Salish Art, Coast Salish Artists, Contemporary art, Contemporary Artists, Contemporary Canadian art, Contemporary Canadian Artists, Creative Genius, Crystals, Dance, Dance dreams, Dancers, Design, Diarists, Drawing, Dreams, Engraving, Etchings, First Nations Art, First Nations Artists, Flying dreams, Gay Artists, Indigenous Art, Inuit art, Inuit Artists, Lithography, Maori Art, Masks, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Modern Art, Modern Artists, Music, Oil paintings, Old souls, Out-of-Body Experiences, Painters, Painting, Photography, Portraiture, Print, Printmakers, Printmaking, Prints, Pyramid, Reincarnation, Serigraph, Shamanism, Spirituality, Stage performers, Video, Video Documentary, Visionaries, Visual Artists, Visual Arts, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment