The Lady Eve 2.0.

19704404-7571863-image-a-124_1571075573426

As only Preston Sturges could have envisioned, at last we have got ourselves a remake.  Would you believe it, a long-running romcom at the Buck House Theatre stars two rather convincing incarnations of Barbara Stanwyck and Henry Fonda in Sturges’ The Lady Eve.  In this eight-year production, Charles – the slow, doltish oaf is played to uncanny perfection by the follicly challenged Duke of Cambridge.  In the role of Jean: acerbic, sarcastic, bitchingly fierce is the chain-smoking, bulimic, coalmining kinfolk, Catherine – the fair, suddenly and compensatorily beloved… to say nothing of reconstituted Duchess of Cambridge.  Look at them deplane; make no mistakes about it, they are hissing at each other.  Now as then, Catherine is just as dismissive of William as she was for all the world to see, within two hours of having said, “I do” at Westminster Abbey as they stood on the balcony at Buckingham Palace; yet, body language and lip-reading experts – so beloved by trash like DailyMail – were strangely never consulted.  They rowed and she hissed and dismissed the dim-witted oaf, within mere moments of finally having made him all hers.  

19619904-7565339-Sophie_Agnew_accompanying_the_Duchess_of_Cambridge_to_Farms_for_-a-3_1570874875848

My what an uncanny resemblance she bears the Duchess of Cambridge.  Of course, she was conveniently dispensed with by Catherine after recently marrying.  Naturally, such a move would nicely cover the obvious reason for her having been sacked as she was yet another of William’s conquests, right under Catherine’s nose.  He is a scholar soul and it is 99.99% probable that he was bedding Catherine’s staffer; it would of course be a way for him to act out the fact that he has no power in their dynamic/marriage.  She is a warrior and he is a scholar.  Catherine’s first number is 9; her energy body is all about being number one… Perfection is hallmark.  All energy body women who are 9s have these traits in common; they are rude, blunt, callous, will openly editorialise in front of anyone and everyone.  They tend to have a mannish quality to them for being so fiercely competitive and of course, this is why she is known as sporty Kate.  

meghan-duchess-of-sussex-delivers-a-speech-as-she-launches-news-photo-1568307590

As a warrior, Catherine has zero percent of the allure and mystique that all artisan souls innately do.  As much as William is unbridled in his open animus towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, none of it would take place if Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge were not intimidated and challenged by Meghan.  The vile media lynching of Meghan is purely for the sport and empowerment of Catherine.  Nonetheless, she can run out there and cock-suck all she wants every mic in sight, Meghan will always stratospherically soar above her.  All artisans come prepared: to know the structure of a thing, anything… is to know its weakness and therein lies an artisan’s power.  William is stupid and Catherine is wooden and a mousy little dud for whom a mic is but kryptonite. 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Go on, Meghan, start graciously, articulately, engaging in a display of that most rare of assets that you possess in spades… intellect.  During her ITV documentary with Tom Bradby, those were the eyes of an eagle, capable of flaying your very soul without so much as a second thought.  She knows, understands and controls the camera and its power.  She was born to be exactly where she is.  That interview presented someone far more emotionally intelligent and complex than we have ever seen representing the House of Windsor to date.  She was even more subtle and complex than Diana, Princess of Wales during her Panorama interview with Martin Bashir.  Truly, it is artful stagecraft what this woman does.  Like Diana before her and every artisan soul, she is completely misunderstood.  Where most souls have a plan B, all artisans know that there are 24 other letters in the alphabet for a reason; you need plans A to Z.  During that interview with Tom Bradby, Meghan showed strength, vulnerability and shrewd unbridled power.  She spoke to all her detractors both in the media and within the firm.  These are the palace mandarins who somehow think that she is not following the script; these tools who somehow think that just because the Cambridges are in the direct line of succession, therefore no one must outshine them.  

19898526-7589251-image-a-16_1571424154070

In a scene that was truly incredulous, to say nothing of tedious, there was Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being vocal – rather than articulate – and speaking to the media for the first time after 8 years of marriage.  There, too, was HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge having to idly standby as never before he had and listen as she takes the spotlight.  This is the palace mandarins’ feverish re-branding of the wooden, mousy broodmare.  Yep, William looks pleased as punch at having to listen to his bullying wife takeover… seriously.  Like Charles before him with Diana, Princess of Wales, William has no intentions of living through a marriage with someone more popular than himself.  I feel sorry for the Cambridges because as much as they are hamstrung by their 9 energy, they are also at the mercy of the palace mandarins who tell them that this is what they have to do.  They are being galvanised into action where previously they had not been.  It is ridiculously risible to suddenly have Catherine out there, making speeches and engaging the media because as Meghan deftly demonstrated in her one-on-one interview with Tom Bradby in the gardens of the residence in Capetown where they stayed, she is a commanding master at self-expression, possessed of a most winning personality and is clearly nine-parts intellect.  image

Here is Catherine, sporting a hairstyle in which she essentially is wearing blinkers; this betrays how controlled and reined in she was, going into the marriage.  Of course, she has remained that way, to some degree, though she has definitely remained the dominant partner.  Catherine knows that her husband basically is stupid and uses her 9 energy to keep him in line and feeling imperfect – that’s what 9s do.  His out, naturally, for being a scholar soul is to seriously play the field as he damn well pleases.  

She is desperately having to perform and as a 9 body-energied person, she knows only too well how utterly imperfect she is at speaking up and being articulate or rather attempting to be articulate.  She is all about grinning and condescendingly making mere mortals aware of their every imperfection – that’s what 9 energy in the first position does.  Of course, 9 in the second position leaves William predisposed to being discriminatingly prejudicial in the negative expression of that number.  Certainly, this has been validated by the fact that in 8 years, they have yet to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation.  I can assure you, if they were to, there is no way Catherine and William would be donning the national costumes of the locals in say Nigeria, Kenya or South Africa.  What makes this even more bizarre is the fact that William proposed to Catherine whilst holidaying in Kenya, yet the couple have never once seen a reason to return to Kenya on tour and giving a speech about what a special place the country holds for them as a couple.  Truly bizarre.    

 

A few weeks back, in part of her childhood mental health campaign, which it goes without saying, is truly both admirable and commendable, Catherine sat clasping her hands whilst a little black girl in London on a charity visit was presented to her.  She smiled and she did that thing that all 9s do; she perceived the little girl as imperfect in some way and never once reached out to her beyond a guarded smile and never once touched her.  She would sooner have petted a dog in that situation than the black girl.  Meanwhile, there was she leaning in, touching, stroking and doing all that which 9s do when they have decided that you not that imperfect after all.  

14940666-7154047-image-a-80_1560868032024

As captured above, Catherine at Royal Ascot 2019, on the eve of the announcement of the dissolution of the Fab Four Royal Foundation.   She was smug, obstinate and celebratory of her/their coup (the Cambridges).  I have known five persons with the same numerology, one of them even born on January 9th, though different year.  They are all as though carbon copies of each other for 9 when negatively expressed, leaves such afflicted women toxic and given to being obstinate, shit-disturbing and jealously petty.  No matter what you may think, the architects of the current hysterical animus towards TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are none other than TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.  Catherine is a warrior soul and they are fiercely competitive by nature; a warrior would compete with a rock if said warrior felt that its place as number one were remotely threatened by said rock. 

960x0 (1)

So there was Catherine with her whimpy almost regurgitated can’t-find voice, giving her first TV interview in the 8 years that she has been married.  By so doing, she has given the plot away; we now know how truly shallow and grudging the Cambridges are.  Good god, you are future King and Queen Consort, leave the American whose gift of speech and eloquence, you will neither match nor surpass.  Just for being heirs does not mean that the Cambridges must be the most popular or that a lesser royal must not be seen to have more mass appeal than the über-flaneur quintessence of all things bland, TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.  None of what William has done has been done without being prompted by 9 energy body Catherine. 

meghan fashion3

I would not in the very least be surprised if Catherine were to turn up to the 2019 British Fashion Awards and deliver a speech, thereby further reminding the heavily sage and artisan soul audience what a mousy little yawnfest she is.  Of course, she has never graced the awards before but that Meghan did and was such a success, you can bet that the Cambridges will insist that it is Catherine who should rightly attend the awards.  Catherine is like one of those gorgeous actresses from the silent movie era who when the transition to talkies occurred, proved such a fright that there went her career.   What possible interest does she think, eight years on, could anyone have to listen to what she has to say.  During the CNN interview with line-toeing Briton, Max Foster, Catherine’s; voice faltered and sagged, the longer she weakly carped on.  You can bet your last pound sterling that William laid into her about how poorly she performed.  

archie

No matter what these two do and how they get the world to hate Meghan and Harry, one thing will never change: the Sussexes are a couple in love – their marvellous adorable son is a true testament of that love.  This is why they hold hands and are so openly affectionate.  Charles was not in love with his clueless new wife, which is why they never held hands or openly expressed their love, which in either case is perfectly human behaviour after all.  Too, we know from their rowing on their wedding day that Catherine dismisses her husband as a fool and he has steadfastly rebelled by ploughing anything that moves.  

prince-william-duke-of-cambridge-and-catherine-duchess-of-news-photo-1571386630

The more these two, the Cambridges, sat by idly and said and did nothing as Harry and Meghan were lynched in the media, the more they exposed themselves as the grudging architects of the mob scene.  This truly primitive stoning of the Sussexes, is the work of a couple of 9s, who happen to be not just entity mates but task companions at that.  All this nonsense about Catherine having found her voice and her new regal style are like being black and having to watch frauds like Diana Krall be lauded as Jazz greats.  One also ought to be damn well wary when it is embittered souls like Alexandra Shulman suddenly singing Catherine’s praises as fashion doyenne after 8 long boring years.  This is the same Alexandra who was ousted at British Vogue by Edward Enninful, which likely means she has more than an axe to grind as the fashion bible has become more inclusive and reflective of British and world society.  

Don Hazza2

Harry channelling his past-life inner Snoop Dog; pass the Courvoisier!  

If Harry were to have remained a bachelor for another decade, none of this sudden need for the Cambridges to express public affection and for Catherine to have developed a fetish for cock-sucking every mic in sight, would be taking place.  Joy Elvin, Alexandra Shulman all lauding the old sodden driftwood as never before, is a right case of the emperor’s new clothes.  Well darlings, just as Hollywood was not impressed by her in 2011, so too were Elvin and Shulman nowhere to be found singing La mouse’s praises.  Go ahead, no matter how she preens and engages in mindless, mousy drivelfests before every available mic, including one proffered by a biased Brit, CNN’s Max Foster, ain’t nobody gots time for that cold, leftover side order of chitlings.   

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

This is the beauty of the artisan soul’s mind on display.  After a winning tour de force presentation of self, in which both TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex lay their souls bare with absolute candour, the upshot of which was that William, architect of the Duchess of Sussex’s lynching in the media, especially at that vile rag, DailyMail, was made to do a mea culpa turn in the media, expressing concern for their mental well-being.  This coming after the British tabloid rags never ever once mentioning what a formidable asset Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is to the firm with her stellar intellect and the fact that this woman is the most articulate, camera savvy, emotionally intelligent member of the British Royal Family that there has ever been.  This showed in spades in her engagement interview in November 2017 with the BBC and again, in her interview with Tom Bradby at the end of which, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex turned around and launched their lawsuits against the media – as well they damn well should!  How could you go on and on ad nauseam about this woman and never once mention what an articulate asset to the BRF she truly is.  It is the goddman elephant in the room; they never ever can criticise this woman’s intellect or her commanding stage presence – the gift she has for communicating the message.  And then there is Catherine…  Ha!  Then when they were all wondering if Meghan was too fragile and mentally exhausted comes the One Young World Summit at Royal Albert Hall and like Diana Ross, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex comes through moving to the stage from the audience in a bit of stagecraft that had triumph written all over it.  Indeed, this was the same Royal Albert Hall where last year, thanks to the race-baiting gutter journalism at the DailyMail, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex were booed as they took their seats.  This past week as she confidently strode through the audience at Royal Albert Hall, the message was plain and simple: they don’t call me Tungsten for nothing!  Just when you thought that you had that woman figured out, she goes and pulls a fast one – exactly as every other artisan worth their salt would.  

NINTCHDBPICT000519697464

Just like Andrew’s minor meat proclivities, the Cambridges were exposed for the pivotal and venal role in the Sussexes’ lynching in the media that they have played. There was William having to appear in the press, expressing concern for the Sussexes’ well-being.  Of course, for so doing, Catherine and William were readily exposed for their role in the media lynching of Sussexes and in particular, Meghan.  How anyone can find fault with someone as gifted at communicating the message as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, truly is beyond me?  Regardless how they jeer and celebrate, like Catherine at Ascot in 2019, they will never eclipse the light that is the Sussexes’.  I have often wondered if the Cambridge’s vindictive campaign were not rooted in the past.  Who knows, perhaps, Catherine – who is the real power behind the sabotaging of the Sussexes – was King Richard III, who was maligned and pilloried by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, the former Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort.  Then again, perhaps, William had been Richard III and as the Cambridges are task companions, it would be so like the dominant partner, warrior soul Catherine, to mete out justice as she sees fit.  This is mere conjecture on my part as I have not done the past-life overleaves of either senior Cambridge – similarly, I have never seen the need to do the overleaves of the Cambridges’ children.  The Cambridges are not a couple in love; William settled in the end when no aristocratic woman would want to pass a life, having to babysit his damaged – to say nothing of oafish – persona.  As Catherine is the power partner in their task companionship, they both merely chose to have William reincarnate into the House of Windsor’s direct line of succession so that she, if indeed she were Richard III, in the past, have access to the throne and avenge herself of Meghan, who was then Margaret Beaufort. 

psycho catherine

Then again, maybe Catherine was no such person in a past life and simply possessed of a spiteful persona that is more than a little prejudicial – their recent dress-up parade in Pakistan certainly would not have been indulged in when visiting any predominantly black Commonwealth culture.  In any event, as Diana, Princess of Wales is likely soon to reincarnate, I am sure she is finding all of this drama rather intriguing and the Cambridges truly venal.  Either way, as Andrew eventually has been exposed, so too will Catherine and William be fully exposed for what they are.  

251715_7470265_updates

That face of hers when not fakely grimmacing that fuck-you smile is such a hard, miserable sight; it truly captures who really is behind the Sussexes’ lynching and all because, one must not be more popular than moi.  Well damn girl, you only had 8 years to open your damn mouth and say something remotely intelligent, to say nothing of charming.  

kate-middleton

Though the neighbouring apartments at Kensington Palace were prepared for the Sussexes, quite rightly Meghan and Harry saw fit to move to Windsor Castle and set up their offices at Buckingham Palace.  Regardless the cultivated face the Cambridges show the public, at heart centre, they are a very petty, mean-spirited partnership.  The Cambridges embody the negative aspects of their 9 energy to the max – prejudicial and hypercritical… to say nothing of hyper-cynical; these are not persons that one would want to be around overlong.  Though Meghan has been described as a con and a fake, hustler, social-climbing blah blah blah, all for being black and accomplishing the unthinkable, the true Lady Eve is Catherine, who with her mother, preyed on blithering William like a famished eagle a mere lamb.  

______________________________________________________________________________________

 

______________________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Advertisements
Posted in 21st Century African-American Artists, 21st Century American Artists, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Black Artists, Actors, African-Americans, American Artists, Americans, Art, Artisan souls, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Blog, Books, Cinema, Commentary, Fashion, Film, Jazz, Longreads, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Movie, Numerology, Performers, Photography, Racism, Reincarnation, Royalty, Scholar souls, Singers, Stage performers, Video, Warrior souls, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Essence of Royalty.

Bravo… to hell with the media grudgefest, lies and click-baiting, racially predatory attack blogs, masquerading as journalism.  This video is the quintessence of what royalty represents.  Royalty in its purest form is not about ruling; rather, it is about being in service for the higher good for everyone in the realm and beyond.  

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Both the Duke of Cambridge and the Duke of Sussex are the most noble complement of their parents.  At the heart of their lives was/is service.  Diana, Princess of Wales got out there and she humanised royalty, she taught the world this most incredible, sublime lesson: royalty serves you the realm.  HRH Prince Charles with his Prince’s Trust has raised more than a 1£B, all in service to the realm.  

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Both princes with their wives continue and are a handsome evolution of the service for the higher good to the realm begun by their uneclipsed, charismatic mother and ennobled soulful father.  In co-operation with the NHS, their work for the Every Mind Matters mental health campaign is the most poignant example of what their lives are focussed on: service to others.  Royalty is not a soap opera to be preyed on by the vultures of the print medium and elsewhere in a vulgarly greedy grab at ad revenue at the expense of creating divisiveness, strife, pain, anger, racism, classism, sexism and even death threats.  

qeiidoe

In the modern age, indeed, the second Elizabethan Age, it all began with the most remarkable sovereign.  The most accomplished sovereign, HM Queen Elizabeth II, for whom expanding that need to give back and to be of service to the realm has seen the Commonwealth expand to 53 countries and territories during her reign. This video proves a handsome complement to the work that three generations of Windsor royals have devoted their lives being focussed on being in service to the realm.  Hip hip!  

_______________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 20th Century African-American Artists, 20th century American artists, 21st Century African-American Artists, 21st Century American Artists, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Black Artists, Actors, African-Americans, American Artists, Americans, Artisan souls, Artists, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Blog, Books, Fashion, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Modern Artists, Older souls, Performers, Photography, Racism, Royalty, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, Video, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Surprise! The Predator Blames The Victim…

archie

After a royal tour of Africa, the adorable famille Sussex, returned home and got down to the business in hand. Naturally, the venal hate-mongering, bullying, racial predator, Piers Morgan, had nothing to vent and spew the usual hatred about. Then like fresh meat, he pounced at the announcement of legal action against he and his venal, racially predatory rag, DailyMail.

I am so happy that Piers Morgan has blindly engaged in his campaign of open hatred towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Now it has gotten to the stage where an American does what can be expected of an American; she sues. Americans are not bullied! What Piers and his arrogant island of boorish prats have not realised in all this time, is there has already begun a campaign of retaliation against their bullying of Americans. The British media and public campaign of racially predatory bullying of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex has been unrelenting from the word go and has continued unabated.

Little has Piers Morgan and his ilk realised that the 2019 Academy Awards was American retaliation. After all these years of watching Brit after migrant Brit waltz in and grab another Oscar, which is not an international competition; the Oscars are not the Cannes Film Festival – it is an American award. That’s right, finally, the people who built America, blacks, were finally being acknowledged as never before. There was Barbara Streisand handing off the Oscar to a fellow New Yorker from Brooklyn, Spike Lee. For the first time, there was a record number of blacks who won Oscars. Even in costume and design, there were black winners.

So there sat that thoroughly effete prat bore, boor – take your pick – Richard E. Grant, virtually knighted in British media as winner of the Best Supporting Oscar for 2019; it had not even occurred to the migrant Brit colony with their superior-than-thou attitude that something as absurd as a black male American would win the best supporting actor award. Why would a black American win over a Brit? That’s right, if you don’t play nice and quit bullying Americans then it is time you start selling your Beverly Hills estates and adapt by moving to that beach ghetto Malibu because Brits acting as though the Oscars were a colonial offshoot of the BAFTA has run its course.

Guess who yachts with David Geffen? That’s right, there are no Brits and Oprah is infinitely more powerful than racist boors like Piers Morgan clearly appreciate. That’s correct, they all have money and they are all Americans and they do not like being bullied. The age of being wowed by The Queen, The English Patient, My Fair Lady, Downton Abbey, The King’s Speech, The Madness of King George has finally run its course. Thanks to you Piers Morgan, the Americans have seen your true visage and like the wizard’s of The Wizard of Oz, they are not only not impressed they are also not having it. The sea-change is well and truly begun. Yes, indeed, stop with the can’t shake snobbish accent and decamp where you belong. It is an American industry and an American award; in the Age of Trump, it is high time that you were exposed as what you truly are, the ugly migrant, who must no longer be suffered.

Here is where you truly lost the plot, Lara Stone was burnt at the stake – during which time, of course, little predatory racist boor, Piers Morgan said nada… zilch. Yet, in all these going on 24 months not a single migrant Brit in Hollywood or elsewhere has passionately spoken up in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s defence, with the exception of Sir Elton John. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the deep-pocketed support of the likes of the Clooneys, David Geffen, Oprah and the major players in Hollywood who happen to be American and matter. It is grossly racist and absurd to sit by and do nothing whilst this human being is being lynched for merely being black.

Well, then, since you feel so passionately about it, why pray tell do you deserve to be considered, let alone nominated and more egregiously awarded Oscars season after season, after blasted motherfucking season. You are a gross displacement of what a truly civilised society resembles and how it behaves to ‘others‘ in its midst. Just think of it, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex toured Africa and there they met scores of elevated, remarkable human beings on an order, which you can never match in the British Isles. Stellar exemplary human beings, like Archbishop emeritus, Desmond Tutu, Graca Machel – persons who thanks to their nobility of spirit successfully vanquished the racial predator in their midst.

Yes indeed, Piers Morgan, run off at the mouth all you want and incite the mob to racial hatred, time and again. Like every predator, sexual or racial, your first response when the prey fights back, is start blaming the victim. No woman ever sexually preyed on, goes out asking and looking to be preyed on by any sexual predator. The woman, the victim, is not the problem; she has not brought it on herself. A woman is not raped because she wore suggestive and provocative clothing; a woman dresses to please no one but her damn self. She does not get dressed, thinking: how am I going to attract animus from a sexual predator today? Similarly, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and no black person anywhere goes out of their way, looking to attract racially predatory boors, so that they can somehow feel victimised.

Fuck you, Piers cowardly-chicken-shit-arsehole Morgan, you are the victim of your own racially predatory obsessions, which has resulted in your being sued and they, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex for being entity mates and for her being American with a very powerful cadre of supporters will plough your fucking idiot, smug arse under. You will never again work in America when they are done fucking retaliating and defending themselves against being lynched, slandered, and made subject of ridicule, death threats… all thanks to your vile, stinking racially predatory, incendiary braying, masquerading as journalism.

Americans are going to teach you a very callous lesson that they hold sacred above all others: Freedom is not free, you dumba$$ bitch!

You, like that ghetto of migrant Hollywood Brits said and did sweet dick-all when HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York was exposed as a sexual predator; if you truly cared about the monarchy then you would have been even more livid in defence of your institution at Andrew’s obvious culpability… there is also the very real matter of the Cambridges’ tattered marriage, which you and others from Joy Elvin to the palace mandarins are eager to reinvent.

No one cares at this point, Catherine was too bone idle and downright maudlin to make speeches, too bone lazy along with her arrogant husband to undertake royal duties so begged off claiming, Hyperemesis gravidarum – meanwhile 2/3s the world’s women have to walk with gallons of water on their proud head for miles whilst pregnant. Just imagine if Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex got up to their stunts and engaged in the wilful idleness that the Cambridges have?

Catherine is great, she is a warrior’s warrior and she is at her best each year at handing out shamrocks, being on guard at Armistice Day ceremony in Whitehall. Clothing is uniform for a warrior; it is not fashion. Fashion is not a way of exuding their inner magic as with artisans like Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales. I will never knock Catherine for her athleticism and her right saturnine bearing; it is the essence of who she is.

This absurd pitting women against women is just drunken idiocy. Stop suddenly talking BS about Catherine being a great speech-giver. Bullocks! She is not, never has been and never will be. Stop trying to eclipse Meghan’s innate commanding stage presence and gift for being on and engaging an audience. It is not a competition of Duchesses; Meghan is supremely gifted at uplifting, inspiring and empowering womankind for speaking and so eloquently, representing her uneclipsed light. She and her husband are doing the work of upholding HM The Queen’s greatest legacy, the Commonwealth.

In the meantime, the days of Hollywood being obsequious towards migrant Brits in their midst have run their course – just as much as you are going to be rudely awakened, jousted and ploughed under for fucking with Americans. Americans are no one’s damn fools, as you shall yet learn.

The Sussexes are making a valid and real difference in the world where it is sorely needed; you, Piers Morgan on the other hand, are merely being yet another white male arsehole. There is nothing either unique or noteworthy in so being. You sadly are far too common place and that is the real problem in this world. You are a fucking otiose boor to say nothing of bore and high time, you were handed your arse like that damn audacious prat, Richard E. Grant, who sat there and heard his name not called last February at the Oscars.

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are not victims; they were never in the business of affording you or any other media racist predatory thugs, the power of their time and shortly, you are legally going to get your just dessert just as that other pariah, Jeffrey Epstein was served. A pity you know nothing of Margaret Beaufort… all you saw was some damn black bitch, who does not belong and you intended like every sexual/racial predator to put her in her place and rape her of her power. More fool you, indeed…

_________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th Century African-American Artists, 20th century American artists, 20th Century Artists, 20th Century British artists, 20th Century Jewish Artists, 21st Century African-American Artists, 21st Century American Artists, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Black Artists, 21st Century British Artists, Actors, African Leaders, African-Americans, Africans, American Artists, Americans, Artisan souls, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Blog, Books, Commentary, Diarists, Eminent World Leaders, Fashion, Longreads, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Old souls, Older souls, Performers, Photography, Racism, Royalty, Scholar souls, South African Artists, South Africans, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, Theatre, Visionaries, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Jessye Norman 15.9.1945 ✟ 30.9.2019

1000x400_fill_Candle-set-burning-Dark

Tonight my home is awash in the music of Jessye Norman… this brings me inordinate comfort at this time.  Sweet and truly blissful dreams dear ennobled soul.  As I am unable to do little else, owing to being emotionally overwhelmed, I pause here to republish this blog of earlier this year.  So very glad that I was able to attend the Glenn Gould Prize Gala this past February.  

_________________________________________________________________________

GGPrize

As I work 7 days a week, I was debating whether or not to attend the Twelfth Glenn Gould Prize Gala at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts.  That morning en route home from some errands, I discovered that someone had jumped from a neighbourhood condo.  I got in and realised that there was no more feet-dragging; to hell with being dog-tired.  I got on the phone and called up Lucian Mann-Chomedy and said, “My darling, we are going to the Jessye Norman Gala!”  As ever, always positive, Lucian chimed in, “Oh my, oh yes, how lovely.  Well, I’ll be both honoured and delighted.”  Indeed, life is for living!  

glenn gould

Merlin and I met Friday, October 1, 1982 in a Hell’s Kitchen Walk-up, the following Monday evening, on his return to Toronto, Merlin called up crying.  The man whom he had spent so much of our first evening together speaking of, had died; Glenn Gould had died.  For the seven years that we were together, Merlin listened to Glenn Gould’s interpretation of J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations at least thrice weekly.  Indeed, the first gift I purchased Merlin, was a recently released recording of the Goldberg Variations at Christmas 1982: I think that it is safe to say that that gift sealed the deal, I was a keeper for sure.  

GGPrize3

As I had waited until the last minute to get seats, I was sat in Ring 4 rather than the usual Ring 3.  This, alas, was my view of the stage and of course, the butterflies are from the set for Atom Egoyan’s masterful staging of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte, which the moment I saw the set, I began chuckling to Lucian on recall of Tracy Dahl’s unsurpassed performance as Despina.  

GGPrize2

As I was too busy trying to throw something together for Instagram, I was heard gasping when it was announced that the head of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Jury this twelfth prize was none other than the actor, Viggo Mortensen, who then walked out onto stage.  He, indeed, who in a few days time will be attending the Governors Ball where he may or may not be holding an Oscar.  

GGPrize4

Out onto the stage arrived the Twelfth Prize Laureate, Jessye Norman.  Truly, it was a shock to the very core to see Madame being ushered out in a wheelchair.   Suddenly, I was reminded of the events of earlier which caused me to rush home and purchase two tickets for the event.  That aside, there was no greater joy than drinking of her soul’s inspiring beauty.  

This beautiful gala was so filled with touchstones for me, none more so than the moment that bass baritone, Ryan Speedo Green was in full song.  When he sang, “Aprite un po’ quegli occhi” from Wolfgang A. Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro.  

Yes, indeed, this marvellous aria’s orchestration included a harpsichord.  Straight away, I was teary-eyed as memories of the truly eccentric and delightful Milan Newcombe readily surfaced; Milan will ever remain a lover like no other.  

Elektra2

During the intermission, I ran into two old friends not seen in at least 1.5 decades; we spoke of nothing but our surprise at Ms. Norman’s entrance.  Life really does march full speed ahead.  

After the intermission, it was the announcement of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Progidy Prize with the recipient being none other than, Cécile McLorin-Salvant, the most fabulous Jazz singer on the planet.  Is this not an evening to remember during Black History Month indeed.  

This stunningly unforgettable gala was closed out by the final recitalist being the divinely gifted soprano and Glenn Gould Foundation Prize juror, Sondra Radvanovsky in full song, singing Verdi.  

The gala concluded with Ms. Norman returning to the stage and singing a duet with Cécile McLorin-Salvant.  This was a moving, emotionally intense evening and my life was greatly enriched for having chosen to attend.  The gala was nothing short of magical.  

GGPrize5

As a tribute to this marvellous evening in the theatre, I will include herein two dreams, which were originally audio-cassette-recorded in the 1990s.  Before each deam, one of Glenn Gould, the other Jessye Norman, I will include each individual’s Michael Overleaves.  

GG

Gould, Glenn Herbert 25/9/32 – 4/10/82, Toronto

This fragment was a sixth level mature artisan in the repression mode, with a goal of growth, an idealist in the moving part of intellectual centre.
He had a Mercury/Saturn body type.

Glenn’s primary chief feature was self-destruction with a secondary of arrogance.

Glenn was third-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity four, cadre five, greater cadre 17, pod/node 819.

This fragment has an artisan essence twin who was alive during Glenn’s life but there were no plans to meet. This fragment is still incarnate on the physical plane.

The fragment who was Glenn has a scholar task companion, who was in a previous life, Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach. They were not incarnate at the same time.

However, the fragment who was Glenn was exerting considerable influence on Carl Philip Emmanuel.

These two fragments had many lives together, once as luthiers, three times as court musicians, nine times as brothers of the cloth, twice as brothers in the flesh, as well as completing several important life monads, including student/mentor and master/slave.

In the immediate past life, the fragment who was Glenn had as his three primary needs: security, communion and exchange. Only the first of these was ever even partially satisfied.

So here we had a warrior-cast artisan who had seriously conflicting overleaves and a primary chief feature of self-destruction. He had a goal of growth but a repression mode which would not allow him to flourish.

He had a need for communion, but was sexually ambivalent and socially inept. Undeniably, he had great talent but took no pleasure from performing in public.

This fragment has a great deal of scholar energy that was used in the immediate past life to enable Glenn Herbert to painstakingly examine and interpret the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.

He was very interested in form and structure for all of his adult life. This fragment was, unfortunately, the victim of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, also for all of his adult life, which worsened considerably during his third and fourth decades.

This fragment did not, as popular wisdom teaches, retire from public life because of any strong beliefs in the recording industry. Glenn Herbert retired from public life because he could no longer bear to be in crowds, even if he was distanced by a proscenium.

Needless to say, this fragment did not complete work on his fourth internal monad.  

________________________________________

A Glenn Gould

Astral Plane Glenn Gould Recital!

 

Nothing is more uplifting than finding oneself at a great musical performance on the astral plane.  This dream was about being richly inspired and by Glenn Herbert Gould, no less; it was truly marvellous an adventure for the spirit.

The dream occurred, on Tuesday, October 6, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house.

____________________________________________________

Related image

I am in France where I leisurely browsed through a store; perhaps, it was somewhere in Paris.  It seemed here like at nighttime.  Whilst in one corner of the store, I noticed that there were all these big slabs of cheese in packaged containers.  There was a woman coordinating the display of the cheeses.  Sometimes the cheese was being grated and other times not.  There and then, I decided that I was going to buy one slab of the cheese that was packaged in a rectangular box.

The cheese was about an inch thick and about eight inches long.  The cardboard box that it was in was white and almost like the size of a box of Cream of Wheat.  Surprisingly, the box was rather heavy.  Though not unlike cheddar, it was a dark cheese.  The smell of this cheese was really hard – quite the bite to it.  It had seemingly been opened for too long as parts of it was growing hardened and turning colour.  I knew straight off the bat that I wanted to have some to take home with me.  

So, off I went to purchase the slab that I liked.  Everyone here was, of course, speaking French which I quite so understood and liked.  Interestingly, I too was speaking very competently in French.  It was obvious that I was not too heavily accented as the others were pleasant-enough with me.  

Related image

The second dream had me leaving the store; I then found myself hovering in the air.  Whilst in flight, I went into a building which had a green – oxidised-copper – roof.  It was part of a long set of buildings that had very, very tall stone chimneys.  These were chimneys that were not unlike the ones at the Palais du Louvre.  As a matter of fact, the building was similar to the Canadian Parliament buildings though it was not those buildings.  

This complex was considerably longer.  These were a series of complex buildings.  Here, I was easily thirty storeys up whilst in flight.  I looked down at the complex which at maximum could not have been more than five storeys tall.  After having contemplatively observed the complex for awhile, I began very slowly gliding down through the air.  I intently studied a procession of persons, way below, who were bailing out of very large buses; they were, as a matter of fact, tour buses.  

This was all happening in a courtyard-like area and away from the bustle of the street.  I next noticed some men who appeared; they seemed, in their long, flowing white robes, to be priests.  They were not Arabic or Muslims in caftans; rather, they were definitely Whites.  The buildings here were long on the order of Palais Richelieu in Paris.  When I finally alighted, we had to go through this incredible entrance.  

This led into a wonderful sandstone building; it was very modern with a neo-classical design.  On the order of being imposing, the door to this place was massive.  They seemed to be the doors to a temple.  To get to the entrance, there were many steps which one had to climb.  On entering, off to the right, there was a passage that one could take.  

An aisle led along another passage; it seemed illumined by a skylight.  The priestly men had all entered before me.  They preceded a procession of adherents who had come to partake of some ritual.  I had gone to explore, off to the left, because it was the wing of the building that had reminded me of the Palais du Louvre.  Going there, I wandered about being fascinated by the place.  

Some women were posing for artists in this particular wing.  They wore modern garb but were very exceptionally beautiful.  What was most intriguing about their look was that it was exactly as they would have appeared on the finished canvases.  They were very nubile young women; they had to hold their poses for interminably long periods.  Here several kids kept on going through the place; they were seemingly art students.  

They were all very North American, middle class with their loud, snobbish bourgeois affectations.  Right away, it was obvious that all the muses were still virgins.  Theirs was an innocence that could never be affected.  They were all teenage girls whose bodies were very voluptuous and full.  These were not skinny people at all.  There was one point at which one girl was holding different poses.  Each girl would be painted by from three-to-five artists, at a time.  Thus every pose would be captured from different perspectives.  

At one point, they told her to take a break; they then reverted back to an earlier pose.  This was so that they could return to that work and put some more work into finishing it up.  When she changed the pose, she had also turned some 180 degrees.  This particular model, whom I was studying, wore socks with Oriental-looking sandals.  Inside her socks she kept little items of hers.  Whilst she was making the transition, she simply reached up her foot and pulled up her right leg to reach down into the socks.  

Hers was a pair of blue-coloured socks – pale blue.  To just above the ankles was the extent to which the socks rose.  Looking at her, she took out something from about her ankle which looked like a wafer.  Not the least bit self-conscious, she ate it at once; it seemed like a chocolate wafer which she favoured.  She seemingly needed it to get an energy boost so that she could stay focussed on the tedious work that she did.  After having found it all very interesting, I moved on sufficiently knowledgeable of the goings on here.  Walking along a corridor, I ended up going into a room where everyone was very strange.  

A guy there was a lot like Galen Shim – my very beautiful, Hong Kong-born, Eurasian friend.  He reclined on a bed with his head close to the door.  When I came in, I noticed that he was naked.  When giving him a massage, I began by oiling his body.  It was quite fragrant oil.  Rubbing down his body, I began working on his toes and feet.  Afterwards, I got up to leave but he very silently began coming with me.  So out we went and joined the procession of persons; among them this time were several kids.  Mostly, they were teenagers – amongst whom I did not want to be.  

Galen or the guy who seemed like him, here the guy was not wearing glasses as before nor would Galen for that matter, and I kept walking through the place.  Pretty soon, after we had left the noisy kids, we started hearing the most beautiful music.  This was one of the rare times that I found the music of the pipe organ to be beautiful.  Within the complex, we happened on this wonderful cathedral inside which were most of the people from the procession.  On entering the structure, it seemed more like a concert hall.  We soon learnt that the hall was specifically built so that only Johannes Sebastian Bach’s music could be played there.  

Never before had I heard classical music sound so beautiful.  We stood there transfixed whilst listening together.  Who then should I notice way at the front of the hall, at the pipe organ that sat high on the dais-like stage, but Glenn Gould.  I could see his right profile as if in close-up.  My god, this was rapture and then some.  He was playing with such rapt abandon that I steadied myself and whispered more to myself than to Galen, “My god, what an incredible dream to be having…”  

Image result for gothic knave ceiling

There seemed to be a skylight on the side of the high-ceilinged nave.  Instead of there being stained glass windows, windows for that matter, there was only intense light raining down through what seemed to be a skylight system.  The centre of the halved skylight was a wonderful neoclassical, oxidised, copper-looking, greenish flying buttress.  Here the look, though modern, was more in the style of Islamic mosques or even Moorish architecture rather than the classic Gothic signatures.  

A series of the most intricate and complex circles intertwined, like some riotous jungle vine, in the cathedral-like, concert hall’s stonework.  Breathtakingly beautiful it was.  I stood there, just inside the entrance to the hall, on the left of the wide aisle.  This was a very wide-bodied structure.  As you progressed down the aisle, there were different levels where one could go up and sit.  These were either on the right or left.  The central aisle was covered by the most beautifully designed red carpet.  

This place was considerably wider than Notre Dame Cathedral.  Unlike the Parisian Gothic structure, it was not a darkened affair.  Here it was very intensely bright out.  The light coming in on the right and left side of the flying buttress-like, central girder fell through a slightly frosted glass.  The light was an intense – almost aquatic – blue.  Interestingly, there were no beams or columns, supporting the unusual central, flying buttress-like beam.  For looking at the light, one became slightly languorous.  I felt paralysed with pleasure; there before me, down the massive hall, sat Glenn Gould.  

He wore the most thick-fabricked garb; it seemed from an earlier age.  All the men in the white gowns were up at the front.  They were all transfixed – as well they should have been.  Though I love Johannes Sebastian Bach, at the time, I had some reservations as I am not especially fond of pipe organs.  I suppose that it is because it has always had too many religious associations during my childhood.  The persons attending the concert were there simply to recharge their batteries.  They seemed, all of them, as if not quite in their bodies for being so transfixed – they were otherwise-engaged.  

Eerily, I had a sense that these were all persons who were between lives as is Glenn Gould.  They were in a form of processing, a form of deep meditation on the order of sleep, as they prepared for the next incarnation.  This fugue was the most complex music imaginable.  Indeed, the music seemed designed for those between lives.  The fugue was composed for astral plane habitués who, sans bodies, could best endure the music’s intensity.  Getting a sense that I really shouldn’t be there, plus the fact that I finally couldn’t get into the pipe organ, I started taking my leave of the place.  

Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, and I then went out front.  There we waited for the specific tour buses to show up and take us away.  Whilst I waited with Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, I was joined by Pandora.  It seemed that most of the people who were here were very young-souled.  They seemed to be on a pilgrimage, like visiting the original Gohonzon in Japan or going on the Hajj, at Mecca.  

As the pipe organ played, I could hear in the tone of the place a faint whisper from the men in white robes.  Their thoughts, it turned out, could be telepathically heard.  Even earlier, when I had been hovering in flight high above the complex, I knew that this was more so a political institution rather than not.  This was a structure which was just as colossal as the temple at Karnak and considerably older.  This place was mind-bogglingly complex and massive.  The temple was posited directly in the centre of it all.  

Just like La Chapelle in Paris is comparably dwarfed, by its surroundings, so too the massive concert hall-like temple was dwarfed by the complex.  This architectural marvel was simply soul-inspiring.  Whilst all the buses were waiting, I took to one of the buses with Pandora.  I had gotten impatient waiting to be assigned to one.  We spoke in French because everyone else here did the same.  This was not unlike a Parisian bus – the seats all faced each other.  Seated close to the front, we were on the left side of the aisle behind the driver.  

As though getting close to Saint-Sulpice Métro, I got up and said goodbye to Pandora.  I wanted to get off there then walk back to her rue de Grenelle apartment.  Pandora planned to go out then come home later so had asked me to wait for her at her place.  Here it seemed as if nighttime coming on to dawn.  Speaking guardedly in French, I made sure that I was speaking properly and not just fumbling partout.  Really, I rather enjoyed this experience of being together with Pandora.  

I was very serene enjoying the very beautiful experience.  Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, had silently slipped from my side when Pandora came and joined me.  

*Of course, it would turn out that the person in question was Louka Duplessis and not Galen.  I would meet Louka, who accompanied me in this dream, the day following this dream.  Just prior to meeting for the first time, it is not uncommon for me to dream of persons who will prove important in my life experience.  

______________________________

Jessye Norman

Norman, Jessye 15.9.45 ✟ 30.9.2019,  Georgia

Jessye is a first level old priest in the passion mode, with a goal of rejection – functioning for the most part in the positive pole of discrimination, a spiritualist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.

She has a Jupiter/Saturn body type.

Jessye’s primary chief feature is arrogance, with a secondary of stubbornness.

This fragment was third-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence.  She is a member of entity five, cadre six, greater cadre 33, pod/node 212.

She has a discarnate priest essence twin whom she did know earlier in this life but this fragment died in Vietnam.  She has a warrior task companion and they have worked together and continue to do so occasionally.

Her three primary needs are: freedom, expression and power.

The warrior energy gives Jessye tremendous organisational powers and her stubbornness has enabled her to stick in there when the going got very rough many times.

Jessye is a warrior-cast priest who has been a spiritual rebel in this life.  This is, by the way, not the first time this fragment has sung professionally.  This fragment was a well-known castrato in seventeenth century Italy and performed many times before the crowned heads of Europe.

Jessye has great need to serve her concept of the higher ideal and has done so admirably by combining the folk music of her people with her operatic repertoire.

She performs well, as do most entity five fragments.  This fragment has always enjoyed her work.  Singing has been an extension of her inner spirituality.  It is, in fact, a form of meditation for her.  

________________________________________________

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

Jessye

These rather lucidly awakened dreams were experienced with an intense sense of wonder and joy, on Monday, July 2, 1990.  At the time, the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.  

__________________________________________

This first dream found me in a very busy place.  When going south towards the Danforth, it was not unlike being on Broadview Ave.  It was at nighttime.  I came there and found that there were tons and tons of Black people.  Even so, it seemed like Toronto and at Broadview Subway station because there are all these streetcars there.  One of the streetcars was improperly parked, as a result, it was going to go and turn around.  

Waiting for it to do what it had to do, there was another streetcar out in the street.  It was really more like a red-rocket streetcar.  It was not like one of the newer ones.  Everyone here was Black.  There were no Whites or other non-Blacks that I saw.  Everybody was in the street which was very jam-packed.  They were getting ready to cross, after the streetcar had passed, to go in.  

There was now a system, where you paid your fare aboard the streetcar, so that you did not have to enter the front doors of the station on Broadview.  When you got aboard the streetcar, it was mandatory that you pay a fare.  So it did not matter whether you paid a fare at the proper entrance or not.  There were many people queuing up to get aboard a streetcar.  

Passing these people who were seated there, I went through the proper entrance.  One of them seemed like Gabriella Vartan and they were talking about me.  I came around and began going down the steps, into the nether regions, en route to the trains.  There was this little old lady who was taking her time, holding up things, so I pushed her to my right.  I made my way down then had to go around taking another flight of stairs; I then kept on going.  There were a whole lot of levels to this subway system.  

When I got down, there was this little cul-de-sac where there were these Black guys – homeboys – hanging out.  However, they were not Black American.  I found one of them very attractive and smiled at him.  He, however, was very homophobic.  He went running upstairs to go call the police on me.  The train then came into the subway and it was a very, very large train.  It towered very high to the ceiling.  It was like an Amtrak train which seemed like a double Decker train.  It was mostly silver, however, it turned out not to have been double Decker.  

When it stopped, I began running full speed because I did not want the guy to come back and board the same car as me.  I ran to the front of the train only to find that one couldn’t board there.  Instead, one could only enter this train where the cars joined each other.  You could enter the front or backdoors of each car but not the front ones of the first car.  It was very sleek, round and Deco like a train from the 1930s.  The whole place did have a feel of the ‘30s to it.  It was very neo-Gothic like the Chrysler or McGraw-Hill buildings in New York City, or for that matter, even the Empire State Building.  

It was reminiscent of very early in the twentieth century which was all about great architecture – of things being large, mammoth and spiralling upwards, too, things getting faster and faster.  That sense of adventure about the wonderful world of commerce that one had created.  It was that time when people had not yet begun to see, as we now know, the consequences of things being bigger and better and faster and all the effects on nature.  I got onto the train heading, again, towards the front.  Somehow, I felt relieved because I had lost the guy.  I was there and noticed a stout man who was either High-Yellow or, perhaps, even White.  

The people here were very strange because they were just rather unusual.  Even though they looked White, they seemed more bronzish, actual bronze, than the pinkish tonality of the waking state.  This was not a place that I knew.  It was very otherworldly here, I soon realised.  I did not get a seat and as I stood there I then noticed a woman.  She was standing at the very front of the train.  The train progressed with unusual speeds, I immediately noticed.  When the train had shaken, the stout man had tried to brace himself by putting out his foot that was already out in the aisle.  

In the process, he had stomped me and I had had to pull my foot out from under his and pushed his away.  He wore business attire, a suit and tie, as though en route to an office job.  The woman who was standing up was playing on a wooden flute-like instrument that was less than a foot long.  However, the thing about all this was that she had unusually short arms.  They were fully functional hands with tiny little fingers that nimbly danced over the valves of the wooden, wind instrument.  Her arms were like a Thalidomide-damaged child’s.  

Then I noticed too that there were other people on the train, about three or four musicians, practicing as well.  I soon realised that everyone on board had some sort of physical deformity.  They were just ill-proportioned people with torsos that were too long or arms that were too short.  Arms too long or what have you, moreover, this also applied to the legs.  The most pronounced cases were always the musicians like the female flautist – two or three of the other musicians were male.  

Someone else who was on the train began laughing and, out of nervousness, I joined in.  The person was laughing at the woman.  She, however, hadn’t paid them any mind.  Nobody else was paying people, who were laughing, any mind.  They did not see anything wrong with the people who were being laughed at.  I then got off the train and was out in this concourse area, where the trains arrived, before I went upstairs.  Before I would go upstairs I saw this child seated in the middle of this white blanket that seemed more like diaper material than flannel.  

The child wore a salmon-coloured merino.  He had little, white, cloth diapers on.  The infant had, again, very unusually, unusually short, short legs that made it look almost like a child because it was seated upright on its bottom.  However, it had a very big torso – matured, such that the child seemed like a very big, big child for its age.  Its head was very large with a very developed large and soulful-looking face.  At the time it made me thing of Jake Hudson.  Jake does have a very large head and face.  I was trying to connect with him.  He reached out his short little arms, crying out and said, “Dad, I want to go.”

There was this youngish man, who was blond like the child, and he seemed not unlike the guy Olaf Knight.  He picked up his son and used the blanket, on which the child sat, that had these straps and put him around his shoulder.  Like an African mother would, carry her child when in the fields, thus he was carried on his father’s back.  He walked off with the child, who was holding on to him, except that the child was really an adult male.  It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.  

I ended up coming upstairs and going out in the outdoors.  There were people here – again, mostly Black people.  I was talking to them when I heard the strains of Richard Strauss‘s Four Last Songs beginning.  I beamed and excused myself from the people, with whom I was interacting, and went running off up this plaza.  It was a clay-tiled plaza and when I got there, I saw the symphony.   I went and sat in lotus position and sat very close to the front.  There was a gathering of persons in a semicircle and I was, as a matter of fact, the closest to the stage.  

The stage was above on a dais and it was edged by old gold juniper.  The juniper was really, really nice and quite fragrant, refreshingly so, to the smell.  Along came, from around a corner walking, Jessye Norman – the high priestess herself.  She had been preceded by her divine voice’s magic.  She was, of course, singing Four Last Songs.  She wore a beautiful, beautiful, glistening black dress that seemed almost organic with a life of its own.  It was twinkling on and off but the lights were lifelike like fireflies.  

They were sequins but they seemed, somehow, to be organic.  It had hues of gold, silver, bronze, and dark green hues like pine and blue hues like lapis lazuli.  It was very, very intensely rich a fabric.  She started singing the first song, Frühling, and it was very hauntingly beautiful.  She saw me and beamed down at me.  It was so connected between us.  I was so enthralled and overpowered; I was quite smitten by her.  I thought very rapturously awakened,

‘Yes!  I’m having a dream of Jessye Norman.  So very good to see her again, my god here she is and performing Four Last Songs.’  

She then came almost to the lip of the stage and stopped as though about to sneeze.  Then she held her breath and started laughing because it was so hysterical.  The look on my face was one of being truly horrified for her.  This had actually caused her to crack up.  Then she began singing again and began making gestures for me to move or be removed.  I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.  

‘Why is she snubbing me like this?’ I wondered.  Then these two huge, burly guys came to eject me out of the area.  As I was leaving, I could hear her starting to sing again.  I was very, very upset.  

Image result for large many floored steep roofed house

I was, in the second dream, in this large house that was a very many-storeyed place.  It had many apartments.  I came out and it had a very slanted roof that one could go out onto.  This roof was, however, very dangerously precipitous.  I was looking about and thinking of Carl Leroiderien because, somehow, someone was talking about him.  This White man was talking to me and telling me that Carl had been enquiring after me.  

He then went on to ask me if I smoked dope which I denied.  I can’t think of it doing anything for me except, perhaps, to make me sneeze at the most.  Sometimes if mixed with hashish, I then got a massive headache.  “It doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t really like it.  I don’t see the point to it and I don’t smoke it.”  

At the time that he was saying this, we were climbing some very, very steep stairs.  Then at that point, after she had given her performance, I encountered Jessye Norman again.  She was seated on a bench and called me over.  She said hello very warmly and apologised saying, “I hope you weren’t upset.  You realise that it was a misunderstanding.  I wasn’t laughing at you; it’s just that you don’t seem to realise where you were.  

“You were, well there are certain degrees of protocol and you were ahead of the dignitaries.  And you shouldn’t have been so close to the stage because one of the reasons why your nose started bleeding was, in this dimension, if you’re this close to the stage… when I’m singing, when I hit certain notes it can shatter your eardrums but also shatter your mind.  

“So you see it was very crucial that I get you out of there.  Also, I was having a very bad allergic reaction to the plants at the edge of the dais.  They made me want to sneeze.  It wasn’t at all you or exclusively you.”  In having embraced me thus, she was being most healing.  I did, in fact, have quite the nosebleed.  As I was being hustled out of the place, by the burly guards, it was then that I realised that my nose was bleeding.  

At the time, I had thought it strange.  As this dream progressed very lucidly and linearly, there was no point at which either burly guard had so much as touched me.  I was so upset.  It was so very good, after the fact, to have had her explain as she did.  

*This dream really does validate the notion that all persons encountered in the dreamtime, without exceptions, are separate entities and not figments of one’s imagination.  END.

When I was being bounced by her, I was so stunned, upset and humiliated.  Had she not explained as she had just done, I would have awakened from this dream with a totally different perception of events.  I had also no way of knowing that she was having an allergic reaction to the juniper which, at the time, I found so wonderfully soothing.  What’s more, I hadn’t a clue that I had thrown the Chi of the place by having disrespected protocol.  

I would never have thought that my nosebleed was due to her singing.  In fact, it is possible that I could have awakened and not recalled that, indeed, I had had a nosebleed which I had totally forgotten until she had mentioned it.  Jessye Norman has indeed straddled, with great élan and diplomacy, many a dimension with great frequency and fluency.  

I then began holding her hand and told her that there were times that I had dreams of her, in which there were sometimes cetacean-looking creatures that came and did formations around her as she sang hyper-dimensionally.  She was just enthralled and pleased.  She squeezed my hands and laughed a healthy, really wonderful laugh.  She was quite smitten by me and encouraged me to write it all down.  

Her eyes here were so very large, soulfully dark and focussed right into me.  It gave me a high just to have experienced them.  I was wearing, when close to the stage, a satin merino-like shirt.  So at the time of being bounced out, I had passingly thought that I had been dressed too scantily for her liking.  

In any event, it was quite interesting.  

a madonna mtv 1990

This third dream was truly hysterical.  It seemed like on Eglinton Avenue East, between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Road.  It was at nighttime.  There was a lot of goings on.  Shirley MacLaine was there, Warren Beatty and Madonna Ciccone, as well.  Warren Beatty was the man of the hour and the centre of everybody’s attention.  He had a great deal of sexual energy and magnetism.  He had been performing for the camera and for everybody around.  It felt very staid to me though.  

One very interesting thing that happened was that he had been heavily drinking and, whilst laughing, had bent forward.  He then began uncontrollably coughing and was holding his chest and faking a massive heart attack.  Next thing you knew, we were in a very crowded area and it turned out that he had not been faking the heart attack.  He had a very, massive, massive heart attack.  He was dead just like that.  He was gone within moments.  It was just incredible.  Shirley MacLaine became utterly hysterical.  Her bawling was like from some Greek tragedy.  

She went into a trance-like frenzied state and began calling on astral guides and her Pleiadean guides.  Pulling out a very impressive clutch of crystals, she threw herself onto him and tried healing him of death.  She was placing them all over his body – at the chakras and elsewhere.  It was too humourous for words.  Meanwhile, as Warren Beatty died, Madonna came rushing up to the scene.  It had all been too late and they couldn’t rush him to a hospital.  There was no way that he could have been revived.  

They had been out in some desert area having a big party; there were no doctors around.  There was nothing that they could do; he couldn’t be saved.  He was dead… he was gone.  Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying, “This is so unfair.  He hasn’t even been able to make the sequel to Dick Tracy.  And right when he’s at the top of his career this is happening?”  

“Well you know this will really immortalise him now.  Definitely, this is great publicity, right at this point in his career.” someone had dryly said who was not attached to his whole entourage.  I had heard this but Shirley MacLaine hadn’t heard it.  Madonna came and whatever she thought about I could telepathically hear it.  Her immediate response was, ‘Oh shit!  This is just going to fuck up my goddamn career.  If only I’d gotten a child by him.  Shit why did I have to have that abortion of his child.  Shit!’  

She was thinking fast.  She was someone who knew how to manipulate the media.  She was really pissed off because it would have meant immediate Hollywood sainthood for her, were she to go on and have Warren Beatty’s only child, after he had tragically died.  She was really pissed off because this was media manipulation beyond her wildest schemes, ‘I’ve got to get him out of here.  I’ve got to have the best genetic engineers flown in immediately…’  

I was stunned when I read her thoughts because, of course, she intended to harvest his seed and impregnate herself and then have a premature love child of Warren Beatty’s.  I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania.  ‘During the autopsy, I’ll have his sperm taken out and I’ll have it copyrighted.  It’ll be my possession.  I’ll have it engineered so that I’ll have a child… a son.  God we can even have twins…’  She, all the while, was cowering over his face… kissing him and doing the wailing widow number, ‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’  

She privately squealed to herself – unaware, of course, that she was broadcasting to someone like me.  She was so triumphant at having had that idea because all she knew was that people who so loved Warren Beatty would take to her now.  She was insecure as to whether or not she would endure through time.  However, with this, she knew that she would automatically become iconic.  She would become truly the virgin mother!  She would be actually giving birth to some dead man’s child – he of course being, Warren Beatty.  It was destiny.  After all, she was ‘the’ Madonna.  

She had this flash that this was why she had always been so drawn to crucifixes.  She was going to capitalise on the whole drama by making sure that it would be a son.  Of course, not to be outdone by that old, other Holy Mother with the virgin birth, she would eclipse that Madonna by having twin sons.  Again, La Stupenda squealed with delight to herself.  I passingly wondered if I were the only one to be privy to her thoughts.  Then I realised that from my detachment, as everyone bawled and was truly horrified as though these were Olympians and not mere mortals, that I was the only one.  

‘What could be better than having two Warren Beatty lookalikes crawling around the planet and who were his twins?  And his only heirs!  With today’s genetic engineering it will be a great coup.  ‘Think of the press!  I’ll be guaranteed perpetual immortality.  I’ll be iconised for all history…’  I thought then and there, ‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’  

In any event, the funeral was upon us and by some strange quirk of the dreamtime, I was very much so a part of the funeral.  I was as though a fly on the wall, as it were, and aren’t you lucky?  Why, was I participating?  I do not know?  

In any event, I was dressed to the nines.  I had on a wonderful, lace outfit with a mantilla with my veil covering my face.  I was part, somehow, of the funeral party.  It turned out that Warren Beatty had had five wives and, at the point at which he died, his fifth wife was a High-Yellow woman.  She was part Black, part White, partly Latina.  He had had all these wives.  They had always been paid and kept to remain silent.  They were never brought out in the public or media.  It was one of Hollywood’s biggest secrets.  

People, obviously, never knew about it.  It had never once been spoken about.  There was an interesting turn to all of this… I had been going along Eglinton East on the south side.  It was as though I was going towards Yonge Street; however, it was not Eglinton Avenue East.  Madonna was going to be late because, luckily, it was that time of the month for her.  She was off having herself impregnated, by way of a turkey baster, with Warren Beatty’s frozen sperm – the planet’s most expensively rare caviar fertiliser of sorts.  

I was attending the funeral with a short woman who was the fifth wife’s mother.  She seemed a lot like Sybil Ben-Daniel and wore a brown coat over her dress.  I walked with my right arm embracing her as she was on my right.  I had burly bodyguards all about me, before, beside and behind me.  They were real Mossad-goon-cum-Wrestlemania types.  My pants were those flare-legged Giorgio Armanis that allowed me to stride throwing my legs.  

There was a lot of train to them and I had such utter style.  I had enormous energies about me and great flare.  My eyes were bedazzling even though mantilla-veiled.  They were what were, of course, fuelling my high spirits.  The onlookers were lapping up my entrance; I felt wonderful.  We then went into the church and the mother was talking about, “We want the money to go to the Church because the Church is really the staple of society and civilisation.  The Church does so much good.”  

I just decided to let her babble on and kept my tongue in check.  However, I cussed her under my breath saying, “You demented old fool.  What Church are you talking about?”  

The church had a metallic-silver front and it looked not unlike York Cinemas on Eglinton Avenue East.  It was not a very big church on the inside.  As we got inside, I turned around and hissed at one of the bodyguards because he had earlier stepped on my train.  Of course, we were surrounded then by the paparazzi and the little people.  His Bigfoot’s footprint was there on the pant’s train.  I reached back and slapped his face real hard, calling him a fucking asshole.  

Of course, I knew that it was safe to do it here because everyone here knew, only too well, that side of me.  However, I couldn’t wreck my public image doing so outside.  As we got closer to the church, I began striding firmer with each step in anticipation of getting his oafish arse.  I was really careful not to show that side of me when in public.  I started going down the aisle and there at the end was Warren Beatty’s corpse in the open casket.  It was a pure black casket that glistened.  It was a dark black wood and a really gorgeous casket.  

Escorting the mother-in-law, I came all the way down the aisle.  I decided that I would go into the first pew on the right.  The first pew on the left actually went further down the aisle and did go past the casket.  It held men in white flowing robes; they were priest of whatever denomination this was – very cream, ivory-coloured and obviously very Catholic.  I went and sat down and immediately behind me was the fifth wife’s family.  They were very Hispanic-looking more so than Black.  They were very handsome in that family.  

I turned around and smiled at one of the men and the energies coming from them weren’t as I had expected – I had thought that they would hate me.  I knew Madonna; I was apparently part of her hangers on.  Somehow, I had known her through dance.  I thought that, for that association, they would hate me.  However, they displayed no such hostilities towards me.  

Related image

Finally, the fifth wife came and was walking very slowly, regally.  She carried a globular bouquet consisting of tiny, little white roses that were sprinkled in amongst some baby’s breath.  There were one or two little red roses as well.  She wore a white, lace outfit.  Deliberately dressed as though attending her wedding, she was not though veiled.  She came down to the casket and knelt before it, like Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis at the rotunda, staking her claim on history by her performance.  

She sobbed in a controlled breath and then got up and walked around to the right end of the casket.  Facing the church, she was now behind it and up on the altar.  She was before the pews on the left side of the aisle.  She knelt down again and this time began wailing and ululating.  She was doing ritual port de bras with her torso and head as well.  She kept on holding on to the bouquet.  

It was a very Latin; a very emotional display; definitely, not Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis.  It was very soulful and moving.  One really felt for her.  Finally, Madonna made her entrance and began slowly progressing down the aisle.  There was utter silence in the place because everybody was thinking, ‘Oh dear, poor Madonna was slutting with Warren Beatty at the point of his death.  Here is the fifth wife and is she going to create a scene or not?’  

Well, of course, she is.  The fifth wife is Latin so, of course, there will be theatre.  When the fifth wife had been crossing the casket, I took in her body which was very wide-beamed.  I knew then, in a flash, that she was pregnant with Warren Beatty’s child and four months pregnant.  It was clearly no Immaculate Conception as per Madonna’s little trick.  She was a very big-boned woman.  She got up when Madonna entered the church and stopped crying.  

Madonna saw her and avoided her glance as I turned and watched this fascinating bit of theatre unfold.  Everyone was really excited at the potential fireworks about to go off.  She started coming down to confront Madonna.  I immediately and intuitively knew that there was a gun inside the bouquet that the fifth wife so firmly clutched.  Positioning the gun, the fifth wife began holding the bouquet to her stomach.  Madonna, staying her ground, kept on proudly walking down the aisle.  

She wore black; it was an outfit that was not dissimilar to mine.  She wore a short veil and not a mantilla like I did.  She came walking down towards the casket staying closer to the left pews.  The fifth wife came around the right side of the casket and was walking down the right side of the aisle looking at Madonna.  She had a very, very vexed and determined – an almost trance-like, expression of self-absorption on her face.  All the energy in her body was directed at Madonna.  

When she was about five feet away from Madonna, she held up the bouquet and callously said, “I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!”  It was filled with so much venom that it reverberated throughout the very high-ceilinged-though-tiny church.  It was also very Gothic an interior.  Madonna stopped truly catatonically horrified.  You could see it beyond the veil.  She had no entourage or bodyguards.  She showed up alone, so confident was she of the coup that she had just scored at the geneticist’s.  

She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back, “I dare you…”  She was very nervous and said very quickly with a weak, little laugh.  She was also vamping à la Breathless Mahoney – the character she played in Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy film.  She was, however, visibly ashen.  Madonna was visibly shaken with fear.  

Those persons in the left pews automatically screamed out and crouched down for cover because the fifth wife had held up the bouquet in both her outstretched arms like the gun that it so obviously hid.  “Come on.  You wouldn’t want to do that.  That’s just stupid…” Madonna bravely said. “…You can’t do that.  Besides Warren’s already dead.  What are you trying to prove?  You can’t do this to me!  Don’t be stupid.”  

The woman, however, started slowly walking towards her not buying her bullshit.  At that, Madonna turned around and started to bolt and she fell down over her long-trained dress.  She had already made it to the back of the pews on the left.  She was much too vain, to run outside and possibly be murdered in front of the little people.  So she got up and began running around the far side of the pews.  Of course, as she ran away, the fifth wife could easily have shot her in the back. 

Then Madonna got really pissed off, stopped against the far left wall of the church, holding out her palm at her attacker saying, “Stop it!  You don’t want to do this.  This is stupid.  You can’t kill me.  I’m Madonna!”  She was just winded; the expression on her face was unbridled rage, fear, terror, chutzpah, all in one.  Then the fifth wife pulled the trigger, which was the only sound in the place, releasing the magazine.  

Madonna cried out and began pleading with her.  It was truly a spectacle.  It was really pathetic.  The fifth wife then pulled on the trigger and there was a loud plopping sound.  Everybody just screamed and the place became flooded with blinding blue light.  It turned out to have been an older-model camera and the flashbulb from the camera as it went off.  

Image result for large old flashbulb paparazzi camera

At that, the fifth wife laughed this loud, truly callous, heavy-from-the-womb, ripe, wicked, vindictive, victorious-all-in-one laugh.  It echoed throughout the church.  When her echo collapsed, as Madonna stood there truly disempowered, the fifth wife uttered in a weary breath, “I always said to Warren that you’re an ugly slut.  This picture will prove it.”  

At that the fifth wife turned and came and sat down on the pew next to me.  Her Latina family members were just going wild clapping and hysterically shrieking.  Now that’s a Hollywood wife!  Poor Madonna was still standing there involuntarily shaking.  She was holding her chest and gasping for air like an asthmatic.  Her left hand placed on her chest, with her right hand holding on to the pew, thus she stayed her ground.  

Although her hand was on her chest, she was being most clever.  However I knew that really where it should have been was at her pussy because what the fifth wife instinctively knew, as did I, was that she had just miscarried.  Madonna was profusely bleeding.  Poor Madonna was so humiliated.  The look on her face was truly sad; she was sweaty and runny-nosed.  She soon collapsed and had to be taken away.  Of course, she would be beaten out of having Warren Beatty’s heir by the fifth wife.  

The whole thing was so funny and hysterical.  I was so stunned that the fifth wife was going to pull this stunt.  I really thought that it was a gun; I had, at least, gotten this flash that it was a gun.  The idea to have a bolt release, affecting a gun, was truly ingenious.  The picture turned out to be truly horrific.  It was all a joke being played on Madonna by Hollywood’s film elites who could not have cared less about her and her parvenu ambitions.  

The whole affair was so very wickedly political.  The whole thing was so hysterical.  I wondered as to what next was going to happen.  Is the fifth wife going to come forward and produce the first Warren Beatty heir – the true child?  A child that would look like Warren Beatty – more like a child of the future being of multiracial heritage and a bronzed version of Warren Beatty would the fifth wife bear.  

What then will she do about Madonna’s copyright of Warren Beatty’s sperm?  Will the fifth wife, for producing the heir, win the legal rights to them and have them destroyed if she chooses to?  Will this not, in fact, begin a Pop Religion rivalling the King, Elvis Presley’s, if Madonna had won custody of the sperm and gone on to impregnate herself and bear those miscarried twin sons because of her bonds to Warren Beatty and his two pseudo-virgin-birthed children – sons at that?  

Truly, this is iconography for the new millennium, indeed.

*A very, very interesting dream.  Certainly, that I would be dreaming about these people is interesting enough.  I don’t pay much attention to any of them beyond the passing.  I had seen Dick Tracy three weeks ago.  That the whole thing would evolve the way it did was rather insightful.  I was totally surprised, as much so, as was Madonna in the church.  

I really did think that she was going to be shot.  I thought that it would be so messy.  You know, I just did not want having anybody’s can’t-wash-out bloodstains on my Giorgio Armani pants.  A truly, truly funny dream this was.  

__________________________________________________

*What can I say, dreams are purely experiential.  I dream it and awaken, immediately bringing forth the dream experiences, committing those experiences to audio-cassette tapes. I rather enjoyed being alone and visiting with Jessye Norman in the earlier dream.  Clearly, those dreams were set on a parallel Earth in another dimension and one in which the mostly Black population is differently proportioned than we humans of waking state Earth are.  

On the eve of the Oscars, I thought this a fitting offering.  I could never have fathomed the outcome of the fifth wife’s agendum until it unfolded.  Ingenious, to say the least, was her use of the bouquet.  As ever, sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… and so what if you bump into a wall, just attempt doing so again and this time believe that you can effortless transcend the barrier.  Perception is, alas, everything.  

________________________

As ever my dear sweet ennobled friends, I am ever grateful for your continued support.  Please do spread the word, far and wide about this happening dream joint on the cosmic wide web.  Always remember to push off and start flying… I love you more.  

____________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 20th Century African-American Artists, 20th century American artists, 20th Century Artists, 20th century Canadian artists, Actors, African-Americans, American Artists, Americans, Archetypes in dreams, Artisan souls, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Astral Projection in Dreams, Authors, Award-winning artist, Awards, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Blog, Blues, Books, Canadian artists, Canadians, Creative Genius, Diarists, Divas, Dream Shamanism, Dream travel to distant worlds, Dreamquest, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Essence Contact in Dreams, Longreads, Lucid dreams, Magical Realism, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Old souls, Older souls, Opera diva, Performers, Photography, Pianists, Singers, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, Theatre, Video, Visionaries, VisionQuest, Vocalists, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Charles & Diana: La Deuxième Partie (Like Father, Like Son).

Lara-Spencer-apologizes-for-ballet-comment-about-Prince-George

A few weeks back as I pored through IG (Instagram) that day, I kept noticing that the latest viral storm involved the worlds of dance and the royals.  As the story unfolded, I became increasingly ticked off.  Here was everyone, mostly dancers across the globe, whom I religiously follow, feigning indignation at Lara Spencer’s bullying of HRH Prince George of Cambridge because he studies ballet at the age of six.  

I soon sought out the clip in question and quietly awaited how the usual defenders of the royals would react.  Firstly, I do not believe for a second that Ms Spencer’s intended to bully as its been alleged that she did.  She was presenting a light entertaining piece about the royals, about whom the American audience at large know precious little.  Indeed, had an American, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex not married HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex in May 2018, it is highly improbable that Good Morning America would have run the story about Prince George also taking ballet classes at his school in Battersea.  

ballet george2

There was no malicious intent on Ms. Spencer’s part; however, she was being sexist and classist in trying to make the royals somewhat relatable to an American audience.  It was an entertainment news item, in an American breakfast show when there is no time for getting too deep into any given subject and certainly not an entertainment story.  Nonetheless, there was she being tarred and feathered with dancers partout, calling for her to be fired and demanding that she issue an apology toute de suite.  

There is a damn good reason why dancers do not speak when onstage and that damn well ought to apply more often when offstage.  Not once did the optics of their outrage at Ms. Spencer, occur to any of these solipsistic bunheads.  Honest to god, here are they up in arms in defence of a royal whilst having remained perfectly mute as when onstage about the racially predatory abuse and bullying of another royal, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  Of course, in having chosen to not hold their tongues as previously and consistently they have as the Duchess of Sussex has been abused, more speaks volumes about them than not.  

Meghan

For never once having said anything in protest of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s bullying and abuse at the hands of Piers Morgan, Lady Colin Campbell, Amanda Plattel, Janet Street-Porter shows the entrenched apathy the world over at racism towards blacks.  All of the aforementioned have all fallen silent and written not a single article in defence of Prince George being bullied by that uncivilised American, Lara Spencer.  Naturally, so huge was the backlash that Lara Spencer had to swiftly issue an apology.  Again, at no time did any of the DailyMail gang of racially predatory Meghan-hating, race-baiting, click-baiting detractors show their cowardly faces. 

How could they have?  By far, they are the biggest bullies.  Unlike Ms. Spencer, her remarks were a one-off, I do not believe she intended to report on the Cambridge’s children on a weekly basis and in a disparaging manner.  American six-year-olds do not take ballet classes as part of their curriculum; that is why Ms. Spencer was going for a light, easy laugh.  She was showing to the American audience how removed from their reality, the royals are.  

NINTCHDBPICT000519697464

Each day with Jeffrey Epstein’s all too convenient death – that was definitely not a suicide, the racially predatory ghouls in English print media have remained conspicuously silent.  Truly if Lady Colin Campbell, Piers Morgan et al cared about the monarchy, why are they not up in arms and castigating HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York of having been a dark and bothersome thorn for the crown?  Where is their outrage?  Where are the multiple daily articles wherein Prince Andrew is taken to task for proving himself not fit to be counted a royal?  

Don’t these idiots realise that in remaining in hiding and mum through the tsunami of Epstein’s resurgence and death, they come off as having been purely racist and malicious in their attacks on the Duchess of Sussex.  The longer they remain silent and cease their attack articles on Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, reveal how purely malicious, personal and racist their coverage has been.  They have now got zero credibility.  

Naturally, as the braying against Prince Andrew grew louder and there were more daring calls for him to face justice, the loyal defenders of the RF sat back and said nothing.  When finally the Lara Spencer controversy blew over, Piers Morgan re-emerged and went right back to feeding on TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  The new attack word is hypocrite; naturally, the Sussexes are hypocrites for flying by private jet.  After the fact, it would emerge that the Sussexes likely travelled to be at Elton John’s French estate, following the suicide of an energetic, charismatic colleague of Prince Harry’s on August 5, 2019.  

In this exquisite clip, we get a prime example of the true hypocrisy; here is Piers Morgan caterwauling as per usual, defending his right to bully and prey on Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and like every racist boor, he is shrill in denying that it has anything to do with race.  As the future Countess of Sandwich, Julie Montagu, Viscountess Hinchingbrooke and fellow American alludes, the reason for the Sussexes travelling by private jets may be down to serious and valid threats that they may be subjected to, owing to Meghan being black.  Naturally, straight away as he race-baits and gleefully so, Piers states that it has nothing to do race; he refuses to concede that much of the hatred towards the Sussexes could be rooted in racism and that there couldn’t possibly be death threats aplenty against the Sussexes.  

Julie-Montague-MN2S

Julie Montagu, Viscountess Hinchingbrooke.

Rather, the tone deaf racist boor counters by stating that Diana was infinitely more famous than Meghan is; granted but he fails to realise that Diana was white and would have receive not a single death threat for being white.  The fact that Meghan is black and the first black to marry a senior royal are grounds enough for violent racists to be boldly making death threats against the Sussexes.  

Inline_2158785_3.4

This is to what Julie Montagu was referring, instead, in a defence of his right to maintain his shrill racially predatory attack campaign, Piers Morgan shrilly states more nonsense.  Piers even becomes incandescent with rage at Julie Montagu’s suggestion that Meghan will do things in an American way.  Naturally, Piers protests and, in essence, says that Britons will not be overrun by Americans.  The past month has revealed the real hypocrisy of the English print medium, just as with the Lara Spencer scandal, which they could not criticise as it reflected their own bullying, Piers Morgan et al fell silent with the avalanche of details that have surfaced with Jeffrey Epstein’s death; murder, suicide… you decide.  

The glaring refusal of Piers Morgan and the rest of DM’s gaggle of shrill racists to so much as once mention Prince Andrew, has rather unwittingly cast a very harsh light on that other source of royal scandal, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.  Of course, this was never their intention – they aren’t that intellectually sophisticated.  Rather than pounce on the Andrew angle, if they are so keen on hurling mud at royals, they remained mum.  This has only given rise to questions of what exactly has been going on in the Cambridges’ marriage.  There was William shaking arse with his bottom boy, Thomas van Straubenzee in Verbier whilst also playing the field and hooking up on the dance floor with a woman who definitely was not Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.  

8f1313b2e391bba0e4aa58c645c53219.png

This is the same Prince William who earlier in 2019 met with the editorial board at the DailyMail,  Like the scarf incident at Christmas 2018, more and more this is not about Wallis Simpson and King Edward VIII; however, it most definitely is matter of history repeating itself within the British royal family by way of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ jealousy and the very real threat that he saw Diana, Princess of Wales posing early in their marriage.  For Charles, Diana was a complete enigma.  Not only did he not love her but how could the public be so obsessed with her?  How is it that he who was born to be king, be eclipsed by someone who was not even a blood princess?  

This dynamic is now repeating a generation later as desperate to rein Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge met with the DailyMail‘s editorial board.  For William, just like Charles, he is threatened by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s star power.  Meghan shines brighter than both Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and himself, the future Prince of Wales.  Naturally, all along, HRH Prince Henry was dismissed as being second fiddle; William was deferred to and it was expected by William that Harry would know his role and keep his place.  

18396428-7456169-Meghan_38_formally_presents_the_five_piece_capsule_collection_wh-a-102_1568313952528

Yet, there she is, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex with more glamour and star power than both Cambridges combined.  It is in the nature of scholar souls to engage in dirty pool and set about to ruin someone by doing so in the background.  History repeats itself in that, like his father before him, William has been blindsided and thrown by the public’s reaction to someone not a blood royal.  It isn’t just that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is black, rather, William has been groomed from birth to expect everyone to be less revered than himself in the dynastic hierarchy.  That assumption, as are all assumptions, is untenable.  For all kinds of reasons, Meghan is far more popular than either William or Catherine – to say nothing of both combined.  

meghan-misha-2

Misha Nonoo-Hess & Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  

William for being a scholar soul and with his astrological, numerological and overleaves chosen would never choose a wife who could prove more popular than himself,  Shrewdly persevering, Catherine a warrior’s warrior would never go in for being showy as is an artisan or sage’s wont.  Artisans are simply far too complex for mere scholars to fathom.  The fact that artisans input on five channels where kings, warrior and scholars merely input on a single channel, would lead to unease on the part of a scholar who has been groomed from birth to be deferred to and groomed to be most popular.  That Meghan, has been one of the most shrewd and accomplished women in English history – she is the reincarnated Margaret Beaufort matriarch of the Tudor dynasty – is all the more reason why one cannot expect her to turn up playing wallflower here and now.  

MEGA508528_017

For Meghan, William is as interesting as a mastered rubric’s cube; he is flat, one-dimensional and bland.  The fact that Meghan’s task companion is a warrior and that she, Meghan, is married to a warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, her father-in-law HRH Prince Charles Prince of Wales and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, her sister-in-law are also warrior souls, gives her an edge in understanding and knowing just what to expect from the Cambridges.  It is no coincidence that Charles’ second wife would turn out to be a scholar, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall and as such, someone who would not prove the egotistical challenge that Diana, Princess of Wales proved for being an artisan with star power.  

Indeed, like father like son as William a scholar would marry a warrior soul, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge who also happens to be his task companion.  Meghan and her forthrightness and singleness of purpose, with her healthy star power has proven a threat for William.  Meghan has also proven a jolt of energy for the Cambridges; they have finally had to get off their arses and stop playing house and do something that is more than simply turning up, grinning, shaking hands then bolting.  This is what the revival of the King’s Cup Regatta as a means of fundraising for some of their charities represents.  Meghan has shown with her ventures, the Together cookbook and Smart Works fashion collection that like the Prince Charles’ Prince’s Trust, she is all about raising money.  She gets it – the monarchy is a business.  

No amount of meetings with the DailyMail‘s editorial board is going to change the fact that Meghan’s star power is rooted in history.  How this has manifested itself here, is her expert command of stagecraft.  She is commanding of an audience in a manner that neither William nor Catherine is.  All this recent rubbish on the part of the DailyMail talking about Catherine has found her voice… all of 8 years on; indeed, it is a voice that she has been forced to suddenly find with little mastery simply because the very real threat and presence of Meghan behoves the Cambridges to do more than breed.  As compared to the Sussexes, the Cambridges are rather bone idle, truth be told.  Just as Charles was threatened by Diana’s greater popularity, so too is William threatened by Meghan’s greater worldliness, star power and commanding stage presence.  

meghan fashion

This is precisely why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s stellar stage command at the 2018 British Fashion Awards has been scrubbed from the internet.  At the end of the day, the very shrewd Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex – which artisan soul is not both shrewd and complex – is confident of one fact: intellect is the most powerful asset to possess when incarnate.  Meghan is better educated than both Cambridges and she is vastly more worldly and articulate and displays greater intellect and emotional intelligence than Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge hands down.  Charles does not call Meghan Tungsten for no reason…. besides just as Charles is rather shrewdly aware, William, though not inconsequential, is nonetheless stupid.  

No matter how William colludes, conspires and sabotages from behind the scenes, it is as futile as trying to sabotage and undo the work that Margaret Beaufort did back there in time… impossible.  For both Charles and William both Diana and Meghan would prove both enigmatic and difficult.  Both men for being warrior and scholar souls respectively input solely on one channel.  Both Diana and Meghan for being artisan souls input on five channels.  We artisans are the most complex creatures, who are not readily understood and are usually dismissed as unstable, too wilful, undisciplined, crazy, lunatic, artsy-fartsy et al.  Where artisans and sages are at home in the arts or looking like the contestants on Rupaul’s Drag Race, warrior and scholars are anything but, unless of course they are a scholar or warrior with sage or artisan task companion and with lots of sage or artisan influences in their casting.  

Where Charles differs from William is that his task companion is a priest which means that he, like all priests, would be given to serving a higher ideal which in Charles’ case has to to do with stewardship of the environment and not just the realm to which he is destined to govern.  Again, I cannot strongly enough state how much scholars are given to being shit-disturbers, fault-finding and given to being stubborn and categorising everyone and everything into its own neat little box/list as deemed by scholar arrogance to be correct.  In William, this is even more pronounced as his being born to be king, has heightened this innate scholar arrogance; furthermore, his attitude of 9 in its negative manifestation leaves him being prejudicial to all that is other and not like oneself.  

18729926-7486653-Prince_Harry_smiles_as_he_arrives_at_the_he_wedding_of_fashion_d-a-6_1569027376555

(HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex at the wedding of Michael Hess and Misha Nonoo.  What I love about this photograph is the more than passing resemblance between Henry and Roman Abramovitch.  About a dozen years ago, I had the most lucid dream of both men deep in conversation and I was struck then how much they looked alike; this is the first photo that captures this similitude in the look of their eyes.  I think that they are, perhaps, connected at the level of soul either entity mates or cadre mates.)  

The long and short of it all is that William met with the editorial board of the DailyMail in his campaign to demonise and eliminate the affront that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex represents to his prejudicial scholarly sensibilities.  Still, he has yet to go tour a predominantly black Commonwealth Nation; unlike his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who through Sentebale has kept in touch with his black roots in his immediate past life.  Regardless of how much he and Catherine, run around making speeches all of a sudden, they can never eclipse the cool sophistication of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s commanding stagecraft.  

Apart from being task companions, William and Catherine are a formidable force to reckon with… and it is all in the numbers.  Catherine is born 9.1.82 = 9.1.3 = 4.  William is born 21.6.82 = 3.9.2 = 5.  For any pairing to smoothly, harmoniously work, one must have at least two numbers in common.  The Cambridges have 9 and 3 in common.  I have spoken in the past of how debilitating William’s attitude of 9 leaves him hamstrung by prejudice, which clearly leaves him ill at ease or disfavouring blacks – hence the meeting with the DailyMail‘s editorial board.  In Catherine’s case, the 9 is in the energy body.  9s are perfectionists who readily dismiss and banish anyone and everyone who comes near them who by their personal standers do not measure up and are deemed imperfect in some way.  

Again, Warriors (Catherine/Henry & Charles also Philip) are the dominant partner in any relationship.  For that reason, Catherine is rather threatened by Meghan’s forthrightness, American boldness, most of all, she is grossly threatened by Meghan’s commanding stage presence and the fact that Meghan, like every performer before her who is an artisan soul sets the tone and captures one’s attention like no warrior ever can, would prove disquieting for Catherine; in Meghan, Catherine is made readily aware that she is imperfect in some way.  Diana was the quintessential artisan soul with star power, she was also like another artisan of commanding star power in the 20th century, Marilyn Monroe.  Diana’s body type was Lunar/Mercury – she was luminous, empathetic, fluid, changeable, unpredictable.  With Marilyn Monroe, there was also Lunar energy; however, that artisan soul was Venus/Lunar… you could not get more bewitchingly famous than that.  In other words, she was gorgeously voluptuous – as we well know – but could cast a spell on anyone… and did.  

Also, an artisan, Meghan incidentally, is the same soul age as was Marilyn Monroe.  Meghan, however, has a Venus/Solar body type.  No surprise then that the very powerful Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort would reincarnate with a body type that has the most spiritually senior royal, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales referring to her as Tungsten.  Not only is she winningly appealing but Meghan’s body type of Venus/Solar suggests someone who is inordinately ambitious and also fully in control and is more shrewd than Diana ever was.  Both William and Catherine are deeply intimidated by Meghan.  Catherine’s body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus.  That saturnine energy only accentuates that 9 energy in her makeup.  She is steely, guarded and like every warrior who ever lived fiercely competitive.  She is the dominant partner in that marriage – I should think that this does cause William a great deal of stress.  William, of course, is a lot like his mum, he is Lunar/Mars/Saturn.  At the end of the day, like Diana, he is not always ‘there’ and is not someone whom one would ever think of as an intellect… spacey is more to the point; this is why he cluelessly sat with his back to the horses on entering the 1902 state landau on his wedding day outside Westminster Abbey.  

960x0

No matter how the Cambridges are threatened by Meghan and engage in a campaign to rein her in and sabotage her star power, as the Kingdom Choir sang so jubilantly, Meghan’s light will ever shine uneclipsed regardless of what prejudicial William and tightwad, faultfinding Catherine think or do.  It is really risible watching them try and rebrand Catherine as a public speaker.  Catherine can never walk onto any stage anywhere and have the audience be wowed and react so beautifully as the heavily artisan and sage-souled audience at the 2018 British Fashion Awards did to her surprise appearance.  Meghan proved her mettle in giving the world the greatest bit of theatre as she walked up the west steps at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle on her wedding day, walking up the aisle like no royal bride ever had; she was declaring loudly and clearly, “I’m back!” as at the core of her being, the soul which previously had been Margaret Beaufort, entered the chapel alone beneath the stain glass windows at the west door with a tribute to her son in that past life, HM King Henry VII, then walked whilst escorted by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, across the tomb of HM King Henry VIII whom she mentored and for whom, she Meghan, then Margaret Beaufort was his greatest mentor.  

Meghan with every speech eclipses and exposes the flawed campaign of the Cambridges to try and make her a laughing stock, banished and inconsequential.  For crying out loud, Meghan is an artisan, not a self-restraining warrior nor a dull blithering scholar who was openly dismissed whilst on the balcony on his wedding day by his new wife.  Catherine for 8 years never once thought to start speaking publicly, yet, all of a sudden, there she is, comparably making an arse of herself.  She has been a deeply self-absorbed controlling element in her husband’s life, given to smoking, dieting all in hopes of being praying mantis and boyishly androgynous, the way a good public school-groomed husbands like those cherished proclivities sustained.  

Numerologically, the Cambridges are better suited elsewhere on the Timeline than here.  They are both not remotely adept at living in a world where being media savvy  is mandatory.  Saturnine, smug and colonial in their sensibilities, it is hard to fathom how they have managed to do little to nothing until the arrival of Meghan on the scene to cause them to suddenly become eager to engage and undertake royal engagements as well as raising funds for charities.  Since 2011, they went to Hollywood, wowed no one and have not been invited back since.  

article-2013092-0CF202F100000578-848_964x620

Truly, all that Catherine in her whimpering speeches can do is address childhood issues rather than commanding the respect and attention of adults as with Meghan at the 2018 British Fashion Awards which have been conveniently scrubbed from the internet as it is puts into relief the commanding force which Meghan represents.  Artisans, like Meghan, Marilyn Monroe, Diana, Princess of Wales and countless others bring the magic by merely being, especially so when on stage… this is an innate gift that neither Catherine nor William possess in the slightest.  

For sporty Catherine to be suddenly thrust out there to be making speeches only further highlights how desperately the Cambridges are threatened by the appearance of Meghan in their midst.  Just listen to this god-awful boldfaced sophistry!  She has not found any voice anywhere. 

AACN5Gw

You cannot find what you never had to lose in the first place.  She is a mousy little thing who looks like a chain-smoking, eating disorder mess which would be in keeping with the 9 numerology obsession with perfection.  This You Magazine insert in the Mail on Sunday is the result of the Cambridges meeting with the editorial board of the DailyMail

It changes nothing because as earlier in the week proved as TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex demonstrated when presenting four-month old Archie Mountbatten-Windsor to Archbishop emeritus, Desmond Tutu and the eagerly awaiting world, the Cambridges by comparison are like week-old lettuce…  limp.  Just look at that exquisitely shaped African skull on Archie…  it readily conjures images of family gatherings where every black aunt, cousin and mother want to gently, lovingly massage the uniquely large skull with its rear extension, their long melanin-rich fingers massaging love and pride deep into the very DNA of yet another handsome son of Africa. 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Archie is such a beautiful, well-aware, engaged youngster.  Indeed, in spades, he demonstrated at all of four months that he is indeed an older soul as his mum, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex stated whilst visiting with the Tutus.  Truth be told, Archie is the oldest soul senior royal.  He is the same age as HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales – both 7th level Mature souls; however, Archie is a priest soul and more cardinally cast than warrior soul, Charles.  

One thing that the Sussexes tour of Africa has proven, is that though the campaign waged by the British media, especially so the DailyMail has been damning, it changes nothing.  There hatred does not encompass how the world perceives the Sussexes; they are lovely couple, truly in love and parents to the most awesomely spiritually evolved child, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor.  

*I should point out, however, that I have not done the overleaves for princes George and Louis of Cambridge or their sister princess Charlotte of Cambridge.  Thus, of the senior royals channelled at this stage, Archie is the oldest soul, though, he may well not be based on the other senior royals whose overleaves I have not done.  END.  

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 20th Century African-American Artists, 20th century American artists, 20th Century Artists, 21st Century American Artists, Actors, African Leaders, African-Americans, Africans, American Artists, Americans, Artisan souls, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Blog, Books, British Artists, Canadians, Commentary, Diarists, Fashion, Longreads, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Older souls, Performers, Photography, Politicians, Racism, Reincarnation, Royalty, Scholar souls, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, West Indians, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tabar-effing-nac de Christ!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Non!  Arrête de parler!  Ha! Quelle eff-all surprise.  Guess who will not be going out on a limb to vote for this little, raving closet Pequiste son of a Nambla éminence grise.  

In 2015 after choosing to exclude anyone black from his cabinet, bathhouse Pierrette then had the temerity to smugly declare outside Rideau Hall, a cabinet that looks like Canada.  

37424163_517138598739004_8370867817972498432_n

2017, the 50th anniversary of the predominantly black West Indian community’s gift to his minor meat-loving father, little Tar Bébé himself refused to attend that year’s historic Caribana/Carnival.  

download

No Sir, he was too busy kayaking.  Meanwhile, chaque saison, there he is in his just-so tight pants, doing every gay pride parade from coast to coast to coast but too busy to be attending Carnival.  

369826

Additionally, 1.25 years after the most glorious royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, he still cannot bring himself to invite the lovely couple on a tour of one of HM The Queen’s favourite Commonwealth countries, Canada – this when HM The Queen appointed TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors.  

image

Well there you have it.  After having lived in Montréal for seven years, I happen to firmly be of the opinion that, though they are the most savvy voters in Canada and until you have lived in Québec, you truly do not understand Canada, some segments of Québecois society remain the most hellishly xenophobic culture on the continent.  So glad that that dumb son of a damn lunatic bitch did not get an invitation to the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex; though, in the eleventh hour, there was he at Buckingham Palace aggressively hounding HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex at the Commonwealth banquet, desperately trying to score an invite for he and his god-awful, fag-hag femme au foyer, who is ever desperately trying to be perceived as anything beyond triflingly third-tier.  

76c9cb131b1683a38cd44a7fbb1b77e2150279411b910a2692e373353652c93c

Nope, not getting my vote! 

___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in African-Americans, American Artists, Americans, Artists, Authors, Award-winning artist, Black American Art, Black Americans, Black Art, Black artists, Black creative artists, Blog, Books, Canada, Canadians, Commentary, Diarists, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Performers, Politicians, Québec, Québecois, Racism, Royalty, Singers, Songwriters, Stage performers, Statesmen, Video, Vocalists, West Indian Artists, West Indians, West Indies, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

*Since having posted this dream blog some years back, I was always fascinated why I was simply summoned to be with the actor, River Phoenix when he passed. I did mention that sense of feeling strong resonance at the time of cadre mates’ passing. This dream was a poignant example of being called into action, to be of service to someone with whom I have a strong and connected soul bond that spans multiple past lives.

This was something that I felt at Natalie Cole’s passing and, of course, she proved to be an entity mate. In the case of River Phoenix, whose overleaves I will include here and which can now be found in the revamped and tidied up Michael Overleaves Appendix page, not only is he also an artisan soul but he happens to be a greater cadence mate of mine. This dream would not have occurred if we did not share this very strong bond; as a result of my cardinal casting, I am often called into action in dreams such as this one when entity and cadre mates pass on.

Read these dreams anew and do enjoy!.

_________________________________

dsh1993halloween3

Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, I would be transported to a cul de sac of the astral plane wherein I am not frequently focussed. It was Monday, November 1, 1993. At the time, as now, I did not own a television and hardly looked at it. Also, at the time, I hardly listened to radio or read newspapers et al. I was also much removed from most daily chatter as I had been off sick from work but did go in to participate in the annual Halloween costume competition which the year prior I had won when dressed in full drag and looking hotter than even Tina Turner herself in my high heels. The above photo of yours truly was taken at Halloween 1993, the day prior to this dream.

Thus it was that I would fall into sleep and immediately be summoned to be in service to the higher good. What is really interesting about the experience with the famous actor encountered in these dreams, I rather suspect that he may be a cadre mate from the tenor of the dream encounter. Too, there are a number of famous persons in my cadre and he seemed vibrationally not dissimilar to them.

That being the case, this likely explains why I was called on to be of service at the time. I am said to be rather cardinal in casting, which is clearly reflected in yours truly being inordinately gifted when it comes to fathoming the depth and breadth of the dream realms. Too, as these dreams were clearly focussed on the astral plane, naturally, there was dream flight. More than that, whilst focussed on the astral plane in the dreamtime, one did encounter at least two, possibly three, extra-human species.

As there is flight and levitation in these dreams, I pray that they will richly inspire you. Fly my darlings, fly, don’t even for a second doubt, just melt into a mischievous plié and start flying – cause you can… cause you are magic incarnate!

grass-labyrinth2

A woman and I were together, in this the second dream, above the Arctic Circle. This woman did remind me of the woman, who had earlier been in the previous dream encounter with Niles Ben-Daniel and seemingly his lover. I was not fully certain that this woman was one and the same as, the one posing as Niles Ben-Daniel’s lover, in the prior dream. She had a couple of siblings whom she had asked to find out what time it was.

Here, they kept time quite unusually because there was no tundra about. They, as a result, kept sundials. They grew their grass such that they were able to tell from Sol’s shadows what time of day it was. Their sundial was a natural phenomenon which used the rugged flat landscape for keeping time. Standing there, I faced due north. Sol was still in the sky, but low, and at the two o’clock position. Sol was red and potent; it was almost serene-looking.

Over time, they had planted a hedge of Chinese boxwood, which stood a foot tall. From it were a series of radial-like spokes radiating out from the centre. All told, there were twenty-four spokes; of course, the spokes lined up with each hour of the day. Even in the wintertime, the hedge though submerged maintained an imprint of itself above – in the snowed and iced over terrain. It was quite nude (barren) landscape here. Sol’s shadow was presently pointing directly at the ten o’clock position though it clearly wasn’t. Ten o’clock could also have been four hours past midnight.

I decided that it had to be around four, in the morning, which is why Sol appeared in the sky where it was. This was the time of year when Sol never sets which made it difficult for me, a novice in these parts, to readily get my bearings. Quite a strange phenomenon because my body felt nocturnally phased, yet, there in the sky was Sol as plain as the Moon. She wanted to know what time it was because she was getting ready to go down south to the ‘Southland’.

She also referred to it as, ‘the land of the setting summer Sun,’ which did make sense. She had said all that in her Inuit tongue, yet I had been able to follow perfectly well as though she had been speaking English. More than being with her, rather, I was there as an observer and took in the minutiae of this unique culture. Certainly, we were keenly aware of each other and that we were both gifted telepaths.

an-interior-view-grand-central-terminal

Next, in this the third dream, I was in a crowded interior. It was a waiting lounge in a large depot that was not unlike New York City’s Grand Central Station. A sandy marble, time-yellowed hue, the walls here were the same colour as at Grand Central Station. A high-ceilinged cavernous place it also was. The main hall had several wings that adjoined its considerable length. Here, there was natural light coming in from the bathysphere-like windows that sat way up the walls and close to the ceiling.

In that sense, this was not unlike the grand hall in which I walked with Merlin during which we encountered the exalted magus on September 4, 1988. I was seated on these large wooden benches that were old, comfortable and looked not unlike church pews. Semi-circular in shape, they gave a sense of inclusiveness to them. All around me exclusively were men. This place seemed, if you like, some sort of way station. One guy there was very slight-bodied, young and naïve-looking.

NAVY-BLUE-AND-WHITE-ZIP-THROUGH-COLLARED-TRACKSUIT-04b

Looking at him, he wore a navy-blue track suit. He came over to sit next to me, eventually sitting on my right. Patting him on the back, I told him that it was really good to see him. I wished him a safe passage and asked that he go in peace, “Have a safe passage. Go in peace and do have a good journey…”

Of all people, it was the actor, River Phoenix – he recently overdosed on heroin, early on Sunday, October 31, yesterday. This was a very vivid dream. I was quite lucidly awakened. Feeling great compassion for his tragic departure, I thought to be of comfort to him and to uplift his spirit in whatever way possible. There and then, I realised that this was a place where persons who had recently died came whilst in transit to their final destination as returning astral plane habitués.

*This, of course, did not surprise me. Right away, I was reminded of the sense of mammoth dimensions that also exemplified the architecture of the train termini, where I had run into Merlin in that momentous dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. END.

stJude-pews2

Seated there, next to him, I exclusively turned my focus on him. I then began doing an enormous amount of energy transference, thereby healing his spirit, before he could move on. Who cares the attachments to this man, in the waking state? I have never followed his career but here, in his astral plane hour of need, we were souls and healing is the most generous gift of love. After having left his life in such a dissociate state, River Phoenix needed to be made more whole.

This is why he had seemed so naïve and as if in a daze. He saw me and purposefully began walking towards me. God only knows what he noticed in me that was different to the others. Until he was about two feet away from me, I for one had not realised that it was him. By that point, he had already been intent on coming to sit with me. He clearly needed my services.

river-phoenix_

Phoenix, River 23/8/197031/10/1993

This fragment was a second level mature artisan – third life thereat. River was in the observation mode with a goal of growth. A realist, he was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

Body type was Lunar/Mercury.

River’s primary chief feature was self-destruction and the secondary stubbornness.

Casting for River is fifth-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three – greater cadence mate of Arvin’s. River’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

River’s essence twin is an artisan and he has a sage task companion.

River’s primary needs were: exchange, expression and power.

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin.

_____________________________________

At the level of soul, I could not have cared less who he was; his energy body’s vibration needed a good deal of realignment before he could move on. He chose me and I gladly obliged his wishes. When patting him on the back, I was keenly focussed on sending him a great deal of near-aqueous blue-white light. River Phoenix was saddened. Rather, he seemed to be in a state of shock, though, not horrified or enraged. There was just a degree of resignation as he came to terms with where he was at. When it was all over, in the brief moments that it took to lay my hand on his back, he got up to get going.

He was obliged to take his leave and move on. He seemed here truly dazed. Perhaps, these were residual effects of his having passed in a heightened soporific state. Seated there, I felt completely drained of my very breath itself. I was left feeling so overwhelmingly sad and strangely alone. Another guy had sat down, on the other side of me, whilst I energetically focussed on River Phoenix.

Daje-Barbour-hazel-brown-eyes

I can’t, for the life of me, say whether or not the guy had ambled up to join us seated there or if he had simply materialised – on the astral plane – for having just projected himself into our midst. Looking Hispanic, more than anything, this man had yellow-coloured eyes. Absolutely bewitching they were. He wore cream-coloured jeans with matching cream-coloured jacket. There was a lot of black in the clothing. This was in the style of Hip-Hop fashions.

He was a very sensitive man with a Hispanic accent and was slightly older than River Phoenix; he was about 24 or 25 years – at least he looked about that age. His hair was thick, black and curly. By way of conducting focussed energy transference, my function here was to provide counsel. I would simply tap into their vibration and, by way of their chakras, realign their energy. All of them seemed to have passed suddenly, completely unexpectedly. Thus they had a great need to become assimilated to what was clearly an unexpected turn of events.

They needed immediate supervision and companionship, until having become further acclimatised. Meanwhile, the persons around me were all being counselled by others – who were more solid-looking – whose role was like that of mine. I was, like all the others, a guide, companion and energetic facilitator to the arrivée habitués.

Temple_of_Tempus

Architecturally, this place was so immensely massive. It was also more ancient by at least 30 millennia than the rise of the Roman Empire. Clearly, there is no way to get around the fact that this was an astral plane experience. There was also no way to get around the fact that the first man, with whom I worked, was the actor, River Phoenix. What was really impactful for me was that River Phoenix, like all the others, had absolutely no emotions. He was in a place of total detachment.

Though a sudden departure from the life being lived, his soul consciousness was totally matter-of-fact about the situation at hand. The past, his recently accidentally concluded incarnation, was concluded and behind him. Period.

gunman

Whilst we were all there, we were caught in some commotion when a Black guy appeared. He wore a blue jean jacket and wore on his face a flesh-toned fabric mask. He looked as though he had been in a burn unit at a hospital, I assumed, after having suffered massive burns to more than 95% of his body. It was the mask used for allowing skin grafts in such instances to take without becoming infected. My sense impression of his situation was that he had been in a violent car crash which turned into an explosive fireball. He had survived and was in hospital, for a while, undergoing massive skin grafting surgeries.

He also wore dark shades. The moment that he appeared, everyone instantaneously freaked out. All that one could see, was his mouth and nose; the image was upsetting, menacing. Right away, we all began fleeing that section of the grand hall. His arrival was simply instantaneous. He had simply manifested in plain view. When he came through, he brought with him a great explosive energy and immense suffering. This is what had upset the Chi in the place; it was quite an impactful energy wave that accompanied his manifestation. On closer inspection, I realised that he had not been a burn victim as he was still brandishing a large semi-automatic weapon.

Clearly, he had been holding up a business and got himself shot to death in the process. Thus, as is, he instantaneously appeared on the astral plane. The energy around his death was+ so immensely violent, as he went berserk, that it proved rather jarring for the rest of us. His body was violently sputtering away, as though, still echoing the massive volley of bullets that were being pumped into him. No doubt, a battery of over-armed police officers were only too happy to waste yet another ‘Black’ male.

Opera_Garnier_Stairway_2008

We all immediately started bolting because here was he, suddenly arrived and carrying a weapon, on the astral plane to which all these arrivés were not yet fully acclimatised. There was a group of urbane Gays over to one side who kept to themselves. The Gays went truly berserk, fearful of him, as this man was clearly a zealous homophobe. That too was the other thing about this place; one was able to accurately ‘read’ a person on their arrival.

As I sat there on the pews doing my energy work with River Phoenix, most of the light flooding the hall came from off to the right and rear. From the inner hall, I went bolting along with everyone else and took cover. The armed Black man had manifested across the hall from me. Making my way from what I thought previously was the main hall, I ended up in a grand hall that was easily seven times larger than the atrium in which I had been counselling River Phoenix and then the yellow-eyed Hispanic.

As everyone else had been bolting in that direction, I made a left turn. From the main hall, I was now in another atrium; this one, however, was considerably darker. This one was several storeys high with the same colour schemata as at Grand Central Station. Though there were no discernible floors as such, at each storey there were landings. I would then bolt down to where all the other Gays were ahead of me. In a bid not to be captured by this guy, who had no awareness that he was now dead and on the astral plane, I leapt over the railing and down onto the escalator where the Gays were.

Rome_chad-greiter-234802

As they were all still clambering down the steps, this was not the greatest idea on my part; it was a truly chaotic scene. Deciding against pursuing the herd mentality, I willed myself from amongst them. With that I began levitating, above them and shot upwards, flying up into the nave of the towering complex. Goodness, this place was immensely massive. Soon enough, the man came to where we had been and made for the stairs from which I had just taken off. Being sufficiently distracted, I knew that he wouldn’t be able to either hear or see me way above him.

Too, he wouldn’t think to look up and see me. I flew in such a way that I progressed around a corner which took me into another wing of the massive complex. Here, there was a balcony whose wall was such that it had an indentation in the shape of an inverted top hat. Thus, the balcony was as if wrapped inside the hat. Hiding out in the cover of the balcony, I peered out – from time to time – where I saw others on lower balconies who peered up at me.

Others were off to the right in the inverted balcony. They discouraged me from coming because they thought that, somehow, my movement would attract the newcomer with semi-automatic weapon. They were of the impression that he was, in the first place, out to get me. All around, this whole episode was terribly unpleasant. It had all the chaotic madness that must surely exist, at present, in the streets of a war zone like Bosnia or Croatia.

Hubble mosaic of the majestic Sombrero Galaxy

Deciding against hiding out, I sought to be rid of this place altogether. With that, I began flying upwards towards the very ceiling of the grand hall. The ceiling was as if a force field and not a physical construct. Thus, without incident, I was able to will my way through its parameters. I was truly relieved to have made it out of there. One had the sense of leaving one dimension and moving on to another, whilst seemingly clearing the grand hall’s ceiling, and into the next dream experience.

depositphotos_61536527-stock-photo-beautiful-multi-ethnic-women

Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside where I immediately encountered some young teenage females. All were sarcastic, bitchy solipsistic twits. They were on an empty city street. Racy-edged, in the extreme, were there. Especially for feeling the enervation that I did for the massive energy transference work that I had undertaken with River Phoenix, I really did not care to be around these people’s energy.

At the time, I was still in flight but had slowed down, hoping possibly to interact with them. Finally, I had no time for them and their bullshit. No need to be around their imploding energy. Without haste, I flew on and went onto a side street. There, I saw a really large building from which there were some persons presently exiting.

maxresdefault (1)

It was as if one were looking outdoors, due west towards Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan. A young couple came from the building and entered a car which looked like a Bentley limousine. A massive stately old car it was and looked every bit as though it had been made from lead. A large structure stood to my left as I watched them drive away towards what seemed to be Fifth Avenue.

Original+image-+1920x1200

Looking to the structure, I realised that the structure was in fact St. Patrick’s Cathedral which, of course, meant that I was at 51st Street at Fifth Avenue. Naturally, the car made a left turn and went south down Fifth Avenue. Here it was nighttime with lots of snow in the street, the sidewalk, and covering just about everything. The car wanted, once on Fifth Avenue, to go westwards along 50th Street, but couldn’t because that street runs easterly one-way.

There was also too much snow jammed there in the street. So, in the end, the car went down to the south end of Saks Fifth Avenue to try and get onto 49th Street. Here in the dreamtime, contrary to the waking state arrangement, 49th Street flowed easterly. This made me realise that its attempt to go along 50th Street was not bizarre. I guess that they then intended to go easterly along 49th Street, over to Park Avenue then up 57th Street, make a left at that street, to try and get across town that way.

IMG_4230

I figured that that major thoroughfare would not be impassable. I was keen to find out who was inside the car, which was a very regal, stately affair; they were a sophisticated well-bred couple. I was more intrigued by the car because it was mostly glass, with the rear windshield arching up to above their heads, as they sat there exuding their exalted classism. The side panelling on the outside, and where the rear windshield met the roof, was all solid gold. Atop the roof there was a beacon like on a taxi cab, however, it was made of solid gold.

cologne-cathedral-buttresses

Really, it was more a coat of arms than anything so crass as a taxi’s beacon; this was a truly luxurious-looking vehicle. As I inspected it, I had been in flight hovering a couple of floors above it. Rising in the air, I began speeding down on the east side of Fifth Avenue over St. Patrick’s Cathedral. When I got over the cathedral, I noticed that – unlike its waking state counterpart – this one had flying buttresses. Though it was very dark out, as though the dead of a Dark Moon night, I noticed that there was activity atop the cathedral. There were things there which I found immediately intriguing.

images (4)

Abandoning my pursuit of the Bentley landau, I slowed down, coming closer to observe what was going on atop the cathedral’s roof. There, I saw wonderful fowl; there was a whole array of them which were quite large. One species was white with lots of black specs throughout its body. They were all on different ledges on the flying buttresses. All of them had nests that they were tending.

St_Patrick's_Cathedral_from_the_Top_of_the_Rock_(4692497251)

One of the nests had 8 large speckled eggs inside. There was, however, no fowl tending to this nest. Flying slowly, within ten feet of the buttresses, I inspected everything with a keen eye. This was so very astral plane in focus. Considering that I had previously been counselling River Phoenix, who had recently passed, it made sense that I should be on the astral plane. In any event, the rooftop was pitch-black and covered in tar. The masonry here was also much blackened with time’s passage. Too, there was a lot of moss covering every available nook and cranny.

I suppose that this replica of St. Patrick’s Cathedral needed to exist, here on the astral plane, to provide some sense of continuity to the dearly departed recent arrivés of the Catholic persuasion. Here on the astral plane, this St. Patrick’s Cathedral was considerably larger than its waking state counterpart. As well, it was millennia older than the Roman Coliseum. The older dead moss had left the structure blackened – along with the centuries of pollution and soot caked on in layers. Naturally, in order to get up to the roof of the nave, I had had to rise higher and beyond the buttresses.

Cro-Magnon-artists_2

Once higher in the air, I saw down between these two buttresses a group of Whites. They were dressed in animal skins and were, in the true sense of the word, barbaric-looking. They had not yet fully developed the ability to speak; thus, their speech consisted of a series of barks and grunts. Quite hirsute, they were obsessively fearful. Huddled on the top of the structure, they proved a smelly lot.

hqdefault (2)

Everything was quite ancient and scorpionic-hued. As well, there was a tribe of black-furred monkeys with some red in them. The Barbarians also wore a skin that had a reddish hue to it which was seemingly a doeskin. Theirs was, as well, a tawny reddish complexion. On noticing me, the monkeys went wild, climbing up to the tops of the buttresses; frantically, they pounced and screamed up at me. Goodness, they had such large vicious-looking teeth; thank goodness they could not fly.

Mildly horrified, I simply levitated higher into the air and stayed clear of their none-too-evolved noise. Exceptionally tiny, they were also very intelligent-looking. Truth be told, they looked much more evolved intellectually than their simian cousins, the Barbarians. Goodness, they were feisty and noisy. Wanting to investigate everything about the queerness of the sight of me, they were truly inquisitive.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Going higher, I reached to the top of the nave where I noticed a couple lying there. They were lying on their backs. Looking not unlike the sphinx’s, theirs were the most abnormal-looking skulls that were splayed and large. Their clothing was unusual-coloured; however, on closer inspection, it turned out to have been their skin. Basically, their skin was as if a floral-printed fabric. Very brightly coloured, their skin was an interesting sight… to say the least. They lay there, looking not the least bit surprised at the sight of me. They also seemed not inclined to do anything but enjoy themselves in repose.

They seemed so mysterious. Looking down, I alighted to investigate. I spent some time looking down at their feet where their skin was also uniformly distributed. I had wanted to leave but decided to head in the opposite direction; as they lay there, their feet were in my way. I didn’t want to have to upset or interact with them. They seemed alien, in the true sense of the word, but were not in fact to be disturbed. Silently, they lay there and directly looked at me. One had the sense that they could have turned deadly in a femtosecond and gone at me like a cobra on the attack. They had very cool eyes that were powerful, truly scorpionic. Theirs were the kind of eyes that were beguiling but utterly untrustworthy.

*Their eyes much reminded me of that dream encounter with Lars Gamst, set in the British Isles some centuries back, wherein we encountered a litter of oversized cats, which turned out to be not only psychic but also feral. This was back in the summer of 1988 – before recording the dreams on audio-cassettes. END.

Soon enough, I flew away from there because this was much too astrally focussed an experience. I might add, as dreams go, it was one that was very much so real and quite layered. It was simply much too intense; so, with that, I withdrew being energetically focussed therein.

_____________________________________________________________________

Hope you enjoyed having taken this groovy little trip with me… Go on, hop to it, start flying. I love you more.

_____________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Posted in 20th century American artists, 20th Century Art, Actors, American Artists, Americans, Animals, Archetypes in dreams, Architecture, Artisan souls, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Astral Projection in Dreams, Authors, Black artists, Black creative artists, Blog, Books, Canadian artists, channelling, Cinema, Creative Genius, Diarists, Dream Shamanism, Dreamquest, Dreams, Dreams of cadre mates, Dreams of entity mates, Dreams of ETs, Dreams of extra-humans, Dreams of famous persons, Fantastic Realism, Film, Flying dreams, Gay Artists, Longreads, Lucid dreams, Magical Realism, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Modern Artists, Movie, Older souls, Performers, Shamanism, Spirituality, Visionaries, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Lesson In Older Soul Lovemaking.

dsh1993halloween3

So, on Friday, November 3, 1995, as the gibbous Moon waxed in Pisces – measurably drifting across my tenth house – I would dream this dream which concerned the dynamic between both Merlin and Oleg. 

*For the record, Oleg in a previous incarnation was the English writer, Charlotte Bronte.  END.  

______________________________________________________________

d8

A house that much reminded me of the one in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts proved the setting for this most potent dream.  There were five of us here; although, one person’s identity now eludes me.  There in the living room, seated on the blue sofa of our Crab Hill home, was Merlin with his back to the north.  Directly behind him was the five-foot oblong mirror; it was hung against the living room’s wall.  On the other side of that wall, in the waking sate, was Harella’s bedroom.

Here in the dreamtime, which was definitely astral plane in focus, the living room was elongated; it was more oblong-shaped, along a north-south axis.  Merlin’s right side was closer to the veranda and the main road with the McHughs across the road.  Across the room from me, with her back to the street and facing due east, was Gita Gurucharan – Oberon Samuelson’s lovely wife and mother to miracle worker extraordinaire, Vijayalakshmi Gurucharan.  Oleg de Brontë was seated directly opposite Merlin.  There was a man, to my immediate left, who sat directly opposite Gita.  Whilst I was closer to Merlin than anyone in the room, I was not however sharing the sofa with him.

Abruptly, Merlin got up and took his leave of us.  He went into Harella’s bedroom.  The others had dropped by to visit.  It was clear, early on, that Merlin simply wasn’t into it.  There was strain to the social dynamic which Merlin put an end to – he rudely took his leave of us.  This was so unlike his former self during his recently-concluded incarnation.  Yet, I fully understood where he was coming from.  Whilst being in the soul state, he was now more so his true self.  This gathering of persons represented the past to him, which at this point, clearly served no interest for him.

home-design

I then got up and stood next to Gita who was on my right.  After Merlin rudely took his leave of us, we had all silently gotten up.  To say the least, it was awkward.  As we faced towards the dining room, our backs were now to the veranda.  Filling the void that Merlin’s departure had created, Gita and I began making conversation.  To say the least, it was a strained, canned affair.  Here, I was keenly aware of how much I am dismissed as a social misfit.  I was aware that these were persons who had long ago decided that I was not the swiftest of souls – I don’t indulge in clever repartee and such plastic aggressiveness when socialising.

The Black man then came over; he was tall and handsome with a gorgeously mesomorphic body.  He stood to my left, directly facing Gita, and began talking.  There were a lot of pauses here; they were trying to get me to shove off by firmly excluding me.  Finally, I dryly said, “Well, I’m going to go and see how my man is doing.”

I then walked between the chairs, on which Oleg and the Black man sat, as though heading for the boys’ bedroom rather than Harella’s to which Merlin had retreated.  I then, however, made an abrupt turn left going instead through the door from the living room to Harella’s bedroom.  On entering the bedroom, I saw that Merlin was lying in the girls’ bedroom next-door.  Merlin seemed as though asleep.  He did look as though ill with full-blown AIDS.  It was not, however, distressing to have seen him thus; I was lucidly awakened here.

20171125_160139

Initially, when out in the living room, Merlin looked robust and even leaned towards a robust, mesomorphic body type.  It was clear though that having to visit with these persons, from the past, had very much so enervated his spirits.  Rather than sit there interminably, enduring what was an unpleasant situation for him, he thankfully had taken refuge when he had.  On drawing closer to him, I gently caressed his face – all the while thinking of how difficult this was for him.  I wanted to share some of my energies with him; I wanted to restore his.  The vibrations from the living room, however, were distracting.

Quitting-Drinking-1160x773

After excusing myself from Merlin, I returned to the living room.  Immediately, I dramatically shifted personae and became rude.  I told them to sit down, at which point, we all did.  Oleg then got up after awhile; he was holding a long-necked, brown beer bottle.  There were three empty identical ones on the floor and next to his chair.  There was no mistaking the fact that he was drunk.

‘Who the hell gets drunk on the astral plane anyway?’

Oleg wore a woollen jacket that was dark and nondescript.  Incidentally, on my return, the Black man was no longer present.  In his place was a White man with the same physical description; he came over trying to save face.  The unfamiliar man charmingly suggested that it was time that they pushed off.  Oleg had gotten very drunk indeed; he was not at all being belligerent.  It turned out that Oleg had gotten emotionally distraught – about Merlin’s condition; he was upset at the way that things had turned out between them.  The fact that things were unresolved between them, at the end of Merlin’s last life, caused Oleg a great deal of distress.

He did not know how else to deal with it; thus, Oleg got miserably drunk.  I wanted to be of solace to Oleg, however, since my energies were already committed to being with Merlin that option proved a nonstarter.  Clearly, Gita and the other man had been there to try and broker some sort of peace between Oleg and Merlin.  Obviously, Merlin was not up to it.  At one point, I had actually headed to the dining room and called back to Oleg.  My voice rang out as I asked Oleg if he wanted another beer.

This was the point at which the unfamiliar White man had interrupted and declined the offer; instead, he suggested that they take their leave of Merlin and me.  Oleg, of course, was inclined to take another drink.  I did not like my role here – that of keeping Oleg grounded by drink.  Certainly, it did give the impression that I was trying to block any resolution or any communion between both him and Merlin.  Although, to be honest, Oleg had begun drinking after Merlin had left the room.  It was quite embarrassing really.  Oleg could hardly get up – let alone stand on his own.

The man had had to rush to Oleg’s aid.  Like Merlin in the bedroom, Oleg was completely enervated though he had used alcohol to drown his pain.  Oleg was devastated that Merlin was not going to return.  More importantly, Oleg knew that Merlin had positively no intentions of suffering him for a minute.  The man threw his arms about Oleg and braced him up.  More than that, he was fortifying his very spirit.

Again, I took my leave of them in the living room and headed back for Merlin.  However, I did not spend time visiting with Merlin.  On returning to the bedroom, I got a long, black, woollen evening coat.  It was rather expensive and cut close to the body.  Bearing the coat, I returned to the living room where I insisted that Oleg take it to stay warm.  For not realising that he had been drinking to excess, I had felt badly.  He was truly distraught; nothing pained me more than seeing this truly beautiful man’s spirit in disrepair.

Whilst his White friend got him into the coat, I stood in back of a disjointed Oleg and held the evening coat open.  Interestingly enough, Oleg’s handsome, Black friend earlier was the same handsome Black man, with the striking resemblance to Maxwell Bowleson – he had appeared with him in that august-energied dream, on Friday, July 21, 1995.  Eventually, they all took their leave of the house; they were rather low-key when doing so.  When I had returned to the living room, after having visited with Merlin in the girls’ bedroom, Gita had not said anything further.

 

 

Merlin 26121988

No sooner than had they all left the house that Merlin came out to the living room to join me.  I was surprised to see that he was again looking so healthy.  Directly opposite Merlin, I now sat alone.  Merlin silently sat there.  Whilst consciously sending him loving energies, I held my back erect.  Much to my surprise and amusement, Merlin carried a large, clear plastic bag with about 1.5 pounds, likely more, of marijuana.  Merlin meticulously rolled a large thick joint with all the Zen focus as he had when incarnate.

I sat there being truly blown away at the sight.  I had completely forgotten the sublime, almost Zen, sight of Merlin rolling a joint.  Moments like this were when Merlin really turned up the hues of his magus nature.  It was a groove into which he slipped, in order to conceptualise – to non-linearly think.  These ganja joints were so thick that they looked like short white cigars; they certainly smoked profusely like a cigar does.  I was mildly humoured by Merlin’s realness.  It was grounding.

On looking up, Merlin paused before lighting up and turned up the sensual hues in his large brown – which they were not when incarnate – eyes.  Coolly, Merlin intoned, “I have no intentions of seeing these people…”

He then pursed the fat joint in his rosy lips and lit up.  Casually, Merlin blew on a long even breath that readily perfumed the air with its pungent aroma.  Up to that point, the room was sillaged by that most glorious of scents patchouli – it was Merlin’s favourite fragrance.  As an afterthought, Merlin added that Oleg had intended to come back tomorrow and join him for lunch.  There was supposed to be some woman or other present then.

dsh&ssk1985a

Apparently, it was not going to be either Morag O’Hoare or Gita Gurucharan.  I don’t know who she was supposed to be but it was also definitely not Elektra Skanczchowicz – and definitely not Hélène Plotte-Visage.  Merlin took his time and drew on another breath.  He then announced that the luncheon had been arranged by none other than Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.  Merlin, however, was not into it.  “Are you sure that you’re going to be up to it?” I asked obviously concerned.

As I looked across the room at Merlin, I spent a great deal of time being spiritually focussed and sent him energy.  What was really interesting in this process was that with his long even breaths, when dragging on the ganja joint, I used his breathing rhythm to become harmonised with his vibration.  The focussed process of sharing my energy with him was very potent – real.  The energy flowed with great ease.  For being intensely lucid, I thought of elevating my vibration’s frequency.  I had hoped to thus cycle off a ton of my energy into Merlin.  I accomplished this by envisioning us both encircled by spheres of intense blue-white light.  Soon, I saw my energy body cycling off a coil of white light.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

This light originated both from the top and bottom of the sphere of light which completely enveloped my seated body.  The light travelled the distance between us, across the room, some seven feet away at most.  It made contact with both poles of his energy body’s identical sphere’s integrity.  Together, we were truly in communion soul-to-soul.  The interesting thing here was that we both continued casually visiting though I knew that Merlin was keenly aware of the energy work that was being accomplished between us.  As he continued his detached Zen-like smoking, I knew that it served as a backdrop to his being receptive of the energy work that I was doing on his behalf.  Our breathing was completely synchronised.

I used each inhalation to draw off the negative vibrations.  It was this energy that had caused him to become completely enervated when seated opposite Oleg whom he clearly had no desire to have encountered.  Merlin then chose to abruptly retire, whilst the others visited, to the girls’ bedroom to crash.  With each exhalation, I sent him intense, white-light energy that was being liquidly drunk by his energy body.  The marvellous thing about this entire experience was how utterly feminine Merlin’s modalities were.  This was in marked contrast to my very masculine, martial, warrior-energied focus.

merlin-arvin-1987

It was truly a validation of the creative principle, Merlin being yin to my yang.  Together we were becoming whole.  Together our energies were perfectly harmonised.  As a result, Merlin’s energies were thusly realigned.  Too, for being in this very expansive state, I caught brief glimpses of the outlines of the light energies that were being manifested between us.  During the moments when he would exhale potent puffs of smoke, I observed the manifested spheres of light each time.  The smells of the patchouli and ganja, combined with the ganja’s smoke, created the effect. I was so grounded for being here in this astral plane reanimation of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house.  It was a truly sublime shamanic experience.

It was clear that Merlin had no desire to experience unpleasant aspects of the past.  As he sat there, Merlin waited for the air to clear; he waited for the ganja to wane and the strobe of the light spheres to fade out before replying,  “No, no.  It’s okay.  I’ll be okay…”  As Merlin spoke for the first time, he looked healthier than he had looked at any point before during our astral plane dream encounter.  Earlier, he was lying on his stomach with his left cheek on the pillow; his face looked out the door that led to the room from Harella’s bedroom.  There was a cool sheen of sweat then that covered his brow and body; he laid there looking truly wasted.

Even his breathing was loud then.  As I patted his cool brow, I could hear the crackling in his lungs that suggested that he was again suffering from a bout of pneumocystis.  On soothing his spirit, I had brushed the wet strands of his shoulder-length hair from his brow.  It was so very good to have seen Merlin.  The most exquisite pleasure of being in his presence was the great sense of peace that I felt for seeing him whole again.  The simple act of his rolling a joint was, for me, on the order of bliss; he was transcendent.  Of course, as was the case during our relationship in the waking state, he did not offer me a toke of the cigar-like joint.

I do know that I found the second-hand smoke pleasurable.  It was sweet; it did much to relax me, along with the focussed deep breathing that I independently did – that we did in unison and which had been triggered by his breaths when smoking the joint.  Feeling the need to come down from the intense energy work that I had accomplished with Merlin, I got up and walked slowly over to Merlin.  I asked him if he was going to be okay on his own.  He assured me that I had nothing to worry about; he would be fine.  I knew it too.  So with that, I took my leave of him.  In a bid to move back into my regular-dream body, I went out to get some air on the veranda.

000402374-1

He assured me that I did not need to come back, later on, and join him.  He would be quite okay to handle things on his own, he assured me.  I believed him.  Merlin simply glowed throughout; his cheeks were flushed and fleshy even.  Merlin looked centred and genuinely contented.  I then found some ice cream, beneath one of the living room chairs, which earlier I had been eating.  Naturally, it was not all that great as it had melted down and lost its flavour.

______________________________________________________________________

Yeah groovy people, you know the score, just plié, push off and fly like when you have just had the greatest sex and dance as if this gorgeous planet ain’t nobody’s property but yours.  I love you more.  

______________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in Actors, Artisan souls, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Astral Projection in Dreams, Authors, Books, Chakras, channelling, Creative Genius, Crystals, Diarists, Dream Shamanism, Dreamquest, Dreams, Dreams of Merlin, Dreams of Task Companion, Essence Contact in Dreams, Fantastic Realism, Longreads, Lucid dreams, Magical Realism, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Older souls, Photography, Scholar souls, Shamanism, Spirituality, Visionaries, VisionQuest, West Indies, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Buster En Repose Pyramid Green Room.

thumbnail_IMG_20190808_010603_147

(L to R,) Yonge Street Mask (George Hawken Lithograph 1971), Pink Chair (George Hawken Lithograph 1990 of yours truly; there are only three copies in existence) Woman (George Hawken Lithograph 1980) Sockeye Salmon (Bill Reid Lithograph 1991), Four Standing Figures (Henry Moore Lithograph 1978) 

Buster is a really keen familiar.  Recently, someone of dubious intentions visited my home; needless to say, I had dreamt of the encounter days prior.  As he spends long hours therein, Buster came from the pyramid and promptly hissed at the individual then returned to the pyramid where no doubt, he communed with his Egyptian ancestors.  He only ever enters the pyramid at the eastern corner and when meditating will face one of the four corners in the sphinx position and remain thus for long hours.  

Buster loves that duvet; therefore, year round I have to sleep with one.  Now that it is summer, I avoid roasting beneath the down duvet by having the AC on high 24/7.  Bad carbon footprint; then again, I don’t drive.  

_____________________________________________________________________________

_____________________________________________________________________________

©2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, 20th Century British Art, 20th Century British artists, 20th century Canadian art, 20th century Canadian artists, Abstract Art, Abstract Artists, Animals, Art, Art Collecting, Art Collection, Artisan souls, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Black artists, British Art, British Artists, Canadian art, Canadian artists, Creative Genius, Crystals, Design, First Nations Art, First Nations Artists, Haida Art, Lithography, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Old souls, Painters, Print, Printmakers, Printmaking, Private Art Collection, Pyramid, Sculptor, Serigraph, Spirituality, Visionaries, Visual Artists, Visual Arts, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Poetry Most Rare: A Rose Like No Other.

Bubble Nebula

As the dreams of Merlin after his passing betray, our relationship endured beyond dimensions.  This enduring love allowed my growth to continue.  This love allowed me to become immensely enriched for having known Merlin.  This dream betrays the continued spiritual growth that I experienced.  This growth was much enhanced for having known and loved Merlin, before meeting him, during our seven-year relationship and after his passing. 

The dream occurred, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and my third house.  At the time of this dream, I was visiting Pandora in Paris.  On this trip to Paris, I would meet the delightful Louka Duplessis.  Clearly, the dream touched on past life experiences in France but, more importantly, it reflected my spiritual maturation during the course of this lifetime.  The dream chronicles my ascension to new plateaux spiritually as mirrored in the dreamtime. 

The dream in question also occurred in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day.  Too, it was the second of four dreams that day. 

4-things-about-Paris-stairs-elevators-haussmann-grand-boulevards

I was staying in this old building.  It was a normal six-storeyed, Parisian pied-à-terre.  The windows across the way were naked of any drapes.  The window, from which I looked, allowed me a view into the third storey windows across the street.  There was no fencing between the properties and both buildings were fairly close.  It was an old building and it was situated in the rear of the property.  I was two storeys higher up whilst looking down at this guy.  He was mesomorphic, developed and swarthy.  He was definitely of North African descent.  

Callendar-01-1038x576

This man was head of the household guard of the limestone mansion.  This mansion was not unlike the one I passed by, last night – that is, in that dream experience, wherein Tina Turner performed her heart out, on the mansion’s veranda.  It was, however, not that palatial home – in that dream, the residence was a bungalow which this certainly wasn’t.  This building though was many storeys tall.  I instinctively knew that I was the owner but, somehow, my life was now in danger.  He, for being part of the household guard, was fiercely loyal.  He saw to it that I was kept securely insulated.  I was kept secured in the abandoned building, in the rear, since no one would be expected to go looking for me there.

reassuring-hand-on-back

The building that I was in was old and missing all of its window panes.  He sat there, on the third storey, on a red velvet chaise longue.  On his immediate right sat a woman.  Seemingly, she was a daughter of one of the maids.  The household staff here was quite large.  He was lounging back, on the backrest, stroking her long brunette mane.  I could tell from his rhythmic stroking of her head that he was aroused and that she was more than likely giving him a blowjob.  I couldn’t, however, make out his cock from my perspective.  He was, at the very least, exposing himself to her and wanted her to give him head.  She, however, was being very cautious.

Obviously, he was easily made impatient by her inaction.  From his energies, I could tell that he would likely soon overpower her and force her to go down on him.  Frankly, I did not approve of him abusing a woman thus.  However, it was a situation that she had little control over although it was clear that she did not want to do it.  Since it was my house, I wanted to go there and intercede on her behalf.  In any event, I really did not like being held up in this confining space.

Screen-Shot-2018-01-06-at-10.40.47-PM-1280x640.png

To have been caught up in this sort of situation, it proved truly stifling of my energies.  More than that, I wanted to kick some arse because he was abusing his powers by manipulating his subordinate.  I did not approve of this at all and, more importantly, I also didn’t want anyone in my employ to be abused thus.  So I managed to make my way back down into the palatial digs.

Entering at the ground level, as I progressed, the main foyer was fairly empty.  Here there were lots of large columns that were wooden and in the Gothic style.  The ceiling here was wooden with flying buttresses.  This was a very high-ceilinged affair that was easily two storeys.  The floor was tiled with black-and-white marble with each tile being some two-and-one-half feet square.  It was very beautiful here with a very shiny polish to the floor.  As I walked, I wore riding boots and had a very strong, demonstrative stride.  At times, as I did not want to be heard making my approach, I was being very slight.

tiled foyer

Instinctively, I knew where to be forceful in stride but I also knew where to be otherwise slight.  All of this was about announcing my presence to certain persons therein.  I then began mounting the very dark-wooded, high-glossed, polished staircase to the landings.  I was impressed with just how clean the household staff kept the place.  There was much loving care put into their jobs.  I was warmed by this and knew that it reflected their respect for me.  Clearly, I was a good steward in their lives – one who cared about their well-being.  Each storey of the large staircase had a square landing which looked out to the landings below.  Though I had not taken the time to look up, as it was very brightly illumined, there just may have been a skylight overhead the staircase.  When I did look up, on one of the landings, I saw a woman a couple of storeys up.  She was older and wore a greyish smock.

1284388399968

Her head she kept tied in a turban with white, heavy-looking fabric.  On seeing me, she rushed back away from the landing.  Straight away, I went stealthily speeding up the stairs without as much as a sound.  When I got to her landing, I slipped into this back room that was one to which I knew she would have retreated.  This was the chambermaids’ quarters.  Very wide-eyed and full of fear she let me know, right off the bat, that she did not know anything.  Clearly, she was trying to cover for the fact that the house guard had been overpowering the woman.  She did not want to get involved.  More to the point, she did not want him avenging himself of her.

The young woman may even have been her daughter yet she was not prepared to risk her security.  Hissing, I interrogated her but she was so overcome with fear that she avoided becoming caught up in the politics of it all.  She understandably felt obliged to do as I said yet she was sexually acculturated, to be subservient to men, such that she simply couldn’t bring herself to defy any man.  Even a corrupt one whom she knew was not my superior, she simply could not cross.  The attacker was a feared and forceful man – sadistic.  Seeing that he was part of the palace’s security, he could easily have her killed and made it look like an accident.  She knew this only too well.

john-wick-1447768504

This very shrewd woman had no misgivings as to just what lengths male ambition would go to assure its self-preservation, most especially, at the expense of the opposite sex.  Indeed, she too had once been a young woman.  She had clearly had to learn some hard lessons about the hearts, rather the lack thereof, of men a long time ago.  She was, if nothing else, shrewdly pragmatic.  He was to be feared.  She was not in the world to provoke or affect change.  I assured her that she would be protected then sent her to her quarters.  I then took my leave of her.  We spoke exclusively in French.

She was clearly multiple-generational peasant stock and from northwestern France which I deduced from her accent.  A very self-deprecating individual and one possessed of pronounced humility.  From there, I went rushing back out onto the stairs.  As I approached she had been tipping off others, in a hushed voice, to the fact that I was returned to the house.  Just as I was beginning to come down the stairs, the North African captain of house’s guard came out.  He stood on the landing, one flight above me, very impatiently asking who the devil I was.

eabc69d39cd14ca0511249cbf3675e49

He demanded to know who this intruder – meaning me – was.  I was frankly humoured by his bravura, so smiled at him, and thought to play along.  Whilst standing there very regally, I thought to call him by his name thereby calling him on his temerity.  Instantaneously, he flashed this unusually large, black weapon which seemed part rifle, part spear.  The top of the spear was all gold-leafed as a bayonet would be speared.  It was not unlike the top of the wrought iron fencing that girdled the property which I would notice afterwards when leaving the property.  Still very casually, I mockingly tossed my hands in the air and begged for his mercy.

“Fine, if you want to treat me as an intruder, go right ahead.  I’m not an intruder…” I said, not liking the flow of this exchange.

When he suddenly began shooting at me, I was certainly surprised.  The shots explosively came, a volley of five rounds, at me.  When they were discharged they came at me with quite an incredible force.  It was as though, at will, I was able to slow down the bullets.  I saw the bullets’ progression in slow-motion.  Each shot appeared as if streaks of red light coasting through the air.  Starting out on target, directly towards me they came.  I managed, my mind totally focussed, to will them to avert making contact with me.  Every one of them ended up veering off to the right.

He barked a grunt of displeasure on seeing that the bullets had not made his intended mark.  He drew the gun again to try once more.  I knew that this man was quite a good marksman yet he never did catch me.  Making like I really was an intruder, after he had finished his second attack, I began bolting down the steps.  I manically scurried, down to the ground floor, all the whilst he kept on firing after me as I fled.  Even with my back turned, I was able to maintain my mental focus and escaped being shot by him.  Still focussed, I continued directing the bullets away from me.  The thing about the bullets was how incredibly powerful they were.  As they sped by, like the high-speed trains here in Europe do, each bullet created the same gravitational drag.

*This led me to the conclusion that when one is struck by sniper fire, it is a very impactful occurrence.  As a matter of fact, the soul itself simply gets suddenly knocked out of being focussed in the body.  It is clearly a jarring experience.  The soul, at such times, is instantaneously slapped back to the astral plane in mere femtoseconds.  END.

On rushing down to the ground floor, I took cover under the canopy of the second storey’s landing.  When the bullets would strike the ground floor’s marble tiles, they zinged and sounded much like swords noisily clashing against stone during battle.  It did cause me to wonder if the weapon’s ammunition were not, as it were, tiny spears.  Rapidly travelling, the tiny spear-like bullets created a fiery streak of light whilst tearing through space.  The friction of the bullets’ speed was what would have ignited space’s explosive oxygen.  The bullets were experienced in exquisite close-up, gnawing away at the fabric of space, as if some fiery eagle lancing through the air to make the kill.

italian-walnut-secretaire-1940s-1

From under the cover of the landing, I ran across the foyer over to this large secretaire.  The secretaire did not have any gold leaf detailing on it but it was very large and beautifully designed.  Jumping onto it, I went there to be out of range of his gunfire.  He did, however, keep on shooting at me.  Naturally, I continued defending myself by deflecting every shot he directed my way.  Pretty soon the shots were ricocheting.  Some shots did serious damage to the secretaire.  Not wanting to completely destroy it, I leapt off the secretaire.  In a streak of unbridled energy, I went bolting outside through the large heavy doors.  As I made it through the doors, I could hear him coming down the stairs after me.

France_Houses_Paris_480192

By this point, he was being joined by other house guards whom he had called to his aid.  Obviously, he had inspired the other guards to turn against me.  This was truly an upsetting surprise for me.  I ran into the most beautiful garden imaginable.  Not unlike the other garden, before the sprawling bungalow that I had dreamt of the night earlier where Tina Turner sang, was this one.  However, this garden was considerably more extensive.  Like a house afire, I went running down the garden path.  Following the path that led from the front doors, I ran screaming my lungs out.  As I worked off all that angst, it was part fear… it was part celebratory war cry.  

2621_Luxembourg-Gardens-Palace1-960x400

In one leap, I bolted through the front gates.  Yet again, it proved another very large, high, wrought iron, gold-leafed, spear-tipped fence.  All that I could think of was that I had to get the devil lost and as soon as possible.  Still running, fast as all hell, I had managed through the narrow streets to get myself onto a near-deserted off-street.  This road seemed to border the abandoned building.  It was another building which was in back of the mansion.  Here it was definitely as if Paris but a few centuries earlier.  It was as if the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s reign because the second empire architecture was not yet a ubiquitous fixture.

These were buildings that had a stone ground floor with the upper ones made of wood.  Few of them, if any, had very little to no second empire signatures.  It was the most minimalist empire detailing and as such it was not very widespread.  The style here predominantly was Roman, rather than not, with some neo-classical signatures.  Some of the roofs, in their prelude to the second empire sensibility, were more so like barn roofs than not – mansard-roofed they were.  Whilst running down the off-street, I happened on a crowd of persons who were walking.  All of them were dressed as if of another age.  This was garb from an earlier time in Europe.  Drab-coloured, heavy fabrics predominated here.

On forging ahead, I managed my way into the thick of them.  They were a group of guys who were walking in the nighttime streets.  It was an indeterminate time of night.  It could easily have been a full Moon or even coming on to dawn.  As it was simultaneously dark, it was hard to discern.  As a result, it was also not too bright.  A strange light it was, which I think was also silvery-sooty, for being so choked with wood-burning fires partout.  There was the sense also that there was heavy cloud cover that dappled the full force of the full Moon.

2016-09-16_57dc238dc870f_DSCN0812

As I hid in amongst the throng, I noticed that there were also Black men present.  They seemed to be headed off to go drinking at a bar.  These men were, however, not a rowdy crowd.  Neither were they singing nor, for that matter, were they being obstreperous.  Some of them were telling tall tales and getting us in good spirits.  It was an immediate warm group of energies.  No sooner than had I joined them that the house guard, along with his henchmen, appeared at our rear.  He began yelling at us, in a hostile tone, telling us to stop and give up.  

babylon-1980-001-boys-group-photo

We were stunned.  At least, I was surprised that they had managed to find me.  Next, they were indiscriminately shooting at us.  Of course, I was the object of their hunt.  Right away, I began ducking behind some of the larger-bodied guys in the group.  One of the Black men turned on me on realising, that for being an outsider, that they were clearly trying to get me.  He and some of the others in the group, who had their own guns, immediately began to shoot at me.  Again, I began dodging the bullets and was able to run away.  

I acrobatically tumbled, leapt and soared through the air, sometimes rolling on the ground, in hopes of escaping their fury and gunfire.  This time – for fleeing so rapidly – I was able to easily dodge the bullets without having to focus my will on diverting their trajectory.  However, there was one point, when he had shot at me that I had been of the opinion that he had shot me.  He had shot at my legs catching me in both knees.  Self-preservation demanded that I not look down at my knees.  Had I done so, on seeing that I was wounded, I would have been paralysed to take further action.  

All I wanted to do was to secure my escape from this tumultuous place with its volatile emotionality.  For that reason, I kept on going and ran from the narrow-streeted place.  Here in the street confrontation, as they streaked by at great speeds, I did notice that some of the bullets created a blue light.  This occurred as the bullets gnawed into the fabric of space.  Here, too, they were very powerful and created a sense of drag as they noisily zinged past me.  Their sound was like that of some giant beast of prey, noisily rocketing in, before the kill.  

6600517-World-s-narrowest-street-0

Along the block, I caught wind of a crack between buildings.  Straight away, I darted through the crevice.  By shifting sideways, I had managed my way into the crevice thus.  From this vantage point, I discovered that there was much fighting going down between both sides.  The fighting unrelentingly kept up without me being directly affected.  Meanwhile, I managed to inch my way further inwards and away from the street.  Here the little crevice-like lane led back into a courtyard area.  Pleased that I had made it to the courtyard, out of harm’s way, I took the time to enjoy the cool damp air of the enclosed space.  

Clearly, no one ever made it into this courtyard.  Winded, I needed to recharge my energies.  Whilst there alone, I noticed that it was suddenly getting considerably brighter out.  Intrigued, I began venturing from the courtyard to investigate the cause of the light change.  Unmistakably, there towered from on-high a shaft of intense blue-white light.  It went from the ground, in the distance, and extended up into the darkened night sky.  This light was off to the left, as I looked on, and across the street from where the street battle was going down.  

JdRaYG4RY0j0Ww0KExYOQG_CEGWCjVFYYKP7kGvzZmI

This manifestation was quite intense.  It proved a constant bleed of energy.  Simultaneously, one readily discerned that the flow of energy was moving in both directions.  It was all very intense with a great deal of power to it – a power which you could feel.  The quivering, almost liquid, undulating light gave off a tingling sound.  This sound matched its non-static, shifting appearance.  It was a cool sound like a whistling wintry wind.  This light manifestation was rather intense.  

Soon, I noticed that there was a column of white light which looked decidedly umbilical.  It much reminded me of the umbilical light being which I saw descending from the sky, in that dream of Thursday July 7, 1988.  Back then, in the dreams of July 7, 1988, it appeared as if a cetacean-like creature.  However, it turned out to be a manifestation of some aspect of self, some aspect of the soul, which proved to be Merlin’s soul totem.  Right away, I knew the significance of this dream.  This dream was clearly all about one’s totemic symbology.  Off in the distance, I could hear the tinny sound of persons speaking.  

One particular woman was remarking that this was happening as a result of persons having recently been shot and died.  In other words, this was a manifestation of their ascension to the next plane.  She speculated that this was likely their spirits taking flight away from this age and time.  Frankly, I got the sense that she did not know what she was talking about.  Since I was in hiding, I knew that I couldn’t seek her out to correct her perception of what was truly taking place.  I was really excited and strongly resonated with the nature of the experience.  

Instinctively, I fully understood the whole process – both the imagery and meaning of the whole experience.  Here however, I knew that I couldn’t call out to the light, as I had to the light on July 7, 1988.  For obvious reasons, I stood there resonating with the light.  I was being overwhelmingly energised by the light.  With the greatest yearning, the greatest compassion, I began reaching out to the knowing light force.  The umbilical cord of light next began snaking its way up, the column of blue light, like so many of the columns of smoke that rose up from the chimneys all about.  

However, this was definitely not smoke at all.  It was a nimbus-like, smoke-like, umbilical-like being of light.  It was so very knowing, gentle, familiar and intimate in is sublime, graceful beauty.  It was an umbilical cord of light that snaked up into the bosom of the shaft of blue-white light.  When the cord of light got up into the massive clouded sky it began circling around, like some giant spiral galaxy viewed head on, up above in the night sky.  On reaching the sky, the look of it as it circled was as if it were an illumined sea in the sky.  Here, of course, the major source of light would have been submerged and just beyond the aqueous surface of the sea on high.  

This, too, exactly mirrored what had happened on July 7, 1988.  In both cases, it was as though the sea was now where the sky should have been.  It was revolutionary.  Just as in the earlier experience, four years before, there was no sea visible at the conventional terrestrial site of the sea.  I was just inside the tiny lane, which was off a street, which was higher than anywhere else around.  This gave me a really good view of what was going on in the distance.  To again experience this magical occurrence, I again felt greatly inspired.  This was definitely set a few centuries back in France.  

If not set during late pre-revolutionary Paris, then the tumultuous times of the revolution and early Napoleonic times.  If not Paris, it was definitely one of the larger cities but it was definitely in France.  The light was so pure, so immensely intense indeed, it was breathtakingly beautiful.  What’s more, the light on making contact with the sky simply billowed outwards and became a greater explosion of light.  As it rippled outwards, the giant spiral galaxy of light would then spawn smaller spiralling encircling galaxies of light.  No music ever created or experienced, could ever evoke the beauty of experience that this light did.  It was quite simply looking into the bosom of the soul.  

They soon became circles within circles that were fast-moving independent of each other.  Whilst there were others which moved counterclockwise, some spiralled in a clockwise fashion.  All this movement occurred in the greatest display of slow-motioned grace.  This was power on an order that was mind-altering.  It was as though my mind were being expanded into new uncharted realms of spirit and intellect.  As four years earlier, the parallel experience had left me, I felt just as greatly inspired.  Within each spiralling galaxy of light, there were sparks of light that reflected every colour of the rainbow.  

557842c3f29bf0f7c5e89612afa047bf

In that sense, they were as if circling rainbows of light.  Lights they were that created a form of music with their tingling sound.  Inspired great music of the soul it was too.  Whilst looking into them, I saw colours that have never been experienced on this side of the dreamtime before.  It was so revolutionary to think that there could be colours beyond the known spectrum, yet, there they were.  Even more interesting was the fact that these lights flickered in and out of existence.  Each manifestation caused a resonant quiver at the solar plexus which itself had rippled outwards, in waves of ecstasy, to and from my very soul itself.  

Thus these spirals were pulsating light at what, though seemingly random, was a rather orderly progression.  With every flicker, my entire body was being inundated with the most intense stimulation of light, sound, emotion and awareness.  Most of all, I was being inundated with love.  Standing there, it was as though I were having the most thrilling flying dream experience whilst remaining perfectly motionless.  My skin, as it were, had become peeled away.  This heightened sensitivity allowed my every nerve ending to hungrily drink of the purity and intensity of the experience.  This was so elevated an experience that it can never be adequately articulated by mere words.  

It was so profound and so sublime that it was sheer simplicity.  It would be like trying to describe a rose ad nauseam.  A rose is manifested inspiration for it is creativity at its most sublime.  For that reason, a rose is experiential and is totally beyond the realm of description.  The rose is creative manifestation, as such, only one’s correspondent state of beingness allows one to experience its inspiring beauty.  Beyond that, the rose simply is yet another symbol in the pantheon of acculturated signs.  For every one of those symbols one has an automatic response.  The symbol of the rose or anything, nine of ten times, causes one to never genuinely experience anything.  The experience of the spiralling light, which only mushroomed outwards, grew more and more intense.  

Its vibrational frequency kept on rising and pushing into octaves that previously I could not have fathomed.  With this expansion, the blackened, aqueous night sky only grew more and more intensely and predominantly white-lighted.  It was as though, as it slowly churned into greater actuality, it was hurricane season with some massively powerful storm cloud gathering strength.  Where the umbilical cord of light broke through the surface, of the aqueous light surface on high, it became increasingly intense.  So intense, in fact, that soon there was a break in the continuum of the medium there.  

Now the light became even more intense than already it had been.  The poor container of my relatively tiny body seemed unable to sustain so potent an experience for much longer.  Soon, the light’s intensity waned as it had instantaneously mushroomed outwards forming a perfect circle.  Within this supra-circle were the infinitely mushrooming circles of light wherein each was teeming with an array of pulsating spectra of lights.  This was music on the order of the cosmic.  This was truly music of the soul.  Now the expanded supra-circle began flickering like some giant lightning storm.  

There within its aqueous-looking light confines, the counter rotating circles began exploding in the most symmetrical and geometric shapes imaginable.  Here, there were some geometric entities that are unknown to waking state thought which have as yet been discovered.  In that sense, it was as if one were experiencing pure mathematics.  Even though the whole thing looked like water, however, it was definitely light.  Moreover, with the explosion of geometric shapes, it now looked like crystals that were made of pure light.  They were light crystals which were spherical and simultaneously musical.  They moved in amongst themselves without ever crashing into each other.  This was pure creativity at its highest order.  The whole thing was a very molecular organic process.  

DSC100553791

In the centre, the aqueous-looking lights on high then bled open.  It became as if a giant crystalline rose of light, in an aqueous sky, which kept on breaking open its infinite petals.  By this point, my body was quivering throughout.  Too, as I stood there lucidly dreaming, I silently laughed whilst losing tears.  The whole magical unfoldment was so immensely humbling.  Finally, instead of revealing its seed pistons the petals parted revealing this incredible planetary entity.  It was more brilliant than Luna.  Try – if you will – to fathom the accumulative intensity of Luna since four plus billion years ago, it first shone full, and every full Moon since.  

68B6DECE-1722-4C2A-B292F02FD9737B11_source

However, it was no mere planet.  It was so brilliant that it was not even a star.  It was far more powerful and brighter than any star could ever be.  Even though it was so intense it was not so harsh a light, as a star’s, such that one couldn’t look at it.  This body was easily seven times as large as Luna.  Too, this immense orb was more potently luminous than Luna.  The surface of it was as if aqueous as it constantly shifted and changed form.  More than that, in its collective kaleidoscopic beauty, all this stellar planetary body proved to be was a face.  It was quite simply a glimpse into the face of one’s soul.  

Swept away, I yogically stretched my arms into its very bosom and let out a thrilled cry of joy.  This was an air pocket of inspiration like no other I had ever coasted.  I did just then begin hearing similar cries from persons who were in the buildings in the neighbourhood.  There were no persons in the abandoned buildings, which bled into the tiny courtyard, to my rear where I had been earlier.  There were several voices, all female, all of them naturally speaking French.  They were marvelling at the sight but, frankly, they did not get the picture.  

For them it was an apocalyptic event that no doubt presaged the end of the world or the second coming… paradigms which like the symbology of the rose they had been acculturated to believe – their loss, I realised.  As for me, I was really connecting with the experience.  I totally knew what it was all about.  Again, their lack of awareness only reflected their not having achieved this reflective state of creative beingness which would have truly allowed them to experience the rose of the experience.  

Rather, for them, it was an experience outside of themselves.  Just as in that dream of experiencing a planetary totem, back in July 1983, I instinctively knew what it was.  Here it was to the east and not yet reached its zenith.  This was such an incredible experience.  At this point, my body started resonantly vibrating.  Before I had been trembling, as though grounded by the force of some booming bass which impacted everything in its wake, now though I rattled throughout.  This was such a fuck-all glorious experience.  

As it had also been so long since I had experienced that kind of uplifting connection, with the soul element within, I was very much so moved.  I was humbled.  The whole revelation only lasted briefly… mere seconds.  To have been longer in duration would, finally, have been too overwhelming.  Nonetheless, I had gotten it.  I had made the connection and was greatly inspired for having had the uplifting experience.  The other townsfolk hadn’t gotten the essence of what it was; this finally was a moot point.  Quite simply, this stellar, illumined, aqueous anthropomorphic face did not exist either inside or outside of space, time or dimensional experientiality.  

merlin-arvin-1987

It was, quite simply, a glimpse of the soul.  Whose soul, mine or Merlin’s, smiled back at me?  It was not here relevant.  I had matured into the experience for having met and known Merlin.  So to that end, it was the face of both his and my Soul.  This was the most rapturous state of being that I had experienced in a long, long time.  There and then, I knew that my life had matured onto a higher octave for not just having had the experience but for having assimilated it – gotten it.  Just when it seemed that my mind was going to irreparably nova, the crystalline light of spiralling spheres began shifting.  

They ended their contraction and began expanding, collapsing over the magnetic orb, to which the umbilical cord of light had ascended.  Their movement was orderly, graceful and utterly organic.  It was like looking at a fast-action film of a crystalline rose bloom over a massive expanse of time.  This, however, was as if being cinematically experienced in slow-motion and in reverse – very spectacular.  

*God I am so glad that I have never done drugs.  END.  

When the supra-circle had finally collapsed, to cover the self-illumined, face-like, planetary being-like entity beyond the veil of glowing lights, the orb it now hid then novaed in an explosion of intense white light.  What then shot through me can only be described as enlightenment.  Quite simply, my cellular integrity was vibrationally sped up to momentarily become light itself.  When the orb’s light had imploded to nothingness, I was left instantaneously feeling very drained.  Even here in the dreamtime, I was aware of having a numbing headache.  

By the time that I came back, through the crevice-like lane, all the gun fighting had finished.  They were all gone, as a matter of fact.  On looking down, I discovered that there was nothing now wrong with my knees.  Just as I had suspected earlier, I had been wearing boots but they did not cover my knees.  Coming out into the street, I hurried along the sides of the buildings going back to the wonderful, palatial residence.  Going back towards the grounds, this time I saw another building there which was one on the side of the property.  Looking down the block, I saw four or five cars and all of them were red.  

Sure enough, just as I suspected, Magnus Colsen’s car was one of them.  As I came closer, his car was beginning to move but only slightly.  I went and said hello to him.  Inside, there were lots of boxes crammed everywhere as though he was moving.  It would seem that he was moving out of his family home, to get a place of his own, for the first time.  Unusually enough here, he was spectacled – so perhaps he is a Scholar soul.  Whilst we warmly spoke, the lens over his left eye automatically moved upwards in a sweeping arc.  Revealed, his left eye was intensely blue and warm.  They were much bluer than, in the waking state, they actually are.  

Magnus let me know that he had to be on his way and began driving off.  However, he did suggestively add that he would be back later to get some more things.  We parted, saying so long and he took off.  With that I turned around, never returning to the grounds of the palatial residence.  

*This dream was totemic for me.  I knew instinctively that it signalled the mark of me beginning to manifest at my true soul age.  Of course, during the time of my Saturn Return and Merlin’s illness, my transit from young-souled consciousness and egocentrism was affected.  During the time of Merlin’s illness and transition, there were those rather momentous and totemic dreams.  I had a very strong sense of Merlin’s vibration during the experience.  However, I never thought of him as being physically close-by nor had I anticipated seeing him in person.  Now four years later, pushing closer to my true soul age, I was crossing the seas of consciousness.  I was manifesting as a seventh level mature soul.  

We are incarnate for two chief reasons, to empower ourselves and thereby spiritually grow.  Of course, this can only be successfully achieved by choosing to conquer fear through love by choosing to love rather than fear.  This momentous dream had positively nothing whatsoever to do with anything so disempowering as experiencing God or any such tribal bullshit.  I was come face–to-face with my soul state and the energies and power which being part of an entity and itself part of a cadre represent.  There were times that I had an awareness of Joop van der Pelster who, of course, is a cadre mate.  Of the more than one hundred and fifty Michael Overleaves that I have had channelled, through both Mathilde Duchenne and Kritika Bhatt, he has proven to be the oldest-souled at fifth level old.  

I do know that I definitely do feel a sense of limitlessness when in his company.  Truth be told, the sweetest most pleasurable sex that I have ever had was not with Merlin but with Joop van der Pelster.  With Merlin there was passion and intimacy that was unsurpassed.  However only with Joop van der Pelster would one, after lovemaking, feel so exquisitely fulfilled that there was a fatigue that was of the most pleasurable order.  Every time that we have been intimate, afterwards I have felt as though that all I would have to do is simply continue the smile by closing my lids and letting go.  For doing so, I would become instantaneously an astral plane habitué – yet again.  

It is shamanic what Joop van der Pelster affects as a lover.  This is something which is also achieved between us during phone sex.  This is why he remains the only person with whom I ever have phone sex.  It is an aspect of our relationship that has lasted, for the some thirty-five-plus years that we have known each other.  Joop van der Pelster and Merlin never met nor did they ever once speak on the phone.  What Joop doesn’t realise is how incredibly uncannily his voice, when we are having phone sex, is exactly like Merlin’s.  It has always been that way even when Merlin was incarnate and knew of my phone sex relationship with Joop.  

It is as if we get into a groove whereby he channels Merlin and affects, what can only truly be called, long distance intimacy.  It is the most pleasurable form of lovemaking imaginable.  I have lived a richly beauteous life and, when it is concluded, I and a choice few will celebratorily dine on the astral plane.  I suspect that then, we will experience moments of quiet rapture.  What we will be celebrating is having lived life with the greatest panache and the sophistication befitting the brotherhood of the truly sly shamans that we are.  We are, every last one of us, truly magus.  

Van-Dyck-self-Portrait-251113-04

These dreams – and these twenty-five volumes of dreams – would not exist had I never met and loved both Joop van der Pelster and Merlin.  They have affected in me the expansion of spirit and consciousness which is reflected in the nature of the dream experiences that I have lived.  Of course, Joop van der Pelster was in a previous life the Flemish painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck.  

Now then, before this afterthought meanders on longer than the dream itself…  

______________________________________________________________

As ever, for your unflappable support, I fly-without-moving and mean it when I say, I love you more.  

_______________________________________________________________

© 2013-2019 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Posted in Artists, Astral plane habitué, Astral Projection in Dreams, Authors, Black artists, Black creative artists, Books, channelling, Creative Genius, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Fantastic Realism, Flemish Artists, Jazz, Longreads, Lucid dreams, Magical Realism, Mathematics, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Teachings, Music, Old souls, Past-life dreams, Performers, Photography, Portraiture, Reincarnation, Reincarnational dreams, Scholar souls, Shamanism, Shapeshifting in dreams, Spirituality, Visionaries, West Indian Artists, West Indians, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment