Rudolf Nureyev & Lee Radziwill

Rudolf Nureyev

These next dreams occurred on my birthday; yes, I am leonine to the core.  It was my first birthday whilst living in Vancouver, British Columbia.  At the time, I was returned to the city after having been off with Frederick Hinneault, my two-spirit lover du jour who introduced me to the wonderful, spiritually evolved world of powwows and more. 

I met Frederick as a result of the dream on summer solstice, 1994, some weeks earlier.  That dream, of course, is shared herein on March 3, 2013.  It was an uplifting dream and one which fittingly introduced me to Frederick. 

More than that, of the six dreams the one of interest is of an astral plane encounter with dancer, Rudolf Nureyev at his Louvre apartments.  This, of course, was dreamt after his passing. 

The dreams were dreamt with focussed abandon on Tuesday – same day of the week as at my birth – August 2, 1994.  At the time, the Moon was transiting Gemini and correspondingly my first house. 

Joop happens to be my oldest friend and the only friend/lover with whom I have never had a fight or falling out which is no small feat when it comes to my thoroughly engaged passion mode which can be intensely overwhelming – what with this being my third life at seventh level mature and the fact that I am a combustible mix of warrior and priest indefatigable zeal… sixth position in third cadence, third greater cadence of entity six and cadre one of greater cadre 7, pod 414… of course, being a sceptic means that I will very callously – thanks in part to my Venus-Uranus conjunction – tell you to go fuck yourself in two nanoseconds – used to be with a cool and cutting look in my 20s; now, I just do so with inordinate impatience or charmed vituperativeness depending on my moody artisan prerogative.  

Obviously, I am reposting these dreams now as a tribute to Lee Radziwill-Ross who recently passed.  Hers was, at least from afar, a truly aristocratic, iconic American life.  

Lee2

*At midnight, I took to the pyramid where I meditated for quite some time or at least had intended to.  The phone rang at quarter past as Joop van der Pelster called to wish me happy birthday.

We shared a really lovely moment of great intimacy.  I would then decline returning to the pyramid.  Instead, I took to the bed and continued meditating.

Lying on my back, with lids closed, I felt after some time rather opened up and expansive.  Then my inner vision became focussed and things began unfolding; so, here then is what I experienced.

Again, for the record, I had not done any drugs prior to this experience as I do not do drugs.  Period.

I saw a large container coming, through the air, towards me.  Turning around, it shifted and then opened up to reveal a large tunnel that was yellow-red hot-looking.

Contained in the rust-coloured container, it was a flame of light.  The only way that I can describe the container’s unfoldment is by drawing an analogy to the protective lens panels on the Hubble space telescope opening up to focus on a point in space.

There was something inside the container which had a round aperture.  Growing cautious, I had thought that it was possibly a snake.

However, I then felt myself being quieted into being less hasty to project.  My voice to self, during this interval, was almost like Merlin’s at those times – when he would say or do exactly the same thing and encourage me to be open to potentials.

Thoughts of the container being there to suck away my life-force were, of course, premature.  There was no way to get around the fact that this large container had a magnetic quality to it; it was almost, if you will, a giant vacuum.

I did not have a sense that it was sending me light energies.  Instead of protesting anything, I decided to bleed all the bile within into the container.  The container really did look like a gaping hole.

The mouth kept on shifting; yet, on the inside of the container’s mouth, the light was brilliantly red.  Then I saw some stray wafer thin waves of energy leaving my body.

As though made of solidified carbon dioxide, they slowly radiated outwards.  They left my aura and headed into the same opened up container.  I was pleased to see it and, as it were, decided to go with the flow.

I then focussed on letting all spent energies, which were not of the highest nature, be allowed to become disengaged with my corporeal being and waste away – truly spent.

I thought of all the bile that has collected in my body, from so many clung-to painful life experiences.  Mostly, this had to do with neutralising the shrapnel that had been psychically projected onto me for being here, in this archly hostile place – this racist black hole work environment here in phenomenally beautiful Vancouver.

I wanted all my fears of ill health and lack of certainty to be dissolved; I wanted it discarded into this large container.  This was great meditative and healing work.

The presence – the force of the container was massive.  It was as if a black hole had warped space and bled its way through to being close to Sol.  Thus, it allowed for this energetic work to take place.

This experience endured, for quite some time, without me once falling asleep… unusually enough.  When it was done, I managed to crack my back and got as many vertebrae realigned as when being adjusted by my chiropractor.

This was effortless and really productive.  So relaxed was I that I had even been able to crack my neck.  I felt truly yogic, relaxed and all expansive.  After having manipulated my vertebrae, I returned to meditation and did some deep-breathing exercises.

When my inner vision resumed, everything was completely different.  Now I was instantaneously flooded with a deluge of intense white light.  A container had approach and, on opening up, produced the flood of white light.

This light was so intense, its beauty so uplifting, as to make it almost too sacred as to have been experienced whilst incarnate.  Nonetheless, there you have it, we are here to spiritually get the most out of our journey.

The light was such a glorious experience, its touch a longed for aqueous, silken movement.  Being able to experience this light was so very healing and uplifting as well.  I was really rather impressed by it all such that I simply further let go and fell into sleep.  END.

verandah2

In this the first dream, I was on the veranda of a very tropical house.  It also seemed to have been connected to a back alley.  There was a van coming down the road which was to my left.

As it sneaked along, I suddenly didn’t have a very good feeling about this van and its occupants.  The main entrance to the house was to my right.  The road, on which the van progressed, was a back road.

With the backs of the houses visible as they faced out to the main road beyond, there were larger roads close by.  Though I had no idea who was in the van, I had stealthily ducked out of view at the last moment.

A little while later, in the opposite direction from left to right, a car came by bearing Vanessa Banks-Abella.  There and then she was thrilled to see me and excitedly called out,

“Boy what are you doing up there?  What are you still doing up at this time of night?”

I told her that I was reading over my notes as I tried properly recording my dreams.  Surprised, she claimed disbelief at my still being focussed on recording the dreamtime’s experiences.

“Well wha ah goin stop fa?”

She then asked me to make sure that those kids – hers and others, stayed in the house.  I could see her plainly because the car was a convertible.  She then had to be off for an engagement.

I suppose that the house would have been hers.  I then went around making sure that all the locks on the doors operated properly.  In one instance, one had to push a latch to further secure it from the inside.

When the latch was in place, there was no way to open that particular door.  I had been concerned that the latch was in place once the children were all indoors.

The door had been opened and I didn’t want any of them to get outside then not be able to get back in.  So, for starters, I rounded them all up and made sure that they were inside and left things at that.

Here, too, there were lots of video games both on the veranda, and scattered about the living room.  A very cluttered and noisy affair – Vanessa Banks-Abella and William Abella do have three boys, plus their peers, who were over to hang out.

I enjoyed listening to them noisily.

NEO SHINTOISM

I had an encounter with Isha da Braga, in this the second dream, in which I asked what she had been discussing with Marc-André Viaux.  I wanted to know if he had told her what my HIV status was.

Obviously uncomfortable, by being very evasive, she brushed off the line of questioning.  She said that it would be more appropriate for me to directly speak to him than go through her.

She simply did not care to get involved.  It was obvious though that she didn’t want to have to get involved.  Too, it was obvious from her neurotic unsteady eye movements that she knew more than she was letting on to.

For my sake, I simply did not want to become HIV infected.  I was in my darkened apartment, here in Vancouver, whilst speaking to Isha da Braga on the phone.

I could see her clearly in her Toronto condo as though we were face-to-face.  She could see me too and, for that reason, was avoiding eye contact.  A very lucid psychic connection this was.

barre2

This, the third dream, was set outdoors at nighttime.  I noticed that there was a barre in the middle of the street.  As they drove past, persons slowed down to observe.

I was near the back of the barre and felt really strong.  Not only was my technique good but my breathing was really relaxed and expansive.  I was quite so well grounded.

We had to do the tendus in plié.  Maria de Cortez, the Mestiza, was taking the class as well.  The female instructor told us what to do.  Then she let the left side of her face rub against my right jeaned thigh.

The right foot was pointed in tendu to fifth position in front.  At the time, I was in plié.  She did this out of admiration of me.  I was flattered though concerned that my jeans which were soiled could possibly be a tad malodorous.

She could not have cared less as she wanted to pay me homage.  We then did the battements tendus which incorporated a flick that was reminiscent of a coupé.  Four times this was done, en croix, then repeated to the other side.

Naturally, when we had turned around to do the exercises at the barre, I had end up being at the front of the line.  There were port de bras that accompanied this very rapidly executed tendu exercise.

Maria de Cortez had the port de bras down pat; I really admired her grace and focus.  She and I were the only ones who were confident in our movements.

On the sous-sous to turn around, I then did a passé which I held indefinitely before closing, in plié, in fifth position at the end.  My turn out was rather elastic and supple.

Here, I was wearing a pair of red legwarmers.  When doing the tendus en avant, my arms were up in fifth whilst I looked under the arm.  In second position the head was inclined up and outwards.

En arrière, if the arm was kept in second position, one looked below the arm with head inclined forward and down.  Furthermore, there was the option of holding the arm in second position arabesque.

During the exercise, the instructor walked past and touched my arm when in fifth position.  My port de bras was perfect.  My alignment and posture were perfect.

I felt completely on my supporting leg and properly aligned.  I felt rather elongated and princely.  However, the nature of the discipline was such that she felt it incumbent on her to come by and break me down to size.

It was a way of pushing you to always strive for greater mastery of the technique.  Too, it was a way of her saying that I should not have been so advanced yet.

There was a sense, on a personal level, that she almost resented my refinement.  I could not have cared less; I was too connected to spirit and the light within to have become thrown by her intervention.

She took her leave of me as her tactics were to moot effect.

Rudolf Nureyev in Louvre apartment

An encounter, in this the fourth dream, I would have with a woman who was rather like, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.  She was an aristocrat and was quite concerned in nature about being loyal.

She had been the only one to have stayed with Rudolf Nureyev, until the very end, as he suffered from AIDS.  This woman, whoever she was, had been the one to have gotten him to stop being in denial of his illness.

She managed to have gotten him to stop drinking, to excess, as he suffered a breakdown of his character.  He turned into a literal vagabond about his very opulent, finely decorated Paris apartment.

Perseveringly, she had succeeded in getting him to rein things in.  Too, in preparation of his death, she was instrumental in getting him to focus in on his spirituality.

At the time, she was trying to get him sequestered into a place where I was following up on her efforts.  I saw Rudolf Nureyev and he did so look as though he were suffering from AIDS dementia.

Though he was standing up at the time, he really didn’t seem strong enough to be doing anything so taxing.  There was no way to get around that this man was gravely ill.

His face was ashen, gaunt and his sagging skin left his eyes really large possessed-looking orbs.  He wore a narrow-rimmed little hat, from that era in this century, when men customarily wore hats; his hat was not a broad-rimmed affair.

The doyenne went up these stairs, in a very lavish opulent building, that was so very empire and distinctively Parisienne.  The stairs inside the foyer led up to a large museum where there was an art exhibit.

The paintings here were rather large.  I helped her carry him up the stairs.  In a bid to not attract attention, she had turned her back as if looking at a piece of art; it was a tiny drawing.

Lee Radziwill by Andy Warhol

She did not want the public to notice her; she just wanted to be inspired as a way of recharging her batteries.  Rudolf Nureyev was there but by himself.

We had struggled up the stairs, both of us on either side of him, supporting him just ahead of his elbows as his arms were bent at the elbows.  I was across the way from them and being silently observant of them both.

There was a path that one could take diagonally to another wing.  We had silently managed to slip the birdlike yet regal Rudolf Nureyev into the next wing; there, the space was smaller than the previous salon.

The floors here were of a rough marble that made for a noisy gallery as shoes marched across them.  It was though a wonderful light-entrapping interior where the colours were pale and soothing.

Thus the walls enlivened whatever natural light made its way so far indoors.  There was no direct natural light here, however, the soft tones of the walls left the place light rather than subdued.

The museum’s salon was rather beautifully laid out.  As we walked down to another man, I noticed an African man who was clearly an exchange student.

He had some equipment; he was an arts student of some sort.  The gear that he carried was a measuring instrument of some type.  It seemed to be a surveyor’s gear or a mini telescope of some sort.

The aristocratic woman was deeply concerned about this.  She thought that for using the instrument that he would be able to recognise Rudolf Nureyev who was fairly well-disguised.

Lee and Rudi

She seemed too to be concerned that he might just recognise her which she did not want.  She did though seem to be, the more time that I spent near her, to be Lee Radziwill-Ross and not her sister, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

There were times when she seemed to be Elizabeth Taylor.  However, this woman was a born aristocrat and was dark-eyed.  She also spoke fluent French which I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor does.

Besides, I don’t think that Elizabeth Taylor was that close to Rudolf Nureyev.  This person was an aristocratic arts enthusiast, who was also a patron of the ballet, which sounds more like the Auchincloss sisters, Jacqueline and Caroline (Lee) rather than Elizabeth Taylor.

Besides, these two were so close towards the end because it turned out that they had a soul connection.  Not only did they have several past lives together but it would seem that they shared a close connection that bespoke being cadre mates.

She was in his life to spiritually help him.  She wanted him to become focussed such that he would pass with some degree of dignity and be able to move on.  This was something that one did for being of the same spiritual tribe or, in this case, cadre.

Finally, the African student, a tall East African Nubian, with richly dark skin did not recognise either of them.  He was a deeply introspective Scholar soul who just didn’t focus beyond the object of study which presently happened to have had nothing to do with them.

Both Rudolf Nureyev and his aristocratic confidante were rather pleased that the African had not recognised them and tried to interact with them.  I was rather observant of everything whilst with them.

Though I helped out, I was never intrusive and remained at times as though not a part of their party.  She had needed me to come in, from time to time, and be of assistance but then I had become nonexistent as this was how she was accustomed to relating to help.

Rudolf_Nureyev_Paris Louvre apartment

For both of them, being in this place was like a way of staying grounded and inspired.  What’s more, this museum was connected to where Rudolf Nureyev lived.

This happened to be the case, in the waking state, as Rudolf Nureyev did have apartments which were a part of the Palais du Louvre – the majority of which houses the Musée du Louvre.

This was supposed to be his last visit to the museum.  He had been actually cutting through it whilst en route to his apartments.  This was a section of the Louvre where there were lots of prints and architectural drawings.

These salons, however, were not normally opened to the general public it would seem.  Members of the diplomatic corps, the very wealthy the world over, could be invited to view these exceptionally rare prints.

It would seem that some of them were Leonardo da Vinci prints.  The collection was considerably vaster than the prints that are on display in that wing that is close to the River Seine.

This wing of the museum did feel like it was closer to the Rue de Rivoli.  Including Rudolf Nureyev’s, this would also be the wing of the Palais du Louvre where the exclusive apartments are.

skytrain2

I was hoping, in this the fifth dream, to get directions to some place that I had never been to before.  There was a woman on the phone telling me where to meet her.

She said that she would be at a kiosk by way of the A1, at the Bay department store.  This was here in Vancouver.  I was then over on West Georgia Street, on the south side, east of Seymour Street.

Yet, I never saw her anywhere so soon became concerned.  I could not quite figure out, why she would want to meet at the Bay.  It did though contain the Granville Street Skytrain stop – the city centre’s major hub.

Then I thought that it was by the entrance to the Skytrain; she had said that the kiosk was close to the ‘A’ doors.  She had said that she actually worked at the Bay department store so could meet me there.

I thought that, perhaps, it was at the doors by the Granville Street Skytrain entrance.  There was, it turned out, no kiosk there nor had I seen her at the Seymour Street entrance.  So I returned and went across Georgia to ask further directions.

Later, when she did point it out to me, I saw that it was at the northwest corner of Seymour and West Georgia Streets.  Here, things were set up differently to the waking state.  There was an overhang.

The side of the building, where the display stood, was cutaway and here in the dreamtime painted blue.  Large television screens and other television studio paraphernalia were present.

They were interactive and gave directions to the public.  The woman, who had been on the phone whom I was supposed to have met, I then saw across the street on the north side of West Georgia Street.

There was an island in the middle of West Georgia Street reminiscent of Toronto’s University Avenue.  I walked along the island going westerly and towards Granville Street.

I saw three Black women with long braided extensions who looked rather well turned out.  On seeing them, surprised to see Blacks here in Vancouver, I grew self-conscious.

As compared to being in Toronto, it was such a rare occurrence seeing Blacks locally.  Seeing me, they totally scuffed at the eccentric, outré look of me.  I could not have cared less about their fake-arsed weave-headed self-loathing idiocy.

One of them had blonde streaks in her hair.  Though not High-Yellow they were light-complected and clearly of mixed parentage, perhaps, a generation removed.

All three were of mixed familial heritage in the past, with Whites, and were possibly related.  They were very cliquish that way that young women can be.

I did notice in the blue schemata, over by the overgrowth next to the Scotia Tower, there was an opening where there was more blue.  This opening up which created a break in the Scotia Tower complex does not exist in the waking state.

A guy was there who was genuinely, archly even, eccentric.  This man immediately reminded me of Daryll Newcombe.  On his head he wore a tiny blue and white umbrella.

A striped affair with slats in it, it looked much like a propeller which he could use to take off à la Mary Poppins.  Terribly eccentric, he was and just the sort of thing that one could expect of Daryll Newcombe.

I kept on moving along the island, going westwards, on the wider-than-in-the-waking-state West Georgia Street.

jetty2

Eventually, in this the sixth dream, I came to the end of the land.  I looked out to sea past two jetties that were quite built up.  I was high up from the water and with me was a Black man; he was young.

I rather liked his energies.  One of the jetties doubled as a wharf in this deep-water harbour.  Though it seemed fairly tropical here, I was certain that it was not St. Kitts.

Standing to the rear of my Black companion, there was a wall to my left.  Though not grey out, it was also not bright and sunny either.  The land went out to the left more and formed a peninsula.

I had a pair of binoculars which I used to try and find the second jetty.  I was trying to find the large ship; it was a navy vessel rather than a tourist cruise liner.  The ship was rather large.

However, I couldn’t find the bloody thing to be able to have surveilled the deck of the ship.  All that I could find was the steely grey of the cold-looking sea.  Never did I get to find the vessel with the binoculars.

Soon enough, I was otherwise engaged as a jetliner came into view.  It flew from right to left whilst headed for an airport.  There were times when this place did feel as if some part of Basseterre, St. Kitts.

This was definitely a Tri-Star L1011 aircraft.  Wide-bodied with some red in the schemata worked into the tail and the third engine – which sits atop the back of the fuselage and beneath the tail.

Coming in to land, the plane cut quite a majestic line.  The plane travelled unusually slowly which caused me some concern.  My companion, though, assured me that he was just making its final approach for the airport.  This didn’t seem to be the case to me; for this reason, I asked him when then was it going to deploy its landing gear.

The craft at that point was dangerously close to the ground.  It did eventually initiate the deployment of the landing gear.  Moving away the binoculars, it did seem to my eyes that the flaps had not opened sufficiently to enable the wheels to drop.

Replacing the binoculars confirmed my suspicions.  Still following its progress through the binoculars, the plane then began turning to the left.  It was seemingly a standard manoeuvre at that point in all approaching flights to the nearby airport to our rear.

To compensate for having dipped too much, the right wing sharply tipped – in a bid to prevent it from curving too close to the sea.  With that, the plane went into a sudden nose dive and landed on the shore of a black volcanic beach.

plane crash2

Skidding in the sand, the plane travelled some distance breaking against the wet sand.  The waves were gently crashing ashore; it was not at all a rough sea.  I drew my companion’s attention to the fact that the tide began suddenly changing.

This I pointed out was good as it allowed the plane not to move into the water.  The craft was veering off towards the right, rather than left, wing.  My companion, however, was not the least bit concerned about the plane’s supposed crash landing.

Meanwhile, no one seemed to be the least bit scared.  Too, no one was screaming at the unscheduled landing.  At one point, the plane’s nose fell downwards and kicked up lots of sand as it dug in whilst barrelling its way along the beach.

It was a muddy consistency as the sand was still fairly wet; it eventually covered the entire plane in a wet sheen of black sand.  Ultimately, after having made a sharp left turn facing towards the land, the crashed craft came to a stop.

The rear end of the fuselage was being partially covered by the sea.  Still, the tides receded some more and at which point a group of us began rushing down from the cliff to the shore below.  We were keen to investigate the crash.

Not knowing what next would happen, I hung back as I feared the worst case scenario of the plane possibly exploding in a massive fireball.  A little bit to the rear, and right of the plane the ocean floor dropped off, suddenly.

Beyond that, the ocean had receded to beyond 100 yards.  Stranger still, from beyond the receded cover of the ocean up to the plateau came a procession of persons.

There was no mistaking the fact that they came from the ocean.  The look of these people was decidedly Oriental.  Clearly, they were rushing to the aircraft to try and help pry the bodies or passengers from the crash.

They were there to help out in this emergency situation but there was no getting around the fact that they lived in the ocean.  Though wet, they seemed not the least bit affected by the wetness or the cool temperatures of the water.

From my vantage point, high up on the beach, I saw that the aircraft had opened up an emergency exit shoot.  Instantaneously, all these bodies came popping out of the craft.  This was a horrific sight.  Truly it was.

Everyone in the airplane was doused and appeared as if made from rubber.  Also, one feature that they all had was that their eyes had popped.

Their mouths were wide-open in the same horrific arrested scream as in the Edvard Munch canvas, The Scream.  Clearly, their deaths had been horrific and their final expressions were frozen in death.

Too, from their mouths poured what appeared to be the small intestines, brain matter or lung tissue.  They had vomited a great deal.  Obviously, from this, one could deduce that the airplane’s cabin had suddenly depressurised.

I got the sense at that point, at which I saw it coming down to land, the entire group – passengers and crew – had already died whilst at greater altitudes.  The plane was simply flying itself in on autopilot.

The landing gear failing to deploy was another indicator that the entire crew had died before they had gotten so close to landing the craft.  The bodies were all squashed, and atop one another, as though they had been banged around at high altitudes, during the flight.

It was all very sad.  Then I noticed a stout woman trying to shove her way free of the craft but the listless bodies proved a formidable obstacle.  Eventually, I noticed that there were others who wanted to make their way free of the crashed airline.

These survivors were in a state of shock, not surprisingly, and screaming their heads off.  As a matter of fact, they seemed on the verge of savagery in a bid to shake free of the bloated exploded, rubbery-looking bodies that were piled everywhere and obstructed their escape.

One stout woman appeared to be in the process of being birthed by the clamor of dead rubbery bodies piled thick, pouring through the mouth of the escape hatch.

The look of the piled up bodies was tantamount to toothpaste being forcefully squeezed from a tube.  Once halfway out of this macabre birthing canal, the woman then turned around.

What seemed like a bid on her part to free her body, from the tangle of listless bloated limbs, proved a bid on her part to pull others free who were struggling to make it out after her.

This was quite the grotesque spectacle.  By this time, some of the people began making it onto the beach rooftop from which I had safely been on looking.  For fear that the airplane may yet explode in a sudden fireball, I was still cautious about getting any closer.

The rooftop was not especially large.  A Black woman came out sometime after the stout woman.  She looked completely dazed, and just out of it, as though she were still on the astral plane whilst her body clambered and struggled of sheer instinct.

Truly exhausted, she – like all the others – was covered in a white substance that looked much like rice or stringy pasta.  This was a very lucid experience.  As much as I wanted to turn away, I simply couldn’t.  It was way too garish.

As much as I wanted to turn away from this horrific sight, I was magnetised to its surreal unfoldment.  Truly horrific was the experience vicariously.  Eventually, the Black woman made it from the aircraft and then came up onto the rooftop with the rest of the crash survivors.

Laying there on her side, as though she were looking for the solace of the womb’s protection, her legs were drawn up foetally.  Clearly, she was in retreat.  Too, she was experiencing a great deal of abdominal pains.

I had a glass of ginger ale or some such soda.  Kneeling down before the Black woman, she rolled over onto her back and rocked herself back and forth whilst writhing with pain.

Pandora da Braga was also here, incidentally, as an observer.  She seemed fairly numbed by all the devastation here.  In any event, the Black woman wore a brown floral printed dress that was soaked.

The smell of gastro-intestinal acids was rife and stifled the briny sting of the ocean.  A sour smell it was.  Holding the Black female survivor by the right hand, I bled my very life-force into her and soothed her spirit with the quiet whisper of cooing reassurances.

I told her that it was all up to her that if she wanted to she could definitely survive the ordeal.  Too, I let her know that she was merely in a state of shock.  As we were all right there for her, there was no need for her to panic anymore.

Important too, I thought, to seek out someone who was Black to comfort her.    After all, over the course of her life, the stresses of all-pervasive racism are so Real that her tolerance threshold was already considerably diminished.

She needed not to have been abandoned.  I knew how important it was for her to feel not to be passed over, as is socially customary, in this hour of need.  There weren’t, anyway, White survivors up on the rooftop.

I felt that it was important to stay there and give my support, rather than run off, lending my energies to the others who were exclusively White.

However, there was one woman in all of this who was beginning to go hysterical; her child was being administered mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Ridiculously, this idiotic Black woman began screaming at the man to stop kissing her child.  How dare he put his mouth on her child’s?  This was all a part of her denial – the state of shock into which she had been catapulted with the high altitude incident that had led to the crash.

She had had to be restrained.  I gave the glass of ginger ale to the other Black woman and then went over, with Pandora da Braga, to pacify the mother.  The mother wore a brownish-red floral-printed dress.

As the others worked frantically, in a bid to resuscitate her, the child was very limp.  Then she went stark raving mad, all bug-eyed, saying to whomever off in the indeterminate distance,

donna summer2

“I know it, you know.  Ah goin’ sue dey ass!  As soon as Donna Summer announced that we were going to crash, that’s de firss ting ah say.  ‘Ah goin’ sue dey ass!’”

Similarly dark-skinned, this woman so much reminded me of Dian Mason.  She was, in both senses of the word, truly hysterical.  Then she added, licking her lips frantically, and looking so distinctively West Indian,

“Boy, yu wait!  If ah live, ah goin’ sue dey f-ing mudderscunt…”

This woman proved the point of one of the most hysterical dream experiences in ages.  Offering up some reassurance, I told her that she had to calm down and not get herself too agitated.

I told her that she simply had to focus on calming her nerves.  If the child were to survive then she needed to focus instead on the child and not her issues, to which she answered,

“Boy, hush yu damn ass!”

She went wild with rage at my suggestions.  Then she turned on Pandora da Braga and made threats of her whilst insisting that it was Pandora’s fault why all of this had happened.

According to her, it had been Pandora da Braga’s idea that she take the bloody flight.  Threatening to beat her up, she pounced towards an unflinching Pandora da Braga.  And she was a tall woman too, much like Jan Hartley.

With that I leapt in between her and Pandora da Braga, squaring off with her, meeting her eyeball for eyeball as I hissed at her,

“Watch your fucking mudderscunt!”

I was deadly ferocious; my intensity was more than she could withstand.  This diffused and centered her energies; she was the first to flinch then stand back.

There was positively no way that anyone was going to attack Pandora da Braga once I was around or alive.  The tension diffused, I watched her back as she walked away to go look after her daughter.

There was then a woman, down off the rooftop, to the left of where we stood.  Looking down at her intently, she was a somehow familiar Black woman.

It was as though I was supposed to have known who she was.  Perhaps, I had encountered her years earlier in a dream.  Perhaps, she was from another time… another life.

At the time, everyone was laying blame at Donna Summer’s door.  Apparently, the chartered flight had been organised by Donna Summer.  The entertainer was headlining at a resort which was a partly owned business venture of hers.

The discussion was about who exactly was karmically responsible for the crash and the number of persons who had lost their lives as a result.  The woman down below was there to keep score of everything: who had been lucky enough to survive, who had not.

Also, she sought to learn the severities of the injuries sustained by the survivors.  Her record keeping was also on the order of keeping akashic score of who owed who karma in this multidimensional group dilemma of sorts.

She was rather officious and adroit.

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

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#BestDespinaEver!

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Opening nights are always such fun… Tuesday night past, I was reminded of all the opening nights that I would attend with a slightly neurotic Merlin as some show or other that he had directed was being presented to the world… As ever, it was great to see my plus one, Lucian Mann-Chomedy as the ideal partner for these occasions. Always reserved, pleasant and just the right amount of chatter and wit.

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Whilst Lucian enjoyed the pre-show lecture in the Four Seasons Centre Amphitheatre, I slipped next door into the warmth of the Sheraton Centre Hotel and warmed myself on a glass of sherry whilst finishing off 2018’s Scotiabank Giller Prize winner on my KOBO.

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What an utterly stunning tour de force. It was a moment to reflect, this Black History Month on just where we blacks are in the scheme of things. God only knows, it has been bruising to watch Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become the print media’s most reviled and hunted fugitive from justice of that most vile creature, the racial predator.

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I was still smarting at the events of a week earlier during the winter season’s first major snowstorm. I had been recalling to friends how strange it now was, compared to my first winter in Canada. December 1, 1974 and it snowed that day more than 8 inches. Back then it generally was guaranteed to snow once if not twice weekly. Now at end of January, 2019 and we were finally having our first major snow. This was not like snow from years past… Now it was a dirty, sooty-looking hard mess that lingered, largely in part because the city has contracted out its snow removal services.

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As there are no windows in my apartment – Sol’s too damn bright by far and besides, boarded up windows afford me more art-hanging space – I got down in the early afternoon that Monday with my bike, only to be met by falling snow and several accumulated inches. Back up I went, retired the trusty chrome steed and returned and hopped into a snazzy Audi A6 Uber ride with a Macedonian whose spirit was as smooth and elegant as matchingly was his car. The mood set the tone for my day. As I am known to work 16-hr days, I called another Uber at the end of gig one whilst hoping to get to gig 2 in good time. The snow was still coming down; it was also bitterly cold and windy.

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When finally, Uber #2 arrived, cold and dark with icy pellets mixed in with the snow, the driver rolled down his passenger side window and declared, “Sorry Buddy but I am going to have to cancel this ride…” Already running late, with my wheeled suitcase at the ready, he edged along as I tried to open the door and raised his voice, his eyes almost feral-looking beneath his turbanned, narrow skull. “I said I am cancelling you. One: I never take people like you in my car. Two: you have a shitting rating… Sorry, not sorry. Fuck you Buddy.” With that, he stepped on the gas and I had to swiftly haul me and suitcase out of the way as the rear of his red older model car whose interior did have that blasted malodorous melange of curry, dirty armpit, dirty arse, smegma and whatever the fuck else that passes for immigrants of choice these days. Finally, after having struggled out onto a still-not-ploughed Bay Street, I managed to hail the fourth cab whose West African driver insisted that I call Uber and report him… Days later, I was afforded assurances that the racist Dravidian was no longer part of Uber’s fleet. Similarly, when calling a Beck Taxi with a fairly generic name as Arvin, on coming downstairs the Indo-Canadian drivers on several occasions as though staying on script would feign obsequiousness and state that they were deeply sorry but owing to a family emergency, they were having to take the cab out of service. No sooner than having refused me a ride, they would then be observed heading out to Wellesley, turning on their unoccupied light and picking up a fare off the road. As if the blasted motherfuck, the likes of your overbred arse invented Jazz.

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Each and every time that one experiences racial animus, is preyed on racially, it always harks back to that first winter in Toronto. My best mate from two summers earlier, when I would come to Canada to visit with my dad during school break, had been sick. After Sunday church service at Knox Presbyterian at Harbord and Spadina before returning to our beautiful home at 122 Mortimer Avenue, I would visit – my dad and I – with Tommy who was holding up at Toronto Sick Kids Hospital on University Avenue. My father explained that Tommy was sick with the winter flu, which sometimes could last for months and well beyond winter. I was a scrawny little fourteen-year-old who looked like most ten-year-old Canadian kids as I crawled the halls at Harbord Collegiate where among my mostly Italian-Canadian chums was future lawyer, Rocco Galati. As Tommy, who was a couple of years older than me, had gladly shared books with me the two summers prior that I would take to Knox summer camp and read then have a good stroke off, lusting after my inamorato, Tommy, I readily agreed to do his newspaper route for him until he came home. My first Saturday, the cart was overflowing with the thick Toronto Star newspaper and there was a good foot of snow everywhere. It was hellish but for Tommy, I was game to go the distance – who knows what hot frottage, docking and more was in the offing for having done his route for him! When I got to the northeast corner of Floyd and Bater Avenues that first Saturday to collect the funds, the door opened to a woman whose response to me was the most hideous display of the displaced madness that is white bigotry. Screaming at the top of her lungs, the woman in her upper seventies, vituperatively cursed my black bugger arse off and laid down the law. Never again, “you dirty little nigger” was I to sit foot on her verandah.., I was to put the paper between her screen and front doors, knock then return to the top of her steps and wait for her to pay the bill. That first Saturday, she ripped the paper from my hand, flung the money at me. She was terrifying, in her faded blue A-line dress, black spectacles that had those upturned pointed edges at the sides; she wore faux pearls. Most of all, she wore the most hideously terrifying eyes. I remember how much they looked like eyes of a rooster, especially so for being such puffy eyes. Like the evolved, winged and feathered reptilians that roosters are, her eyes truly did look not the least bit human. She was so consumed with racial animus that it was truly frightening. By the time I made it home, I found myself regurgitating. Thereafter, every Saturday, I would take my spot at the top of the steps and consistently she would hurl out pennies mostly at me rather than the verandah where that first winter I had to suffer the indignity of picking through inches of snow on the verandah, steps and lawn to collect my money. Naturally, without fail she called most Saturdays to the Toronto Star, complaining of either not having received her paper on time or that it was missing altogether. This would mean having to buy her a replacement at the corner store, take it and only to be fed on by the hideous-of-spirit racial predator. Like a true cockhound many an indignity I suffered in hopes of my spectacled, full-lipped and scholarly inamorato, Tommy hooking up with me for having been so loyal to him. The summer prior, I had ventured to the public pool on Broadview at Riverdale Park with him and a couple of others and thrilled beyond belief was I to spy his large pendulous balls and that hammer-headed girthsome salami that pummelled his bikinis. Indeed, for Tommy I would suffer much indignity. There was a low-rise apartment building at 1111 Broadview where on the ground floor, there was another predator, this one equally septuagenarian who lived alone, smoked incessantly and always answered the door in various stages of undress, mostly ever only wearing a soiled merino. He was always a generous tipper; a whole 2$ bill in 1974/75 was serious cash. Naturally, in the pre-Ciaslis epoch old anorexic, drunken paunched predator would sometimes tug on the old bulbous semi-flaccid/semi-tumescent, though, pendulous but perfectly useless appendage, trying to lure me in. Sitting there in all that squalor and acting as though he was sugar daddy material… indeed. He was always keen on trying to grab me when giving me the “tip” and I was ever sly and crafty enough to get away from him each time. He, too, lead me to regurgitate, which I had not done since age nine and suffering my first racial attack. Of course, to this day, neither academia nor medicine will concede that there is any such a thing as the racial predator and the effects it has on those preyed on – mostly blacks – and the psyche/mental illness of those who prey on others chiefly non-blacks in varying degrees of severity based on otherness.

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Finally, the house lights went down and I was met by the whimsical vista of the COC’s production of W. A. Mozart’s glorious opera, Cosi Fan Tutte. Previously, I had caught productions of this Mozart gem in Chicago, Montréal and New York City. I was not expecting much at this rate. The Frida Kahlo connection was a bit of a stretch but the butterflies fast won me over.

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From the moment that she stepped onto stage, my spirit soared aloft higher than Mozart’s glorious music to that point had spirited me. Never before had there been so captivating a Despina. My eyes teared up and I was ever on the cusp of explosive giggles. Then what made me truly come undone was the moment Tracy Dahl took to the stage as the notary… by now, I was losing tears and beginning to emit choked snorted chuckles. Each Saturday back in 1974/75 when doing Tommy’s newspaper route, I would end off taking the Saturday Star to Giovanna an octogenarian Italian, who was plump, charming and more adorable than any mere mortal ought to be. Soon, we were fast lovers and she loved fussing over me, baking me each Saturday nice, warm, oven-fresh biscotti washed down with a glass of ice-cold “gingah raleh”… her thick Italian accent was part of her charm. Hers was a large black and white cat, simply known as pussy gatto, who always sat nesting on the armchair. Each week, Giovanna sat transfixed as I read her the newspaper; her vision was to that point fairly deteriorated. As a way of better forging our bond and because most of my mates at Harbord were Italian, for three years, I studied Italian and that really impressed Giovanna, who was simply known as “Mama Mia.”

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As the opera progressed, Ms. Dahl as the notary, dashed and took cover beneath the table at which point, I buried my face in the program with explosive laughter. Straight away, I was reminded of each Saturday when the ever silent pussy gatto would bolt from the armchair and take cover beneath the sofa where I sat as Giovanna began an explosion of long-winded farts. Even the singer’s voice sounded much like Giovanna’s as she sang the role of notary. Remarkably, it was as though she was channelling Giovanna. In that moment, I was healed of the bile, which the recent Uber incident had caused to surface, bile that dated as far back as 1974.

In the end, Tommy’s parents sold their house and it was not until a couple years later that I discovered from the neighbour next-door that Tommy, who had never returned to their Mortimer and Logan home, had died of Leukaemia. Indeed, the winter flu was my dad’s way of protecting me from the callousness of having to lose a friend so early in life.

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Apart from the catharsis that Tracy Dahl’s performance personally effected, I don’t think that it would be biased of me to state that hers was the runaway performance in the COC’s fantastic, and fast-paced I might add, production of Cosi Fan Tutte.

As ever, mischievously push down and melt with laughter in celebration of the joy that is life and start having yourselves a most glorious of flying dreams. Thanks for your ongoing support of this happening astral joint on this side of the astral plane. I love you more.

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

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Astral Projecting into Dreamtime.

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Recently, in the blog: Nancy …. and more, I spoke much of sage entity mate, Milan Newcombe – incidentally, Frans Bloem is also an entity mate.  In any event, during that tribute to Nancy Wilson, which also proved a tribute to mature sage entity mate, Milan, I spoke of how for having made love and sleeping together with Milan would frequently trigger the languorous process of astrally projecting from the sleeping body and progressing into the dreamtime whilst remaining lucidly self aware.  

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Interestingly enough, Jan Hartley whom I encountered on immediately astral projecting is another mature sage soul entity mate of mine and Merlin’s.  She is a freak-all fabulous Jamaican amazon, who is just as iconic and statuesque as Grace Jones who happens to be another cadre rather than entity mate.  Eden Battersea who appears in said dream, I also dream often of.  The energy between us was always simpatico.  I think that it is safe to state that Eden is likely an entity mate; however, I have never had her Michael Overleaves channelled.  

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©Alex Grey

A week prior to these dreams, Milan and I had been to Montréal where we had quite the time at the 350th anniversary celebrations and parade for the continent’s most cosmopolitan French city.  At the time of these dreams, it was Monday, May 25, 1992 and the Moon then transited both Pisces and my natal 9th house.  

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Astral Projected Self-Portrait.

Crayola on Paper 

©1984-2019 Arvin da Brgha. 

What I love about this self-portrait of myself whilst astrally projected, is that it perfectly depicts what takes place during the process of astral projecting on May 25, 1992.  There are many forms that the body takes on during astral projection; as in the self-portrait, in this dream I stayed connected to the physical body by way of the crown chakra rather than the solar plexus chakra.  Dream experiences such as these and the process of moving from being fully awakened in the waking state to remaining lucidly focussed into the dreamtime marvellously validate how beautiful it is to be incarnate; we truly are magical beings – and there were no drugs involved in getting one to groove out…

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*Prior to sleep, I did a great deal of meditation and energetic work with the crystals.  Soon, I became bloated and expansive and fell into a free-flowing awareness.  I saw a very large, slow-moving galaxy-like, cluster of spiral light.  It slowly rotated and was the most gloriously hypnotic, grounding experience. 

At one point, I too felt as though my body was also turning.  All sense of the normal parametres bled away and the room and bed seemed to drift away, leaving me slowing turning in the blackness of space.  Milan Newcombe was close by, his breathing while already asleep, kept me grounded.  Interestingly enough, the transition from this experience into the dreamtime was almost seamless.  

Although, at one point, it had become so displacing that I had had to forcefully grab hold of the bed and force myself to sit upright in bed, to come out of the experience.  This, of course, caused Milan to stir but he did not awaken.  END.  

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                                                            Dream one.  I was on a brown and red-covered bed and it was very dark here.  Interestingly enough, as the sense of the room about me fell away, I would find myself on this other bed, in a totally different space.  I then had an acute awareness of something being there on the bed with me.  It was most upsetting. 

I could not quite figure out what was going on.  It felt like something like a cat but I knew that Whoopi was not about, since I was after all asleep at Milan’s apartment.  By the time of the dream, Milan had already gotten up and moved about the apartment.  Also I knew that it was not energetically something as terrifying as a snake. 

However, it was very uncomfortable and quite weighted as a matter of fact.  Felt as though that just below the edge of the futon, on which I slept, that a hole had opened up in the floor, to the right.  Seemingly, a hole had in fact opened up in space itself.  The wall of the room was as if also impacted with one of these holes. 

This one was considerably larger and more powerful than the one on the floor.  Sequentially, it had also appeared after the one on the floor.  This thing was so ominous that I felt as though, were I to have gotten up, it would have simply sucked me into its vortex.  I knew intuitively that were I to have fallen into its pull, I’d have fallen to my death. 

There was a strong sense of them being a black void and very ominous but one which I could not quite see.  Simultaneously, my body felt so ridiculously bloated.  I just hated the way that my body felt, I literally felt trapped in my own body.  I simply wanted to get out of the shell of my body. 

At that, I willed my self to get out, to get up.  Impatient with the feeling of being weighed down, I decided to astrally project, to move beyond my body.  Decided that I had had more than enough of this feeling of being helpless and entrapped by my own, leaden, bloated body.  Struggling, I pushed against my own body.  

It was as if the blackhole which had manifested beside the bed had so much gravity that it was literally crushing my body.  My chest and entire body felt as though leaden, as if strapped in to the bed.  I simply could not get up.  Since my physical body could not get up, I impatiently said, “Well fuck, I’m going to get up.” 

It’s as though, I had been infused by Milan’s very intense nonconformist energy, for which I do so truly love him.  “No, Arvin.  I have simply got to get up.  I will not suffer this.” 

With herculean effort, I willed myself to a crouched position then made my way down to the foot of the bed.  Turning around, I was surprised to see that my body was still lying, a very slow-breathing shell of a space.  Knew immediately that I was astral projecting and did not have to freak out, thinking that this was my death.  I also did not want to have to see my body and become overly focussed on it, so that I could really trip out, as it were. 

Turning around, I got up, keeping my back turned to my body.  When I got up, I was still aware of the great void being there.  There was a heavy bleed of energy out the crown chakra, atop my head.  This was as if I had the crown of a baobab coming from my head’s crown chakra but a baobab of light energy.  

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It was funnel-like and spiralled out, then moved back down and outwards, before veering off to behind me to my body, lying asleep on the bed.  What was really interesting about the vortices’ energy, was that they had warped the funnel of light energy, out and towards them, before it was then trailed back down to my body.  It had the appearance of a not fully vertical tornado that manages to swirl way off its central axis, in the cloud, before making contact with ground. 

Getting up, I started walking deliberately, as though in slow motion.  Moving with focussed intent, I managed to effortlessly move through the closed french doors, in Milan’s Spadina Avenue two-storey apartment and crossed the hallway into the kitchen.  The further I got from the french doors and the magnetic black holes, the lighter I became and the easier it was to manipulate in my light body.  I had gone there in the first place to collect messages from the answering machine, as I knew that Pandora had tried to call me from Paris, in the waking state, while I slept. 

Who should be in the kitchen but Eden Battersea and Jan Hartley, both Black Jamaicans from the work environment.  Jan was very much so in charge and in her element, as she cooked and Eden tidied up the rest of the kitchen.  It was also unusually dark here, just as it was in the bedroom, where the holes seemed to suck so much of the light from the room.  Eden was by the fridge, except that there was more space at the counter beside the phone and fridge. 

Eden was there making a sandwich of some sort.  Jan was at the table, chopping of things as she had pots going on the stove, preparing food.  She was quite warm and friendly, energetically greeting me.  I went to the answering machine to check and see if in fact Pandora had yet called from Paris. 

However, there were some problems because I could not find the buttons to start playback of the messages.  It was also a quite different machine to the one from the waking state.  Now, it was an elongated black and brown affair, very unusual-looking.  Jan soon joined me in trying to figure out, how the devil to figure the workings of the thing. 

But then she turned and looking into my face said, from under furrowed brows.  “Buh chile ah wha rang wid ounu face.  Chile yu muss tekk kare ah yur face an ting no man.”  At that, she drew closer, putting her hand over my face. 

Though she did not squeeze or anything, she then said in that loud Jamaican voice of hers, “Clean it way ma…”  I then rubbed my fingers across my nose, thinking of things in the waking state. 

*Presently I do have a bad cold in the waking state.  There have also been lots of problems since I began growing in my moustache, clogged pours more often than not, turning into puss-filled zits.  Ick!  I suffer from a patch of ingrown follicles at the same spot in the moustache. 

Every time I shave it down, it then gets problematic and soon enough gets infected and puss filled thanks to naturally curly black hair becoming ingrown.  Charmant.  This, of course, because I also have such legendary oily skin.  END. 

Cleaning my face with a napkin from the counter top, I would see all this puss on my face.  I was stunned by how realistic it all was.  Jan was so protectively nurturing of me.  Then she began rambling away in Jamaican patois, about not having any trust in technological appliances. 

She threatened to send it off to the states where she would have two of her sons, fix it up for her.  Finally, she could not be bothered, so was not going to do anything about it.  Thoroughly enjoyed her energy.  Going up on this ladder, I went up onto a stand, in the kitchen. 

This was when I realised that the answering machine was connected to another machine; a black box which had these long beaker-like tubes.  They were much like the tubes in the old radios.  A little red spark of laser light, powered the machinery.  Asked Jan if there were not any calls that had come through for me. 

Eden then turned around, looking over her right shoulder at me, when answering, “Sorette, or Soret I think it was, called.” 

“No you mean Pandora, don’t you?” 

“No, I’m quite sure the machine said Saurette.”  Finally, we figured out how the bloody machine worked and it was a strange one indeed.  Somehow, the calls were being routed off-planet, not as to satellites, but to another Star system.  So I thought that perhaps Saurette was the name of a Star from which the messages came. 

Thus it was a static-saturated trunk call but one which was travelling through hyper space.  Very interesting.  Eventually, we got to a message from Pandora, in which she was saying that she would meet me later.  She let me know that she was okay and had gotten my message without any trouble. 

i then announced that I was going to go back out to the salon, which is Milan’s quarter of the house.  Told them that I was planning to go get dressed and go out and meet Pandora.  It was then that I noticed that there was a pair of shorts that I’d left behind at Milan’s, sometime before.  More importantly, the clothes that I slept in were there but discarded since of course I was in an out-of-body state. 

They were the clothes I wanted to put on anyway.  An extra pair of pants sat about; they were jeans.  I was surprised to see that I had left so many clothes laying around at Milan’s place.  They laid across a chaise longue much like Milan has. 

A bed, very shortened, sat on this mattress frame.  I had been on it before.  Jan came in and took it up, banging it against the mattress frame, shaking it out.  I helped her move it, after she asked that I give her a hand. 

We moved it from the outer room, which looks out onto Spadina Avenue to the salon where the harpsichord sits.  The space was like Milan’s apartment but much larger and much more furnished with antiques.  Even here, it was more cluttered than Milan’s beautifully eclectic space.  We took it out to the inner salon which here was like a dining room space. 

There was another bed there with no mattress, which we were going to go use.  We were both barefooted at the time, when she noticed that there was broken shards of a mirror, which were laying about on the floor.  Some were even on the wooden bed frame.  A medium tone wood, it definitely was not a dark wood. 

Jan kicked away the shard with her right big toe.  When I told her to be careful she boisterously chimed, “Me na kno say ma?  Me knoe man, me knoe say ah so de sinting go.  Yu ha fe wartch yur self too chile.” 

Jan was so refreshingly good to be around.  Really, it was quite a pleasure to have helped her out and drink of her spirit.  At this point, I was fully dressed, then announced to her, in a convincing Jamaican accent, “Yeah me dear, me garn gu lang dong ya su, fe book up pan me sista an dem.” 

She cackled, enjoying my accent then affectionately waved me off, “Okay den chile, laita on, fu uknu.”  As I walked, I began going through the closed french doors of the salon.  I effortlessly moved through them as before. 

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                                                            Dream two.  In an instant from effortlessly passing through the closed glass French doors, I was posited out on the side of this very, very wide boulevard, in broad daylight.  Even for me, a seasoned adept at the exigencies of the dreamtime’s pandimensionality, it was a surprising transition.  In an instantaneous puff, there I was, elsewhere.  I had materialised along this boulevard, which had no vehicular traffic whatsoever. 

The thing about this transition was that I had total and clear lucid continuity of consciousness whilst moving from one dream locale to the next.  What was even more bizarre about this, was that I was striding westwards going through the closed door.  In an instant, my stride continued but now I was going eastwards, in the opposite direction.  It was light out whilst in the company of half a dozen men, who were wearing green overalls. 

It was militia garb, tucked into very long, thick riding boots.  With them, they carried long black, billy clubs like the London Bobbies.  I had also materialised in the presence of Penina, Pericles, Pandora, Isha, all my siblings except as per usual, Rio.  It is rare that I ever dream of this man, even in childhood when he was around. 

Pericles was wearing a brown silk shirt, over his brown, baggy slacks; he looked very dapper.  Terribly elegant and very refined with himself, as well he is.  Pandora wore a long flowing skirt that was pleated.  White, it was covered with beautiful floral designs in blue and red. 

Tiny rose petals, in fact, they were.  She wore a navy blue jacket with gold buttons that looked like the classic Chanel suit.  Very large-buttoned, this beautiful suit truly was elegant.  Isha wore a similar suit but there was more colour and flare in her suit. 

A less conservative approach than Pandora’s was Isha’s.  Penina’s outfit, I cannot even now recall.  Undoubtedly, it was not some overdone number, very low key, as is her style.  Functional and comfortable, her criteria. 

Incidentally, the secondary players in this dream were Pandora and Pericles.  On my arrival, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Karl Weller°, from the work environment.  Looking into his face, I said to him, “My god, I thought that you’d have been taller.”  We were standing on an incline but were face-to-face. 

On closer inspection, when looking in his face, I realised how more so he looked like John Milachek.  He looked at me with this look on his face, which was so loving and filled with longing for me.  Throughout, he remained silent, never once having said a word.  Again, I told him that I thought that he’d have been taller. 

He was one of the soldier-militiamen, so that was why he could not get too engaged with me.  Though he never reciprocated, it was obvious that the feelings were mutual.  Another guardsman passingly seemed like Milan; however, I had not spent much time looking at him.  There was an obvious, loving bond between us. 

This was also about acknowledging the fact that we had just met in the waking state.  But it was all done without words; rather, it was done at the level of soul.  It was very electric between us.  So thrilled was I that I broke into song, singing and winding up me waist and celebrating. 

I wind up on the other guy who passingly reminded me of Milan, without giving so much as a damn what others were going to say.  My lips pursed, my arsed cock high, out and ready.  Yes indeed, I was ready to rock and in heat, too.  Pericles sucked his teeth in disgust, turning away from me, saying, “He’s becoming more and more of a problem. 

“And a total embarrassment for this family.  I just do not know how we can put up with this.  Look, what am I doing here anyway?”  Turning around on my heels, I grabbed the long riding whip, from a guy and violently struck Pericles, booming into him, “Shut up!

“I’ll have none of this.  I have every intention of expressing who I am and being who the fuck, I am.  I’m not intent on pleasing you or anybody.”  With that, I continued my frenetic attack on him, whipping him into shape as it were. 

“Shut your narrow-minded ass, the fuck up!”  Forcefully, I cut him down to size and laid into him, all eyes, whip and rage, “I will have abso-fucking-lutely, none of this.  You own nothing here, nor are you running anything.  You’re not doing anything, except as per usual to stand here on the sidelines, passing judgment. 

“That’s all you ever do.  So shut the fuck up!”  I was truly livid with him or anyone trying to rein me in.  Incensed at this sphinctered rigidity, I abruptly took my leave, turning back to head across the extra wide, deserted 

A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

                                                            Dream three.  Almost immediately, it became the lane up Crab Hill next to our house there.  This lane, of course, separated us from the very disputatious Florence Pole°.  Just as before, while in the midst of my stride, I was posited from one locale to the next.  Again, much was different here. 

Though there was continuity of lucid awareness, it had also transformed from bright daylight, to the stark finality of night time.  When I came down to the road, the McHughs’ house was there.  Going out into the street, I was surprised to find that it was considerably wider than in the waking state.  There were lots of ancient-looking bas relief.  This was so stunningly incredible.  Thus the effect was one of her legs seemed improperly attached to her body.  This was all about getting to a Space of Spirit and Intellect, where one was then free to creatively explore. 

This was in essence a creative incubator, at the level of the astral plane.  After all, everything about this experience from the projection out of my body, lying there asleep behind me, was truly about ascending to a higher stratum of the astral plane.  This abandonment was so mind warpingly complex, yet paradoxically simple in its sheer eloquence, that all I could do was throw my head back and riotously laugh.  Along with myself, there were other waking state locals there experiencing this as spectators. 

We were getting such a high at what these great masters could pull off.  It was as if, prior to setting out on their impactful incarnations, this is the astral school where souls like Martha Graham and George Balanchine° went to master their creative expressionism.  Quite simply, this was the school where great masters went to work it out, before reincarnating with an agendum to take the world by visionary, revolutionary, creative expressionistic storm.  Everyone of these people would evolve the art and styles would be created as a result of these souls attending this astral plane school of high priestdom. 

This is the only way to describe the scope of this realm’s essence.  These were a very august-souled people, who were mastering their art.  The art of pure creative expressionism.  They then announced,   “Okay, okay, okay. 

“Here comes the other guys.”  This led to the introduction to the opposing team of players.  One of them was seemingly the ancestral forebear of the McHughs, our Crab Hill neighbours.  There were obviously a great many Europeans in the McHughs’ family tree, on Baron McHugh’s side. 

The matriarch on the father’s side was then brought out of the McHughs and proved a very skeletal, ancient white.  She had apparently had a double mastectomy.  Very senior easily centuries old-looking, she was borne up by a couple of attendants, who were of Amerindian descent.  Everybody then started laughing, all the players on both teams, because she was so full of fear

She was possessed of an enormous amount of sexual guilt because of her nakedness.  Her body was truly bizarre.  It was quite concave; it was collapsed in on itself and birdlike.  When it got down to the hips, they disproportionately ballooned. 

Quite simply, she had a hideous mess for a body.  More to the point, it was all about how very uncomfortable some persons in the waking state, of southern Eurpean cultural heritage, are so guilt-ridden.  This is about how they see sex as being base and dirty.  As a result, such persons become so acutely uncomfortable in their bodies. 

There was another white who passed by in a blue and white muu-muu.  It was hard to tell which sex the individual was.  What was really interesting about this all, is the fact that the McHugh matriarch had been initially clothed, then stripped naked.  This is what had caused her such distress. 

For being so absurd in her self-denial, the others who were perfectly at ease with their nakedness, had begun laughing at the bizarreness of her.  She was lost in her beliefs.  The person went down between the McHughs and Saunders residences.  Two of the most grotesque thighs supported the gargantuanly hideous body. 

They were stubby little legs under this grotesquely bloated body.  If that were not enough, there was then a third Caucasian who looked like one of those early washing machines, from the 1950s.  The ones that had the roll wringers atop the round-lidded container.  This individual was Boteroesque in the true sense of the word. 

Very baby-souled, indeed, in focus.  Totally ill-proportioned and as well completely ashamed of their bodies.  They were so not into their bodies, that they were resoundingly subjected to ridicule.  They were a moment of Comedia dell’Arte. 

At that, I turned around and walked across the street heading as if towards Florence Pole’s verandah.  There were many more steps up to the verandah, which here was quite raised off the ground.  Going up on the steps, there were several of the naked giant people seated there, who were laughing their heads off at these freaks of daymare fare.  Not everyone was naked however. 

Going up on the last step, I sat down to the right, passing this woman.  On sitting down, I’d looked down into her eyes, with her on my left.  Ahead of me there was a guy standing up, who could have been earlier seated where I now sat.  The woman turned out to be pretty much so like the actor Kathy Bates, trying to verify, I called out the name, “Kathy Bates. 

“Hi, how are you?  You know that year, the Oscars were such a low-key affair and then there you were, breezing in with a spectacular win.  You were so refreshing and it was so refreshing.  Look, I’m really happy for you.” 

She energetically thanked me.  Kathy wore a brown large blouse.  Refreshingly, she wore no make-up whatsoever, a lot like that other grounded actor, Tyne Daley that way.  She was so refreshingly real and normal. 

Very clear, strong brown eyes, that were totally self-possessed, centred and contented.  Good for her.  The skirt matched the blouse, both covered in these daisies in various stages of maturation from bud to full bloom, then on to withering expiration.  Some were tight buds, buds breaking open. 

Daisies opening, others still in full bloom, still others past their prime.  Some after their zenith, some with three or four petals left.  A few still with only one withered petal left and some more with nothing but a petal-naked seed pod.  There were all very tiny, all the full bloom daisies less than one third the size of a dime. 

Quite a beautiful ensemble and I rather admired it while we spoke, from time to time pulling away from the unobstructed beauty of her warm eyes, to look at them.  Even for me, it was a bit humbling to have to look into so serene a pair of eyes.  Excitedly she called out to a man who was down below the steps, who turned out to be her husband.  Energetically, she had him come up and join us. 

He was a stout man and he reminded me of the actor, Jeffrey Jones, who played emperor Franz Joseph in the cinematic tour de force Amadeus.  He carried a wonderful little child who had the sweetest, sunniest disposition.  The husband did, though, have a rather distended stomach.  At one point, she got up and went to sit on the edge of the verandah. 

I knew that she had gone there because she had found my eye contact a tad too direct, which it always is, whether in the waking state or dreamtime.  She had kept on looking away, for no other reason than that my gaze was a bit too intense.  I was not upset by it, accepting her choice.  Alas, it was not the end of the world. 

Her husband remained where he was, originally on her right, with the boy.  He was excitedly speaking about what the naked giants were able to pull off with their bodies.  He seemed about 37 years old and undoubtedly an actor; theatre or perhaps an acting coach.  They were a really refreshing group of persons to be around. 

It turns out that they were mostly white on the steps.  The boy sat on his father’s lap, wearing a sunny shirt to match his wonderful personality.  It was covered throughout with sunflowers in bloom.  This little man had such beautiful little teeth, against his generous gums. 

Perfect teeth, on the four year old.  His hair was brown to black, with a beautiful natural oily sheen to it but one that was not problematic, falling in a bang on his forehead.  He had such beautiful, smiling sunny eyes.  God it was breathtaking to look at him because here was a soul incarnate in the most sunny of childhoods. 

Spectacular!  He was happy and a precocious, charmer.  As I looked at him and he was smiling, he suddenly got dead serious on making eye contact with me.  Time seemed to stand still as the most intense fusion occurred between us; it was really quite powerful. 

“I wonder if you are Merlin?” I thought to myself whilst reciprocally looking directly into his.  He looked at me saying absolutely nothing, his lips pursed, knowing, then broke into the most glorious, knowing laughter.  It was as if to say, “Well, you tell me.  What do you think?”  

It was very direct and very connected.  With that, I reached out to him, rubbed his little thighs, to which he giggled with utter abandon.  This child asked so many questions, of adults who actually took the time to be there for him and not relegate him as a bit player in their agenda.  Very impressive parenting approach, to which he was focussed. 

Goodness, this kid was so filled with life, positive life.  Good for him.  Kathy Bates then leaned forward, asking after me.  She then drew to my attention, the vista across the way where our Crab Hill house used to be. 

There had been a fire, burning the entire structure to the ground.  Apparently, it was arson but the saving grace was reconnecting with the genip tree, which though considerably larger, towered seemingly more so, without the grounding of the house.  The trunk was so thick that I squealed with delight, letting everyone know that I was the one who had planted the mango tree.  It had been singed on one side, during the fire. 

Remarkably, it had survived the fire and not burnt down, for which I was grateful.  Looking across the street to the McHughs’ yard where their truck used to be, there was now a majestic poplar tree and in St.  Kitts at that but it was quite sturdy and strong.  Quite handsome and though thin-trunked, I was quite pleased to see it in these parts.  It was not unlike a columnal oak, spiralling up as it did. 

Every time that the breeze blew through it, the leaves rustled, beautifully laughing; it was the most exquisite drink.  It affected a great tranquillity to the evolved Chi of the place.  Standing up, the steps were quite high, as I looked down into the road.  As a matter of fact, the lane was considerably wider and being used here as a street. 

At that point, I saw Pericles, Isha and Pandora.  I had pulled up my leg, on seeing this young black boy.  He was beautifully dark-skinned and slightly over weight.  As he walked towards us, on noticing Whites on the step, he immediately became very subdued and self-conscious. 

As a matter of fact, he was quite afraid of being taunted and harassed by whites. 

*Which finally is a reality that all blacks experience, with varying degrees of intensity and frequency.  It was all about the psychic abuse that one is perpetually subjected to.  Outright ridicule, crossing to the other side of the street, women clutching their handbags.  Being sniffed at rudely and spat at with cutting aggressiveness. 

Nasty, animalistic behaviour, all of it.  Aggression that is daily perpetuated, to justify the absurdism of their arbitrary superiority.  Finally, their acute insecurity about being arbitrarily superior.  A very mad, twisted little World that we all inhabit, in the waking state: both blacks and whites, for its a displacement of spirit that we are as if unable to constructively address and affect. 

Quite interesting to experience this degree of WST (waking state transference) and I really reached out compassionately to the young black man.  Finally, I knew that I could only do so much for him; he would have to make his own way.  Penina then came over, bearing this pair of pants that was on a hanger.  It came with a pair of briefs attached inside. 

She instructed the young boy.  She was letting him know that it was time for him to go run the race and she had not spent all this time coaching him, for him not to win.  She was her usual feisty self.  Humorously, she went about bolstering his spirits. 

It served to pull him away from the vortex of predatory racial animus that he was succumbing to.  This exactly was what he needed then and there, being spirited away from the black hole of racism.  This was about the debilitating effects of racism on black males in the waking state.  Excusing myself, I said, “Oh good, there is Pandora. 

“Allow me, to go down and greet Pandora, again.”  Rushing down, she beamed at me as we warmly greeted each other.  Wrapping arms about the other’s waist, we walked away with her on my immediate left.  Languorously, we had kept directly looking into each other’s eyes. 

You could feel the mostly white waking state humans back on the steps, admiringly looking on at us.  Pericles was coming towards us and it was obvious that he could not be avoided.  However, we lapsed back into looking into each other’s eyes, in that way snubbing him, letting him know that we had no intention of acknowledging his narrow-minded energy.  He was royally pissed off at that, as well he should have. 

Finally, we did not care for his arrogance.  Isha was there with Gina Morton and some other girlie friends, ponging ‘tory, as is their wont.  Hurriedly, I invited Pandora to come along, at which point we walked around the road past the Crab Hill property.  I was supposedly taking her to the poplar tree.  

tammam-azzam-storeys-series-180-x-235-cm-acrylic-on-canvas-2015

                                                            Dream four.  Yet again things immediately shifted and now it was an entire city block, which was not like anything in Crab Hill at all.  Turns out, this strange city had been burnt completely to the ground.  Quite so, it seemed to be an industrial complex, with all these exposed frame work of the larger buildings.  Many of the skyscrapers here still had their steel ribbing in tact. 

It was all very garish a sight.  As we crossed, I pointed out all the exposed pipes and burnt out wood everywhere.  Somehow, many of these wasted structures had become organically transformed.  The wooden beams were now exposed, black charcoaled sculptural signatures. 

In one locale, a set of pipes came up out of the ground.  Conscientiously, I pointed out that we had better get out of there.  My concern was that the pipes were bleeding gas, which was not only invisible but unscented as well.  Noticed as I inspected that one of the pipes had a heat vapour rising from where it was broken; this was not a good sign. 

So we decided to turn right, heading down this off-street from the major thoroughfare.  Along it, there were lots of exposed pieces of plastics which were mixed into the mortar along the side of the road.  It was quite interesting to see how this civilisation chose to recycle its plastics, burying them in the mixture to help make more affordable and durable roads.  The road did incline downwards as we went along it. 

This then took us to this large, old wooden building, which still stood.  It was pink with louvres which covered the outside, where just inside there was a verandah with an indoor garden.  Glass louvres shut out the elements allowing the plants to grow healthily.  But in the very last apartment, I noticed that there were two of them that were totally abandoned. 

I was thinking at the time that we could easily move into them.  Fixed up, they’d prove wonderful large apartments and a wonderful place to live.  Saw no reason why we could not fix them up and end up getting good rates for them, on resale.  Arriving at the last apartment, I excitedly announced to Pandora, that it was where Hélène Plotte-de Visage lived. 

We were able to peer inside the apartment.  It was reminiscent of the cottage that she owned on Ontario Street; however, this was differently laid out.  It was then and there that I recalled being there to visit with her, earlier in another dream.  It was a beautiful apartment, laid out so that it was like a stage set, on several levels. 

No walls just different levels, adding a sense of spaciousness to the space.  A piano then began playing, which was soon accompanied by a chorus of singing kids.  Realised then that she was a pianist and a school teacher to these kids.  We went walking past as Hélène got up to sing a Christmas carol, which they were rehearsing, at all of summertime. 

To hear the carol at summertime, reminded Pandora and I simultaneously of our childhood Christmases in Crab Hill, where it was of course a perpetual summer.  Looking at each other, we had a moment of true intimacy, smiling lovingly at each other.  We were so moved that we sweetly laughed whilst enjoying the tight groove that only the two of us, could have fathomed then and there.  Hélène’s apartment was at the end of the complex, that led to a wonderful garden, to the side of the building. 

Here the road dead-ended into this beautiful large park.  There was a road that ran east-west, because we had gone due south, along the road.  The east-west street presented us with a choice and I suggested that we go right and so we did.  We walked on the south side of the street, which inclined, with the park close by. 

We’d originally turned right to get onto this street.  We crossed to the north side to get on the same side of the street as the park.  When we got up, this street dead-ended into a plaza before the park.  There were lots of people just hanging out, kicking back. 

Here, it was very mellow.  Mostly, they seemed to be a bunch of hippies, with several of them wearing the same high-riding boots.  Though the garb bordered on that of some skinheads, they were, however, not such persons.  A long backed, high-yellow woman was there with her family. 

She had two daughters and a son.  One of the daughters had great potentials of becoming a spectacular model.  She did look not unlike the East Indian-German, beauteous supermodel Yasmine Ghauri, though, a younger version.  She wore a blue bathing suit, which I noticed when she got up off the picnic blanket to stretch out. 

They were in our way but not obtrusively so.  We continued along and happened on these very young-souled  Americans.  We instinctively held on tighter to each other because these people were so aggressively young-souled.  It was fairly obvious to us that we were likely to be at least verbally attacked by them. 

Thus we chose to shield ourselves from their potentially stinging sarcasm.  As we moved along, I was amazed to find that one person to our left, in passing, was Bruno Lambsdorff.  Saw another young, high-yellow girl because she so reminded me of Martha Wexler, I called out to her.  She wore a white silk blouse. 

When we came over, she joined us immediately, holding hands with us and walking between Pandora and me.  A dark-complected black girl then came up, whose hair was braided.  The other’s hair, like Pandora’s was gathered back in a loose bun.  So too was mine, for that matter. 

As we intimately progressed, enjoying each other’s company, we were aware of the onlookers, trying to fathom the extent and nature of our connection.  It was as though to them, the high-yellow girl was too beautiful to be an offspring or sibling of ours.  Most of all, we were gathered thus to shield and protect ourselves against the vicissitudes of rough-going racial animus that foamingly swirled about us.  Arriving in the plaza area, the two girls had these yellow-handled camcorders. 

The rest of the tiny machines were black, which they placed over their eyes, with their right hands, to begin filming away.  Isha started dancing, at which point, I suggested that Pandora ought to go join in the dance.  Myself, I let them know that I was unsure whether or not I wanted to be dancing.  Pandora was decked out in these high heels, doing these wonderful, elegant movements. 

Isha, quite out of character, was also wearing high heels.  She was dancing away to which I added, by energetically scatting away.  Soon enough, people started materialising, to check out our performance but I, however, did not want to be so hemmed in.  Further, I suggested that they visit while I head off to explore some more. 

Pandora, however, decided that she wanted to continue along, in my company, so I galdly accepted her offer.  

tour bus2

                                                            Dream five.  We headed off and soon got aboard this tour bus, where there were all these Japanese persons.  We began reading this book together; that famous Hindu book of worship.  It was a new version of it.  It had been updated, because a new religion had recently been born to the world. 

This was all very scary for us, as we read on.  It spoke about after the history of things.  Accordingly, after Lord Buddha there was the ambisexual Buddha, which did not make much sense.  So I read the fine print of this blue covered text, of religious writings. 

Here there were poems and historical accounts of events.  There were excerpts from the Lotus Sutra to the front, of the text, with newer religions in the middle section of the publication.  The end of the book, spoke of this new religion’s rise.  It informed that the Great Master was known to have been born in Israel. 

The complete statistics of his birth, astrologically, were listed.  At the time, all that I could think was that he was implying that the reborn Christ was going to be reborn in Israel.  Twice in a row, I thought.  Talk about lightning striking twice. 

This of course was a reference to Christ who had long come and gone but interestingly enough, he was referred then as the Buddha.  This was very current; the moment that we stepped on board the bus.  The bus seemed to be on Canada’s west coast.  This was a very densely populous Asian city. 

There were also a ton of whites here, as well.  They also had very thick Australian accents.  I found it all so bizarre that anyone could so casually be sitting around reading this book.  But almost everyone on the bus was. 

These people were very young-souled and frenetic.  Pandora and I were the only blacks here.  Incidentally, who should be on board but a blond guy, who was wearing shorts.  He was Australian and stood there, looking down at me because I was reading the book. 

Soon, he leapt into this whole sermon that was of a religious, fundamentalist bent.  He was, though, not a Christian fundamentalist but a zealous devotee of this newly formed world religion.  These people were terribly zealous and went about trying to confiscate the book, from so many people who were on the bus.  It just was not right. 

I fast blew my cool and leapt to my feet, “Hey now, wait a minute! You have no such, fucking right.  Stop it!”  The incredible thing about this dream too, was that one had to have a tattoo of the national flag of one’s country of origin. 

It was then that I knew that they were definitely from Australia.  The Asian tourists meanwhile were very young-souled but younger still than the zealous Australians.  They all stood there on the bus, holding it hostage for many people.  Stealthily, Pandora had gotten up and charmingly excused herself from the bus. 

When I had turned to say something to her, found out that she was nowhere at hand.  An Asian man now sat next to me, whose face much reminded me of Rio’s.  He was however Chinese and very fat-faced and his face was ravaged by acne.  They were eating quite ravenously together but soon it turned out that they could not digest food because they would immediately throw up after eating. 

The windows on the bus, were constantly being opened, allowing them the chance to throw up their food.  They were like babies whose digestive system were not yet fully developed.  This was clearly a reference to where these people were at reincarnationally.  They were quite simply a bus load of baby-souled tourists. 

One couple had actually had to stick their baby out the window, in a bid to have it fully throw up everything, along with its parents.  I was so fucking incensed and had no intention of idly sitting by and tolerate any of this repressive outrageous shit.  Shrieking at the standing Australians, I let loose, “Damn it, get off the bus! With your fucking, goddamn-assed insolence… get off!” 

At that, I began taking the books, anything and forcefully began ejecting them.  When that couple had put out the baby to throw up, a large group of people; mostly whites, had begun piling onto the bus.  Some were also Australians but different to the original group of fanatics already on board.  The Australian fanatic who had started the attack wore these silver-rimmed glasses, which did not contain the wild intensity of his close-set eyes. 

He was tall, wearing unusually short, cut-off jeans.  On his thigh was the tattooed flag.  The pants were quite ripped up, completing the look were his weathered Birkenstocks.  He wore a large backpack, over top his cut-off-sleeved shirt. 

This man was very arrogantly blind in his young-souled awareness.  Quite gung ho as a matter of fact was he.  Of the new arrivals a white couple stood out.  The man was so pale-skinned that his near white completion made him glow in the intense light; it was incredible. 

He carried a baby of about six months old.  Both father and child had unusually large heads, with the child being just as pale as him.  At the time, all I could think of was Srivatsan Gurucharan.  They were in profile, on the steps at the front of the bus, waiting for others ahead of them to settle in, before they could properly enter. 

The East Asians on the first set of seats, had had to put out their child to throw up.  During emergencies the windows could be opened from the bottom, which is exactly what was being done.  The windows were extended to a maximum of forty five degrees, allowing just enough room for an infant to be shoved through, to vomit.  The father held the child by the armpits and the crotch in a diving position so that it could throw up. 

And boy did the infant ever go on a binge.  Everybody here, had these little bowls that they ate what seemed steamed bamboo shoots and other foods.  For some strange reason, all of these adults lacked the capacity to fully digest their food.  Pretty soon, I was beating the living shit out of everyone on the bus. 

Simply could not tolerate having any of this shit go down.  My main target was the bespectacled zealot.  Grabbing him, I began kicking and shoving him, to get him off the bus, all the while screaming expletives at him, “How dear you?  Get out of here, with your fucking goddamn-assed, stupidity and damn insensitivity!

“Get out!”  Using the book, I whipped, pushed and kicked all of them, out of my sight.  Frankly, I was surprised at my own behaviour.  I had not a clue where I was getting all this energy from. 

Just could not tolerate their stinking insolence.  They were completely stunned by my energy.  They themselves, knew in their heart of hearts that I was wrong.  After all I was black, not an Australian. 

Though they could not deny my eloquence and greater awareness.  Honey chile, I was one wrongly provoked, coloured queen, in this experience.  Was going to have none of this shit.  Soon enough, I got all of them off the bus. 

Those who did not get forcefully ejected, did themselves some good and scurried out of there, knowing that all hell had broken loose and I would come after them too.  They knew only too well that this bus was not going anywhere, as long as there was one irate coloured queen on board.  You simply had to bail out, toute de suite.  We soon got off, when I realised this guy who was seated next to me, was not in fact Pandora. 

I went outside in search of her, going up the road.  Then when I returned sometime later, realised that the front of the bus had this large staircase leading up to it.  The bus driver then called out to me, asking if I was coming along or not.  Now the bus was more so like a Hovercraft rather than a bus. 

This was a rather long transport and definitely not a bus, though, not a train.  So, perhaps, these persons had been throwing up earlier, due to possible sea sickness.  Although I do doubt very much, if this were the case.  I think rather that this had much to do with the fact that this had everything to do with their being baby and early-young souls.  

Reclining Buddha of Galvihara-sunny

                                                            Dream six.  I then went up this hill, where there were lots of tall, beautiful old-souled looking trees.  There I found Pandora and she had said very sleepily that she did not think that she wanted to go along after all.  She encouraged me to do so but surely I did not have to stay with her.  She was being very introspective, claiming that she would rather be alone. 

Reassuringly, she let me know that we woud doubtless reconnect later on.  She was being accommodatingly amiable.  I then went up and climbed over this banister, to get up this iron plank.  As I did so, there was a fat, stubby-legged, lobster red, tanned Australian coming off. 

He was coming off the transport and passing him, I brushed back my hand forcefully, saying, “Come on, get off the damn thing and get going.”  At that, he was sent rumbling down the ramp, though, he had been trying his Jurassic best to inch down, fearful as he was, of possibly falling.  I then got back aboard the transport, which when inside seemed, conventionally enough, to be a bus.  Settled in again, my stomach lurched at the intense smell of all the vomit everywhere. 

It was then that I wondered, if my being on the bus, meant that I too was a very young soul, a la baby or early-young soul at the most.  Possibly not even young-souled as yet.  I had always thought myself a much older soul than that.  After all, look at the degree to which I dream. 

On further reflection, I thought that perhaps I was mature-souled.  For one, the dreaming suggested as much.  Furthermore, mature souls tend to be plunked down in the mire of baby and young souls, who try their every which nerve.  Seeking some air, I had turned to open up the window, only to have the smell slap me in the face. 

The stench was even worse when I shoved open the window.  An up draught brought the putrid smell of vomit on the ground, outside the window, high up my sinuses.  Overwhelmed, I decided to awake and be rid of the stench. 

*Interestingly enough, when the book spoke about the Ambisexual Buddha, it was clearly speaking of Christ.  The dates for his birth, were not using the Julian calendar.  It was clearly the Jewish calendar.  However this was clearly a reference to Christ. 

Here, he was depicted as being very lusty, passionate, with a strong martial element to his body, all of which was borne out by his chart, whose statistics were included.  This made absolute sense to me; after all, how could it not have been the case.  This was a king soul on his last life.  As someone at the penultimate level of old souldom, he would have been very casual and indifferent to the gender preference with regards to matters of intimacy.  

All he would have seen was a soul incarnate, a soul which innately has no sex.  Certainly, there must have been some physical intimacy between him and the prostitute, Mary Magdalene.  In this way he would want to show her acceptance, as well to heal her of any bitterness or guilt she may feel for being a social outcast.  How too, could he not have had some moments of physical intimacy with some of the more passionate, older-souled members of his disciples. 

Same-sex experiences have always been part of the human condition and certainly the incidence of male same-sex experience, has been widely documented in Middle Eastern cultures.                             

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To paraphrase Scotiabank: you are more magical than you realise!  Put away the crutches and excuses, take a deep breath, accept that you are phenomenal and deserving, let go, move within and start living the magical wonder that is you… and don’t forget to push off and start flying.  

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

Posted in Archetypes in dreams, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Astral Projection in Dreams, Authors, Black artists, Books, Buddhism, Creative Genius, Crystals, Diarists, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of extra-humans, Dreams of famous persons, Dreams set on far-off worlds, Jazz, Longreads, Lucid dreams, Magical Realism, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Music, Musicians, OBEs, OBEs in dreams, Old souls, Out-of-Body Experiences, Photography, Realism, Reincarnation, Shamanism, Shapeshifting in dreams, Spirituality, Visionaries, Writers, Young souls | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Madness of King George… The Sequel.

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A trained and seasoned thespian and possessed of a true sense of theatre, there serenely strode Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex the aisle of St. George’s Chapel on May 19, 2018 after having sniffed out the competition. What does she care about the bald dunce; he positively is of no consequence. When will people ever realise that when you come at blacks with the racial hatred, animus et al, you have given away your power and will never succeed.

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Earlier in the week, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex making her initial visit to the National Theatre, after having been appointed the Royal Patronage by HM The Queen.

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Mousy… mousy… mouse. Almost tough to watch, though, not really.

Mic drop!

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Recently, I had an old scholar soul friend over for tea who decided, in true scholarly fashion, to play devil’s advocate to challenge my prior post about the true source of the rift between the Cambridges and the Sussexes. Actually, it was an excuse to celebrate after my art-filled home was thrown into cold, stark darkness when the heat, power and water to my building simply upped and cut out for four interminably long days.

The preceding video was taken whilst besotted on recently discovered Prosecco, which explains why I could not remember the names of way too many of the artists featured. That aside, I put forth the argument that was it not queer that HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge who had proposed in Kenya still had not made it to Kenya on a tour as it is a Commonwealth nation? Even if Kenya was too predominantly black for TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s tastes that left equally African, South Africa – also a Commonwealth nation, which by now they could have visited on tour. After all the RSA does have a large white population and a healthy expat and aristocratic English presence…

Yet there was HRH Prince William Duke of Cambridge in Israel, looking like the duped lapdog of the minor Kents who made no bones, with William’s sanction of course, of their disdain at Meghan Markle being in their midst with the archly pretentious HRH Princess Michael of Kent brazenly sporting her blackamoor brooch to Buckingham Palace on Meghan’s inaugural Christmas Lunch hosted by HM The Queen. Fact remains, Israel is neither a predominantly black nation nor is it a Commonwealth nation; he will one day be the head of the Commonwealth.

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In his hard and fast obsessive campaign not to be upstaged by his taken-for-granted kid brother’s unacceptable wife, there was William on the world stage playing god-only-knows what, interviewing a truly stellar scholar soul. How else was Sir David Attenborough to have responded but “Quite indeed” to William’s bizarre remark about “glaciers being like children… unpredictable.”

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Far better that he stuck to his limited forays of hand-clasping, feigned blushing and clipped, jolly vacuous laughter after some banal joke – well-rehearsed ahead of time.

Kate makes a brief pit stop at the V&A in Dundee

William has even taken to openly championing that mouthpiece of his vendetta with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and more importantly one which is unprovoked, his brother HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, the DailyMail, in its spring clean up of Britain. Would that DM would truly clean up Britain and stop with the glaring race-baiting, gutter-sniping passing for journalism in their over-arching campaign against Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. In years past, as DM had no use for Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, they always published photographs of her when her face is at rest, which is usually a rather cold, stark business.

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Now that she has been reclaimed as the great white heroine, try finding any such photo of her. Indeed, their racially predatory and obsessed readership now claim her the epitome of elegance, grace, class, sophistication, style. How like that embarrassing relative’s dog which will forever rush over and start humping your right leg, every frigging time, these hypocrites prove themselves!

James Middleton was hit with a deep clinical depression at the end of 2016 which caused his mental health to deteriorate for a yearÂ

Meanwhile, in the ongoing campaign by the minor Kents, William and DM at rebranding themselves as more appealing than the upstart American – that trashy, z-list, social-climbing actress and nothing but Wallis 2.0, they published this soul-baring article by James, the future Queen Consort’s rudderless brother about his mental illness. He, of course, has the bearing of all the men in William’s court; well at least, if he is not tall like all the others, he is definitely dark-haired – there is not a single blond amongst them. William definitely has a type.

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Well, there you have it, stay tuned for, The Madness of King George… The Sequel, starring none other than King George VII – that never waves, never interacts, bullied and plain dense nephew of the admitted mentally disturbed and son of the archly dense head of the house of Cambridge.

On one thing, I never compromise, I restated to my guest: you don’t like black people…. GFY!

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex in Bristol, 1.2.2019.

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and here’s to your every dream being the most lucid and memorable adventure.

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

Posted in Actors, African-Americans, American Artists, Animals, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Books, channelling, Fashion, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Modern Artists, Photography, Reincarnation, Royalty, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Time-travelling late-Georgian/Regency Dandy (Redux 2019).

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I was walking under a very black night sky.  Whilst leisurely walking along a winding road, I was with some friends.  The road was not very wide but on either side were some grassy knolls that rolled up and down.

These knolls were just over seven feet high; this left us walking in a bit of a depression.  The stars here were unusually bright; there even seemed to be more of them of greater magnitude than is normally the case.

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They had caught my attention when something had streaked across the sky.  Stopping in my tracks, I looked up and saw others.  All of them were red flashes which meteorically streaked, and none-too-randomly, across the sky.

Their speeds were far too rapid for them to have been shooting stars.  When drawing it to my friends’ attention, I asked if they did not think it peculiar. These persons, incidentally, were more astral acquaintances rather than persons whom I have known during the course of this lifetime.

They all answered that they had not seen anything.  Still, I was quite aware that there was something off.  So looking back and up, to our rear, I quite strongly felt that we were not alone.

There was a distinct impression that, from above in the sky, we were being observed.  As we walked on, from time to time, I kept looking up.  In search of any of the stars which I have so often studied in the waking state’s night sky, I surveilled the sky.

Straight away, as not a single constellation that I took in was remotely familiar, I was left feeling even more vulnerable.  Right away, I knew that what I had seen fiercely streaking across the sky had been a product of some alien civilisation’s technology.

This left me more convinced that these flashes had been real and, in essence, not asteroids.  Soon, we turned a bend in the road and happened on a guy who was lying in the middle thereof.

He was not dead just unconscious.  We agreed to gather him up and at least take him to the side of the road where he would be out of harm’s way.  I suggested that we position his body such that his head was raised higher than his feet.  I thought that he should be placed on the side of the knoll.

Though it was fairly dark out, I assumed that he was a Caucasian male.  He wore brown slacks and was middle-aged.  His face was down on the road so it was hard to tell much about his identity.

I couldn’t quite figure out whether he was simply drunk and passed out or if he had fallen ill with a seizure.  Perhaps, he had been injured in a confrontational row.

Just as we began moving his body, these red streaks began coming down the street making towards us.  They travelled at hyper-speeds and created a sonic boom moments after they shot past.

This definitely was not in Kansas.

*This is a prompt I always give myself when lucidly dreaming and have to take stock that I am not on dream Earth.  Too, it usually signifies being in contact with extra-humans (ETs) and their civilisation.  END.

In a bid at self-preservation, we began dropping the man back to the road.  I decided to dart off, to the right, when I noticed these tiny spacecrafts over on the knoll.  They were green and blue with lights emitting from an open portal of the spacecraft.

Cutting through the break in the knolls, I shot past one and bolted across the open plain to a white bungalow in the distance.  The craft was atop the knoll, on the right, as I ran off the road taking cover.

I had been the more matured member of the group and had been directing them on what to do yet had abruptly taken flight.  I fled because, right away, I knew that they themselves were extra-human aka aliens.

I did not know whether they were posing as good guys, in a bid to capture me, so got clear of them.  When they had begun lifting the guy from the road, I sensed an energetic flow from his face.

I think that, were I to have seen the fallen man’s face, he would not have proven human in the least.  Thus the extra-human vehicles (EHVs) aka alien crafts’ appearance could well have been a good thing.

In that sense, they may well have prevented me from seeing the face of some bad EH (extra-human) in the guise of a human’s body.  Who knows, this fallen stranger may well have been the ruse for affecting my capture?

I was not prepared to find out.  I had never bounded across an open field so fast in ages.  As I did, the sky suddenly became intensely bright.  The lights from an incoming fleet of EHVs (UFOs) flooded the plain.

They fell down from the sky, at light speed, as red balls of light.  Instantaneously, they would slow down but not fully brake.  At that point, they would then become visible.

It was as though they had set the fabric of space afire, creating the red light about them, for travelling as fast as they did.  When they broke to regular subsonic speeds, they appeared as silvery crafts.

They were silver disks that had spokes that rotated arachnidan-like as they landed on the ground.  The spokes assisted their locomotion and left the disks looking like chrome-plated spiders in motion.

The spokes which covered the disk’s entirety allowed them to roll in whatever direction they chose.  Next, the EHV disks transformed themselves becoming silver and black tanks.

They each had a single, black sonar nozzle in the front.  They directed the sonar guns at all the dwellings about and overwhelmed the inhabitants therein with intense sonic booms.

The effect of this would momentarily leave the persons, so affected, paralysed.  The buildings here all looked like they were Deco from 1930s, in Miami’s South Beach.  The look was similar to South Beach with all those vibrantly painted hotels that line the boulevards.

Here, however, the houses were all white.  The area though had a definite tropical look to it.  To the rear of them was a tropical wooded area that led up to a mountain range.

Unique, the spacecrafts were very tiny.  It was hard to conceive of what kinds of creatures could fit into such puny spaceships.  They did telepathically announce that all humans would be paralysed.

*Then again, these EHs and their puny EHVs could have been deceptive.  Perhaps the interiors of these tiny arachnidan-like EHVs were 20 to 50 times more spacious than their tiny outer shells betrayed.  END.

There was nothing to fear; they were not being adversarial; therefore, they admonished that one needn’t panic.  This was not the kind of thing that one wanted to hear.

The mere fact that they could drop into one’s mind, at will, and so calmly speak was more than just cause to panic.  They said that we would be protected and provided for; we would not be harmed.

Turns out that the black sonar antennae were used to project their thoughts, at us, on the outside of the craft.  They had had it turned up to such a pitch that it would become only applicable to humans.

Part of the sonar’s job though was to put one in the state that facilitated their telepathic connection.  Thereafter, of course, it would simply stun us into paralytic submission.

“Get out of my mind!” I forcefully declared as is my disputatious wont.

With that, I decided that I was not going to be readily subjected to their will.  I was not going to let curiosity get the better of me and gullibly meet the EHs.

If it sounds too good to be true, of course, chances are that it is.  Willingly submitting my will was never my modus operandi.  With that I began willing my body, with a fierce unleashing of energy, to flee.

Since ambulatory escape was not fast enough, I threw my body forward and began flying away within a couple of feet of the ground.  Not wanting to attract attention to myself, I veered off to the side and made for the stand of trees close by.

They led up the plain to the start of the houses.  Several coconut trees were clustered in a stand all around the house.  For safety’s sake, I flew past the first house thinking that it would be the first to be searched or captured – what have you.

It was a wonderful sprawling estate; there were even more grounds in the back.  Even though it was quite briny here, there was no sense that the ocean was close by.

This, of course, immediately reminded me of Frederikke Sørensen’s estate in St. Croix, U. S., Virgin Islands.  All my senses here were quite awakened during this very fast-paced, rather real experience.

Flying ahead, I made for the complex which had a number of low-rise apartment buildings.  They were about six-to-seven storeys at most.  All of them were built unusually close together.

The more I tried to get close to them, the more my flight increasingly became laboured.  It was as though I was being subjected to the EHs’ sonar probe.  I couldn’t now achieve the desired altitude to get myself up to the higher storeys of the buildings.

This had the feel of there being forces at play here that superseded my will.  Although I had begun my flight low to the ground, the attempts to rise higher left me incapable of pushing upwards and past a certain barrier.

There now seemed some invisible force field activated that did everything to impede my will.  My fate seemed, somehow, to have been to experience contact with the EHs.

Regardless, I forged ahead.  My flight now seemingly more a diving swim whilst struggling upstream against a strong, overpowering river.  Finally, I made my way up to the complex of some eight buildings.

This really did feel as though it were in the Miami area rather than say St. Croix, Hawaii or even Sydney, Australia – the latter two to which I have yet to travel.

The grounds here were beautifully landscaped; quite impressive, in fact, they were.  The style was art deco with windows that wrapped about the sides of the corner apartments.  Each apartment had its own tiny independent balcony.

Off in the cover of the arboreal growth, to the side of the buildings, I noticed that the EHs had stationed sentinels to guard the captured buildings.

The inhabitants were all trapped inside; they were grounded in their paralysed bodies.  The sentinels were not at all human; rather, they were silver, spherical robotic probes that guarded the buildings.

They each had a network of spokes radiating from them that monitored activity; they served as satellites to keep the human inhabitants grounded.

Just before willing my hovering body from amongst the trees, I noticed that there was one particular sentinel; it was hovering at a third storey apartment’s window.

Since I had already begun to move, it had definitely noticed me.  Right away, it made for me and came at me.  Silver, it rotated clockwise.  Soon, I realised as it passed above me that it had not, in fact, seen me; it was simply on a regular timed patrol.

Slowly, I made my way over to the building; I remained undetected.  Willing myself with great focus, I managed my way higher and rose up the side of the building.  There I went on the side of a balcony and sought cover.

No sooner than I had gotten there that a very stout, Fernando Botero-like White woman came after me.  This was the most bizarre infuriating bit of WST (Waking State Transference).

Here was this moronic idiot coming to capture me for the EHs.  She couldn’t see me as another human being.  I was a goddamn, no good, so-and-so, trying to escape.

Like the programmed shaved rat she has always unthinkingly been, she immediately had to set the authorities on me.  In this case it was the aliens because, god only knows, the EHs are “our” friends.

I was a Black male and doing something as unlawful as flying.  This woman was truly not aware that she was in the dreamtime.  She was brain-dead.

All that she could do was slip into her acculturated attack mode and get my “fucking, Black arse…” Full stop.  I was beyond being livid.

Instead of taking a frigging breath and flying with me, she just had to go vilifying me.  Together, as humans sharing a common heritage, we could have had companionship and escaped together.

Rather, I was some N-word out to loot her of all she had that being: mere material things and fuck-all else.  She was hideous to the core.  She wore white slacks and a pretty floral top looking like a Floridian, living comfortably off her investments or a dead partner’s conveniently-early demise.

She did have great big knockers on her – real bouncy cockteasers.  However, a real greed-fixated, objectionable character she was.  In addition, she did have somewhat of a deep tan.

Her hands were fat and stubby-fingered denoting heart trouble brought about, no doubt, by too much drink, smoking and or iatrogenic sloth.  She lunged for me grasping at my body.  I managed to stealthily out-dodge her and escape.

Quickly, I made it back to the cover of the woods close-by.  Somehow, she seemed able to levitate.  It was then that it dawned on me that she just might have been a very convincingly disguised EH.

It was effective because she surely came off as a fearful racist idiot and, of course, those tit-fuck magnets were ample bait.

*This was quite an insightful take on life in the waking state.  For, to all intents and purposes, there are really EHs among us.  Of course, it goes without saying that my initial perception of her reeked of my own WST ignorance.

The way in which a sizeable portion of the humans collectively relate to other humans, certainly and in particular Blacks, you would think that they were EHs dreading contact with the locals.  END.

Swerving off to the left, I had been able to fly clear of her reach and the balcony.  Into the thick growth of tropical trees I flew.  As soon as I entered the woods, I was immediately free of the weightiness that kept me close to the ground.

Straight away, I soared higher.  Thanks to the trees’ invigorating energies, I was immediately energised.  It was as though they were able to override the EHs’ psychic web giving me renewed strength.

They were able to strip me of the wear that the EHs’ sonar force field had exacted.  Momentarily pausing, I hovered upright, directly drinking of the large trees’ energies whilst recharging my chakras.

As my energies increased, thanks to the arboreal hosts, my body began slowly levitating as I hovered upright.  Now I was high up, for being fully energised, in the bosom of their expansive negative-ioned crowns.

With that, I continued my escape and decided to stay within the cover of the woods.  Above all, I wanted to be in direct contact with the arboreal giants’ distilled loving energies which had revitalised me.

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Even though I was now higher, I still wasn’t able to fly at great speeds.  Whilst flying ahead, I began following an old footpath way below.  Instead of directly flying above it, I hung back to the right of it and well inside the cover of the overhanging trees.

There in the thick of the wooded area, on the footpath below, I saw a couple of guys.  When looking up, they saw me right away.  They laughed at me knowing that my attempt to escape was futile.

Though they looked White, I knew from their laughter that they were EHs but in human disguise.  What had really caught my interest was the way that they laughed.  Whenever they did laugh, they looked at each other and aggressively nodded.

There was something peculiar about it; it just wasn’t very human.  They were not, in essence, simian.  This was when it dawned on me that, when they were on the planet, these EHs were able to adopt host bodies.

That is to say that they simply manufactured bodies that they then inhabited, at will or when required, that covered their true species’ identity.  In their natural state on their home planet, however, they did not look a thing remotely simian-mammalian.

They wore human bodies, much the way one would wear appropriate gear, when going on a trip to the Antarctic, the Amazon basin or the Sahara.

It was all about adapting, truth be told, so as to survive the terrain.  For these EHs, they wore a human body as it was akin to wearing a wetsuit when going scuba diving.

Somehow, they were able to shift their forms and adopt the human model.  This was not just local to being planetside on Earth.  These EHs had the capacity to adapt.  Therefore, they became whatever their host species looked like on the planets that they chose to visit.

They were quite simply more reptilian, in the chameleon sense, than simian-mammalian.  Whilst I hovered there, reflecting on all this, I realised that the woman on the balcony was there to pacify and blend in with the human locals.

She, however, was definitely an EH and her racist response would only make her seem that much more authentic.  Ingenious!  I do believe that this chameleon arrangement is likely more so the norm for spacefaring interstellar civilisations than not.

It makes for fewer traumas on the uninitiated galactic peasants – such as humans.  Whilst hovering above them, I had an expansive awareness of how this would be possible.

Basically, for being off one’s home planet, one was as if at the astral plane between lives.  The moment you went into alien space, about another star system’s inhabited worlds, you were not physiologically constrained.

Unlike the locals, an alien on another planet was free of the host planet’s set of electromagnetic, astrophysical, neurological, physiological and psychological constraints.

This, for all EH species, made being on another planet a truly liberating experience.  During the flux of space travel, more of the will came into play and one became more so creator than the created.

That means that the intellect was greatly expanded.  Once free of indigenous planetary constraints, an EH could morph its gravity-free neutralised body at will.

In terms of the Michael Teachings being spacebound was tantamount to having neutral Overleaves.  When one was in the space of a desired alien planet, one could simply construct the right overleaves from the neutral base.  This would allow one to adapt and blend into the local vibrational imperatives.

Thus one did not have to use, by way of possession, the body of a local – too much potential karma there.  In some situations, the EHs simply manufactured bodies that served their needs and were applicable to the desired alien world.

Like walking with a couple of wetsuits, if going on a scuba diving trip, so too the EHs could show up prepared with their own prêt-à-porter human bodies.

‘What might the “made in…” tag be for such off-world fashions,’ I wondered.

By keeping to my agendum, I flew past them whilst thinking of escaping this whole experience altogether.  As I flew past, one of them remarked that he did not realise that we humans had the capacity to levitate.  Said he, he did not realise that we were so evolved.

However, then shrugging, he added that levitation was but the tip of the galaxy.  This was his telepathic image which I had initially mistaken for a slab of ice in space.  That had made me think of an iceberg but it clearly wasn’t.

He was referring no doubt to a whole host of skills, which they possessed, that we as a species had no awareness of.  Space travel was implied by his smug dismissal.

Again, they laughed, aggressively nodded and sounded like a mix of semi-feral hyenas or wolves rather than simian-stocked humankind.  On flying past them, I then happened on three Black guys who were also in the woods.

They were all naked and fully aroused.  Theirs were cocks easily fourteen inches apiece.  They stood there, side by side, energetically masturbating.

The guy in the middle had an upturned dick on him.  Of the three, he was jet black.  The man on his left was brown-complected whilst the other was High-Yellow.  The guy in the middle’s cock grew harder by the second.

It was incredible to watch a cock grow so huge, so rapidly.  Thicker than a tasty Polish sausage, it was uncut and a prized sight.  Again, close observation of their behaviour indicated that they were planetside EHs in human disguise.

Everything about them said that they were not human.  From the formation that they stood in, to their complexions, they simply were not human.  Even to their obsession with having an orgasm, theirs was behaviour that was not human.

It was a study of human sexuality – the way they stood there holding their mammoth dicks and jacking off.  For all intents and purposes, they were three EH scientists doing research.

They were collecting data whilst exploring the human experience.  As well, their oversized dicks were a tool for getting unsuspecting locals to become addicted to them.

Their wunder-schlongs could easily hypnotise one into becoming their prey; they were, in that sense, a true size-queen delight.  More than that, part of their reason for being there was so that they could get me enthralled.

Since I had already been able to effectively escape, both the fat woman and the other group of men, they used their big sex to make weak-willed size queen of me.  This was plan B – get him by way of sex.

Frankly, I was no dumb native so chose not to settle for their transparent bait.  With that, I kept on flying through the woods.  There was always something to the eyes of these people that ultimately gave them away.

They simply did not have an instinctive psychic bond, for not being genuinely human, which right away one could discern.  This was a subtle distinction which we humans so overlook.  However, it has become part of the instinctual wealth of information that we psychically exchange when interacting.

These people just never had that connection that rung true.  There was just that indefinable something, which eluded them, for being EHs.  I then followed the forking path that went off to the right.

Soon, this got me out of the woods and to an area where there was a large group of Blacks.  They were all media people – print, television, radio, film.  All of them were hiding out on the corner of a large building.

They were filing a report on the EHs by huddling and filming the goings on.  They were in the process of filing a live report.  After I cleared the woods, I noticed some EHs just beyond the edge of the woods.  They were unmistakably EH and in broad daylight.

They were dressed in late-Georgian, early Regency garb.  The men wore lots of white lace and tight long pants.  They were all terribly aristocratic-looking; they were very European in style.  There were even a couple of horse drawn carriages.

It was as if, these EHs were a bit off on their choice of timeline.  For the look that they were affecting was clearly off by multiple decades.  They were involved in projecting their consciousness to appear as human as possible.

However, they were all off by at least a couple of hundred years.  This served to show up their techniques for space travelling and how they made contact with the locals.

They simply blended in.  In that way, they could be in the alien world doing their research without being an intrusive presence.  This glaring miscalculation ultimately wouldn’t help them in their work.

Unperturbed, they kept calling out to the group of Black media persons.  They were trying to get them to come closer to them.  They knew that they were being filmed; however, the humans simply hung back and kept on shooting to document their presence.

Frankly, from their perseverance, it was obvious that the EHs were intent on capturing us.  I for one did not want to join in a group.  As a result, I chose not to get too caught up with the media people.

In my attempts to flee them, I had comfortably remained hovering in the air.  I had refused to alight and come down to earth.  However, I had been above the group of Black media people and around the edge of the building’s cover.

Some Blacks in the media party looked on at me as though to try and figure out if I was one of the EHs.  They were soon assured by probing my energies that I was genuinely as I seemed; not an EH was I.

Finally, I decided to take my leave of them as they continued their standoff with the aliens who were across the road and wide-open field.

The building was a red brick affair.  It stood, down an incline, lower than the road it faced.  Making for the road, I now flew of choice fairly close to the ground.

There was a great deal of verdant grass on either side of the road.  On the right side of me, rushing across the expansive field ran Pericles from the woods as I flew some twelve feet above the street.

He was joining Isabella and the other siblings – Isis and Pandora minus Rio da Braga, of course, about whom I almost never dream.  They stood there in the fields, like many others, who were all intrigued by the idea of seeing the EHs.

Concerned for their safety, I excitedly began to shout down to my siblings to get lost and go take cover.  Pericles joined them, just shy of me and below.  He was considerably stouter, darker and slower.

As currently is the case in the waking state, he was bearded.

“Boy is me who taught him how to fly in dreams you know!” Pericles began saying of me.

“In fact, I was the one who invented flying in the dreamtime.  I’m the one credited in history as having invented flying in the dreamtime…”

There and then, I became summarily disgusted by Pericles’ ridiculous megalomania.  For all his pomposity, in the true sense of the word, I realised from where I hovered that Pericles was a very small individual.

With that, I took my leave of them.  I realised that this was a group of people who could only ever have a hostile response to me.

Pericles being there, doing exactly what he did, was the chief reason for my position in this dynamic.  Furthermore, they were never going to take him to task for it.

When I encountered them, on that stretch of the road, the sky though daytime out was now overcast.  It seems that there was going to be some storm up ahead.

Before taking my leave of them, I boomed down at Pericles telling him to fuck off.  Isabella had hung back and rolled her eyes.  She then cracked a wicked grin at his absurd nonsense as bullshit eloquently flowed from Pericles’s beguiling lips.

*After I left my siblings, I thought back to the two EHs in the woods who were disguised as White males.  I had to agree with them because, indeed, it would mentally take a great leap to become a spacefaring civilisation.

Frankly, the approach on this planet was futile.  It was, in fact, an ill-conceived approach to things yet it was perfectly understandable.  It was born of the same ignorance and arrogance which had informed the exploration of the New World.

The key to successfully making the leap, to being a spacefaring civilisation, was intellectual – as per astraphysics.  That is to say, using the interior realms, the astral plane as the basis for exploration was the answer.

Space travel is about projection of consciousness when being in an elevated state.  It is a state of being in which both intellect and spirit are harmonised leading to true travel.

Travel without moving; this was the way to cross the expanse of space.  For being astrally focussed, one could use the astral plane’s physics to be able to span the illusion of space to travel to any point in time across space.

This was not something that was chiefly done by physical means.  Presently, there is no connection between man and his being in human space travel.

This is directly because this is a Eurocentric approach.  A direct result, this is, of Western civilisation being divorced from nature.  The ultimate nature is internal.

Spirit, intellect and body are nature.  The present arrangement’s approach has not yet made the connection between man and nature.  There is no input of the astronaut’s spirit or for that matter his intellect.

It is all rote behaviour; they lock themselves into their harnesses and hope like hell the computers don’t fail and that they don’t end up like another Challenger space shuttle.

Machines do the job rather than nature; the astronauts themselves do not do the job by having their intellect – their interior realms – interface and fly their spacecrafts.  In that sense, they are very much so like the test dog and chimpanzee that were sent into space.  Today’s astronauts are currently along for the ride.

This reflects Westerners’ heritage of being divorced from the nature within themselves.  It was this lack of awareness that had them arrogantly kill and rape the New World’s inhabitants to secure their place therein.

There was no room for cohabitation because they did not see the humanity, the nature, in the locals that they had encountered.  The “natives” – the derogatory for the locals whom they encountered living in synch with nature – were an obstacle to their agenda.  For living in accord with nature, the New World’s indigenous inhabitants would pay.

This, of course, harkens back to the message which the great master, Lord Jesus imparted,

“Love one another and live in accord with nature.”

Of course, for that he was murdered; ever since, this planet’s dominant civilisation has lived out of synch with nature.  Nature, as Christ imparted, was simultaneously internalised as well as externalised.

The microscopic mutually reflected in the macroscopic.  This was not gleamed two millennia ago; to this day, it has still not been gleamed.  Thus the prevailing cultural paradigm would have us cross the exigencies of space by forging ahead against nature.

Nature is therefore an aspect which we don’t see being innately a part of us.  To go outwards, one always has to move inwards; it is the only way to grow.  By looking within and harmonising his nature, man would finally be able to move without and engage in successful space travel.

All that the present spacefaring attempts suggest is how very out of synch, with nature, man has become.  All it does is waste time and demonstrate that greatest sign of being out of synch with nature – the damn thing pollutes!

When this internal harmonisation with nature occurs, a fusion between the waking and dream states is affected.  In this way, one is able to project the more evolved aspect of the integrated self, the dreamer self, into the waking state.

The waking intellect when fully aligned, with the dreamer self, enable one to project consciousness to anywhere in the universe.  The focussed will enables one to move in an unrestricted manner to any alien world.

This is because a revolutionary shift occurs with the harmonisation of inner and outer nature – waking consciousness harmonised with dreamer consciousness.  This fusion of intellect and spirit results in the emergence of Naturali.

Unlike ‘Human,’ Naturali or Natural Mankind is able to manipulate both physical plane and astral plane physics thereby becoming truly magical – magus.  This fusion allows him to project his Naturali self, into any point in space within and beyond his native Star system.

This is about becoming limitless in perception.  Naturali is never self-restrained.  This has been achieved and continues to be experienced by some societies in human history – be it in parts of the Himalayas, Andes, Amerindian plains, pre-Dynastic Egypt, the Aboriginies of Australia, some First Nations societies, some Europeans like the Druids and the Dogon.

In these cases man has made the leap from being merely human to become Naturali.  Humanity is chiefly divorced from nature – his true self.  For that, humanity is primarily caught up in being divorced.

Fragmented mankind is lacking in harmony between inner nature and outer self.  This has led to the culture of senseless and perpetual warfare that has predominated in Western civilisation for the last two-plus millennia.

The result is an unevolved expression of our potential.  There is little awareness of true potential.  There is, however, much inner chaos and all of it is graphically illustrated by paradigms which do nothing but perpetuate this lack of fusion.

The negative paradigms, resultant for having murdered yet another great master – Christ, create imbalance which leads to all the ‘isms’ from which one chooses not to escape: lookism, racism, ageism, sexism, classism.  For that reason, most of these EHs are master dream adepts because they are able to use this fusion of inner and outer nature to transcend the boundless limits of space.

Ultimately, the limit of space is purely intellectual.  In a sense, it is a good thing that the present arrangement exists.  All that would result, if present human civilisation were to become spacefaring, is that they would exactly repeat what they did on venturing into the New World.

Since then, this culture of rape and pillage has never been addressed.  This is because the former Europeans have been too busy having to police their appropriation of looted territory and enslaved and or terrorised peoples.

Never having had a chance to reflect or transcend their blind conceit, there has been no internalisation.  This precisely is the leap necessary for that harmonisation of mankind’s integral selves.

A spiritual transformation is necessary that would enable Western civilisation to then truly become a starfaring civilisation.  In the meantime, the mercantile paradigm rules as this planet’s prevailing order.  The alternative doesn’t now, of course, seem practical because how can you set up shop and trade in the dreamtime?

This is how perfect and right the current, prevalent, Western paradigm seems.  However, it is an awareness as uninformed as the conviction 500 years ago by some that to sail beyond the horizon would lead to falling off the flat Earth.

Thus these EHs are able to project their spacefaring dreamer self civilisations, in this case, to Earth.  Interestingly enough, this was validated by the stars in the sky being not familiar in the least.

They were the familiar stars from the night sky of the EH race’s homeworld.  This is part of the necessary anchoring, for the EH stardreamers, to successfully return to their homeworld.  They appeared as technologically advanced because they were not in their homeworld’s dreamspace.  END.

After leaving my siblings behind, I flew down above the narrow road.  A lone, dark pine-green house stood on the right side of the road.  It was a two-storeyed wooden house.

On seeing it, I flew over and approached the front door.  I decided to go take cover inside because one of the carriages, in which the EHs rode, was barrelling down the road after me.

Both carriages were being drawn by two white horses apiece.  The carriages were dark, high, wooden affairs, not black though, like Amish ones.  A man was calling from the carriage to follow me.

On going into the front door, I was met by a narrow foyer.  At the far end, there was a winding staircase.  Even when in the hallway, I was still levitating.  A tall jet-black woman was washing the walls.

On closer inspection, I realised that all the walls were slowly undulating.  This, to say the least, was displacing.  Truly surreal, the walls were never static.  In that sense, one had an awareness of the house being alive and breathing.

The feeling was very nurturing; womblike and soothing it was.  The walls had warmth to them; their surfaces looking as though liquid.  The woman kept on intently focussing on her task.

Meanwhile, on the wall to my right, there was a dish detergent ad being run.  It was most bizarre, the entire wall was being used as a screen onto which was projected the advertisement.

*Whilst I slept neither the television nor radio was on.  END.

The wall was as if a tiled ceramic screen.  At the far end of the hallway, through an arched doorway, I looked.  There I saw a clock at the centre of a mantelpiece.

About eighteen inches tall, the clock was a white, blue-with-some-green, ceramic timepiece.  It was columnar and had a phallic look at the top.  It was more so, however, like the arched roof of a hut than not.  It was the most beautiful piece of ornamentation.

It had the look of a Ming vase; it was even more ancient-looking than some of the oldest surviving pieces of Chinese objets d’art.  The green was really from so many centuries of being in a damp environment which left it mossy in places.

In addition to that, there was a yellowish hue to the vase-like body of the timepiece.  This, of course, bespoke how terribly aged this vase-like timepiece was.  It would suggest that this was created in an age that easily predated the Ming Dynasty by multi-millennia.

Struck by the ethereal qualities of this house, I looked back at the walls.  They really were undulating, in a truly Salvador Dali-like surreal manner.

Looking back, I noticed that the clock was no longer static.  It began warping and drooping over and it did so to the point where it was hard to ever make out the time.

I could make out that it did have two hands on it.  However, the clock was hypnotically doing this slow undulating dance.  It meltingly drooped from side-to-side in a manner that was sublime and genuinely surreal.

I then made my way into a bedroom leaving the Black woman behind in the hallway.  She seemed to be getting more and more disoriented but I knew that, in the end, she would be okay.

This bedroom was on the ground floor from whose window I could see out to the backyard.  All around, the sunken house looked up to an open grassy knoll.

So though on the ground floor, when looking out the window, it seem as though one were permanently in the basement.  On hearing the carriages pulling up out front, I had gone there to take refuse.

In the room was a singer who reminded me of Sinéad O’Connor.  Her scalp was near-shaven – but for the blond bristles that spiked her head throughout.

She was dressed as a cave woman and also carried a staff.  This seemed to be all part of a stage persona of hers.  I silently watched as she got ready to, it would seem, go perform.

She seemed to be a rock ‘n’ roll singer.  I assumed as much because of her shaved scalp.  She was very tanned and looked almost as though she had been permanently singed.  However, it was not as though she was of Dravidian heritage either.  Hers were a great pair of Sagittarian thighs; they were very Tina Turner-like legs.

She wore an animal skin toga with a side slit skirt that nicely showed off her body.  On her feet she wore a wonderful pair of brown, leather high heels whilst frantically pacing about the room.

She was cursing out, ‘these stinking aliens,’ at whom she was imaginarily jabbing with her club.  The arrival of the EHs had obviously interrupted her ascendancy to fame and fortune.

Then a very strikingly handsome, dark EH appeared; he looked tanned like the actor, George Hamilton – that perpetually Sun-darkened stunner.  There were lots of sage soul energies to his look.  He appeared in the single window to the outside.

When lit from behind, it only made this obvious EH’s intense-frequencied eyes and handsomeness that much more stunning.  Charmingly, he came in through the window and said hello extending his hand to her.

This man was supremely charming with lots of Mars-Venus-Pluto trine energy.  His outfit was more so Regency than Victorian with frilly sleeves.  He was a dandy from the look of his dress and cultured mannerisms.

This man was more charming than the most exquisitely celebrated courtiers, in human history, have been.  This man’s cultured fluidity made fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld look downright bland by comparison.

His shirt ended in a high-buttoned collar that made it look as though he were wearing a turtleneck.  A great flair and air of bravura about him yet he wasn’t flashy.

He was sophisticated and possessed of a slightly flared, sexually charged nose.  In that sense, he rather resembled the sexual beauty of the actor Ralph Fiennes.

His was a wonderful spirit with great theatrical timing to his persona.  Regardless, his EH identity being anything but human, his true nature shone through.  This extra-human was undoubtedly a sage soul.

Jet-black hair was brushed up and back off his high-foreheaded face.  Two arms fell down, in thick sideburns, to hug the sides of his handsome face in place.

This man’s intensely riveting eyes left Tom Cruise’s, in terms of his eyes’ sheer magnetism, looking like the vacant eyes of a grinning oaf; certainly, this is not the case with Mr. Cruise but comparatively his eyes seemed dull next to this EH’s.  A devilishly handsome rogue of a man, he was.

On seeing him enter the room, I went and slipped under this wonderful, antique chaise longue.  Since I was still in flight, I hovered beneath it, never touching the floor.

He had been directly focussed on the woman when entering the room.  I don’t know who this woman was, she did seem human enough, but it was clear that his objective was to capture her.

Perhaps, she was an EH disguised as Earth human – one who had become lost in her fulfillment of her mandate.  It would seem that she had gotten hooked, working as a performer, on being a star on the rise.

Though I was beneath the chaise longue, I was able to see everything going on inside the room.  The sagely EH in dark Regency garb entered the house by effortlessly walking through the window, including the wall beneath the window, when entering through it.

Though he could easily have hopped through the opened window, he chose to state his resolve and let nothing stop in his way.  He telepathically overpowered the woman.

Though deceptively extending his hand to her, I could hear him hissing at her which caused her to drop to her knees.  Then he told her, that she needn’t worry, that there was nothing for her to fear.

She was truly terrified.  She was pleading with him to not kill her.  He grinned at her.  His was a smile that was nine parts guile with a surface veneer of charm.

Though I was hovering beneath the chaise longue, I had another perspective of the room.  I was as if perched aloft and just below the ceiling.  This left me with two simultaneous perspectives.

From beneath the chaise longue, I could see up to the two persons’ knees.  From above, I saw everything and was never noticed by either person below.  I had deftly rendered myself invisible.

He was so dark-hued that I passingly thought that he could even have been High-Yellow.  When this man smiled, the room simply lit up.  This was a truly hyper-wattaged smile.

He was a swashbuckling dandy; one whose handsomeness was also very reminiscent of Douglas Fairbanks Jr.’s.  He then began stroking her left cheek.  Meanwhile, I sailed out from beneath the chaise longue and began levitating to a higher position.

I slowly flew over to another window from which I got a really good look at things.  After having crossed behind him, I turned to look back just in time to see his next move.

From his right pocket he took an object; it looked like a large, halved oyster shell.  This object was just as gossamer-hued as an oyster shell’s interior; clearly, it was no such thing.

He then placed the object to the left corner of her mouth and her jaw line.  Whilst kneeling, she pleadingly looked up peering into his soul.  Her ajar generous-overbite mouth negotiated with him.

She did her best to appear cool and diffident.  She tried her best to be alluring to him.  He was so much more handsome than her.  She pleaded with him not to hurt her.  He replied by telling her not to worry.

With that I turned to fly through the window, to his rear, in which he had first appeared.  Just as I drank in the warmth of the beautiful welcoming light outside, she let out a broken scream that pierced through me.

Looking back, I found the sagely gentleman.  He was holding the charred remains of her body, inside the groove of the nacreous, oyster shell-looking object.  The shell-like object was smoking with the reduced remains of the woman’s body.  It was a truly horrific sight.

I realised that this oyster shell-like object was, in fact, an accumulation of all the persons whom he had murdered to date.  Her charred body had added to the size of the object.  It was easily one third larger than before it had been.

Not a single drop of her charred remains was anywhere on the floor.  This validated that this woman knew the meaning of the object that he had procured.  She was clearly an EH; she was being terminated for having failed in some way.

I wondered if it meant that she was being returned to the homeworld incarcerated.  Perhaps, rather than being killed outright, she was merely being arrested though it looked like being assassinated on this end.

For being in a human bodysuit, whatever her natural state was, this nacreous oyster-like object was specifically designed to capture her.  In its wake it left the shell of her former self.

Clearly, their human bodysuits were not authentic hard matter.  It was partly holographic, seemingly an astral phantom, if you like.  Either way, the whole thing was fairly sinister.

Well, I had seen all that I wanted to see.  It was time to click my heels and fly on home and away from this Oz!  I instantaneously was out of there.

When jetting free of the window, I soared aloft and jetted for the cover of the far-off woods.  These arboreals were behind the house.  I made it there with lightning speed.

The arboreal energy precisely was what I needed to speed me along.  I became magnetised to the arboreals’ energy.  No fear clamoured my thoughts; I wanted the devil away from this place.

Faster and faster, I kept on flying using the trees’ energies.  The arboreals’ life force proved the raw fuel that jetted me along.  On flying in amongst the tree crowns, every branch and trunk that I negotiated only added to the thrill of my escape.

Their raw energy actually sped up my vibration and allowed me to fly faster.  The faster I flew, the more their energies bombarded me and allowed me to escape being overtaken by the sagely rogue.

Eventually, I happened on a large industrial complex.  It stood directly next to the break in the woods.  I had simply been catapulted from the woods and into one of the tiny windows that sat high up the side of the building.  The windows were close to the ceiling.

Once inside, I sought to take cover.  At this point, I was confident that nothing was certain any longer.  Even my family seemed initially EH!  That is until, of course, Pericles began spewing his delusional ya-ya.

My presence seemed to have set off an alien surveillance system.  It was seemingly designed to go off on the detection of humans.  Straight away, a fat White woman was dispatched to prevent me from trying to escape.

She was told to not let me through an exit close by.  She had been directed by an even fatter, Fernando Botero-like White male who wore military garb.

All these fat people only validated my suspicions that the woman on the South Beach, Miami-styled, art deco apartment buildings was, in fact, an EH.

All these abnormally fat persons were all EH who paraded about in human bodysuits.  Somehow, I suspected that there was some atmospheric reason for their suits bloating and thereby leaving them seemingly dysfunctional as they did.

Then too, perhaps their natural bodies made the largest dinosaurs look comparably like ants do to us humans.  The plant seemed some military installation or other.

Perhaps, it was a communications installation for their Gaian operations.  A high and black-haired, done-up-in-a-bun woman in a pink dress had opened the exit.

I was trying to make it through, however, soon realised that she was there to prevent me from getting out.  Then through a bar she levitated when lying on her back.

She was accompanied by the military-garbed rotund man who also levitated on his back.  He, however, was on the other side of the bar.  Sadistically, the general squeezed the fellow-levitating woman’s hand.

Right before my eyes, he then began a metamorphosis; it was, in fact, quite rapid.  In the end, he went from being an obese hideous man to being a svelte blonde woman.

This was all the proof I ever needed that these, indeed, were no mere mortals.  The bars looked like the harnesses, which pen in bucking horses, at a rodeo.  This complex was quite an unusual-looking place.

For one thing, it was easily larger than the largest, American military hangars, by a factor of ten times; it was massive!  The machinery here was like nothing technologically from any period here in Earth’s, comparably short technological history.

There were spacecrafts which looked like sports coupe-sized shuttles.  They were all made of a very solid-looking metal and one which definitely does not originate on this planet.

This was obviously the repairs and storage shop for their operations here on Earth.  Whilst they underwent their little persona-change, shall we say, I quietly slipped through the complex’s large front doors.  I was, of course, still in flight.

No sooner than had I made it outside that I was being pursued by a group who were trying to capture me.  Several other persons had also bolted from the plant about the same time as I did.  They, too, were clearly earthly human.

This was during the downtime when the general was changing into his blonde bombshell bodysuit.  There had been a number of locals who had gathered about marvelling at the spectacle of me in flight as I tried to flee.

Resolved to never be captured, I soared into the air and soon made it over this four-storeyed, green-shingled, steep-roofed building.  Stopping to hover over the cover of the roof, I then cautiously made it to the back edge.

Sure enough, I found a number of EHs below who were intently looking up at me.  Hovering there, I studied them and considered what should be my next move.  Still, they remained below.

The EHs readily turned their bland glazed expression to one of seething rage.  Their look was filled with hunger as they were intent on capturing me.

I was not going to be captured by whoever these people were.  There were two persons standing there on the roof.  Soon, it became obvious that they were engaging in a bit of group mindfuck of me.

They were telepathically trying to convince me to jump.  Somehow, they were trying to override my mind.  In a bid to get me to jump to my death, they tried to sell me on the notion that I was not hovering in flight.

They attempted to convince me that I was precipitously standing at the edge of the rooftop.  Their advice to me was to simply jump and suicide.

According to them, it was the least torturous options left me at this juncture.  Wanting to get away from them, I thought to try and fly higher still.

These EH had the same energy signature as the two EHs whom I had encountered on first flying from the balcony at the South Beach, Miami-like, lowrise apartment complex.  When those two human bodysuit-wearing EHs had laughed, they behaved as though of semi-feral hyena stock.

These men, who were trying to mindfuck me, were as if sentries – intelligence agents – whose job it was to police operations and make sure that we mere mortals did not know too much.  They also seemed as though, in their lethal singleness of purpose, automatons or even clones.

It took a lot of psychic energy to block out their telepathic invasion.  They were trying to wrestle power of my mind and have me act as they wished.  As I repelled the negative vortices that they directed my way, it proved quite a struggle.  I would not be vanquished.

However, somehow, I did not know if I could actually pull it off.  Instead, I decided to simply awake.  At this point, I had been flying for longer than I had done to date, in long years.

This was one continuous dream, in which I was almost exclusively in flight.  More than 95% of the dream’s progress was passed with me being in flight.

I knew that since there were no trees about to lend me support that the easier thing to do, at that point, was to simply awaken.  Too, I knew that were I to have been captured/overpowered by them, I would have awakened with no recollection of these dream experiences.

Dreams, of course, are purely experiential.  Much of what occurs during what we loosely refer to as dreams is, at times, more real than the somnambulant dreck we yawn our way through – half the time – in the waking state.

*The intriguing thing about this crystal is that it was the second Madagascan transmitter crystal that I would own.  Just as with the other, the first time that I would become attuned to them, I would be left in receipt of the most unique of experiences.

The first time, it was back on November 30, 1988 when I had the sublime OBE (out-of-body experience) whilst still awake.  The second, of course, would then result in today’s experiences.

I had gotten a Madagascan, transmitter quartz crystal and a Brazilian amethyst.  However, there was something unmistakably potent about these crystals.  Both came from the same region and were informed with a strong sense of the Cosmic.

When I awoke, I was enervated but I was not exhausted.  The whole thing had been too intense as I desperately sought not to be captured.  I was desperately trying to figure out some way to make it out of this harrowing set of astrally projected dream experiences.

**One of the things, which has come to light, since having dreamt this glorious dream, is that both Merlin and I were alive during the Georgian/Regency era.  I would discover during my many Michael Overleaves charted that both Merlin and I, in a former life, were musicians at the court of King George III.

I was male with a sparkling personality and Merlin was my female accompanist.  I was a soloist singer who was a favourite entertainer at court.  How there is a tie-in to that shared past life at the court of King George III and the extra-humans, at this point, is beyond me.

Rest assured, however, that there is a likely tie-in somewhere.  It was quite visceral to have witnessed the sagely extra-human as he came to dispense with the other extra-human – the female performer who had not fulfilled her mandate.

 

These preceding dreams occurred, on Sunday, January 17, 1993, whilst the Moon transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house.

I had slept in the collapsible pyramid with recently purchased crystals.  Not surprisingly, this combination triggered astrally projected dreams that took me to points unknown.

Without a doubt, the good burghers whom I encountered were not exactly from Kansas.

 

So there you have it dreamers, of course, we are not the only ensouled fare in the universe.  To really know what’s going on out there, and right here at home, be most lucidly awakened in the dreamtime. 

Short of that you may as well go looking for dubious virgins in cloud formations…  EHs and their big-sexed plan B notwithstanding, my plan B is love which ever vanquishes fear!  

Here’s wishing you glorious flying dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… I’d love to know what joy you’ve fathomed in dreams’ sweet embrace. 

________________________________________

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

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Nancy Wilson… and more.

Wilson, Nancy 20/2/1937<O>13/12/2018

Michael: This fragment was a third-level mature artisan – second life thereat.  Nancy was in the passion mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she was in the emotional part of intellectual centre. 

Body type was Solar/Saturn. 

Nancy’s primary chief feature was self-deprecation and the secondary stubbornness. 

The fragment Nancy is fifth-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence five.  Nancy’s entity is seven, cadre four, greater cadre 1, pod 129. 

Nancy’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior. 

Nancy’s primary needs were: expression, expansion and power. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 

____________________________________________

What a truly great voice.  Though over the years, I had attended many Nancy Wilson concerts, one in particular remains the most memorable.  It was the late set at the Blue Note Jazz Club in New York City’s West Village.  A Saturday night performance, it was at the end of the run and Ms. Wilson was in fine form.  With me that evening was Milan Newcombe, the rather eccentric lover of mine who had the most magical residence in Toronto’s Kensington Market.  

Milan and I met about a month before the 350th anniversary celebrations of Montréal in May 1992.  The day of the anniversary, there was a parade through the city’s main artery at night time; quite a unique and spectacular sight.  We stayed that weekend in a loft at the corner of Ontario and St. Laurent Streets and that night, I wore a pair of six-inch, black patent leather Bally talons hauts, a pair of extra short blue jeans that nicely sported the goods, a large, white pirate’s shirt, a confident smile whilst holding hands with the coolest motherfucker I had met since having met Merlin – Milan made a most pleasurable adventure of living. 

Jazz singer Nancy Wilson celebrated her 80th birthday on February 20th, 2017

Having just returned from a weekend in New York City with Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem, I was crawling the halls of the St. Mark’s bathhouse at Wellesley on Yonge, in a bid to get over decidedly banal sexual relations with Frans.  A great human being to be sure but sex should not be as ennuiyant and tedious as needlepoint.  Well into the late hours, after a few hookups, a long lean body caught my eye as it lay there, waiting to either prey or be preyed on.  

An hour later we emerged into the gritty, callously unforgiving light of daybreak and hopped on our bikes.  Together we rode west along Wellesley, cut through University of Toronto campus and onto Spadina, rode south on said avenue to the most magical lair imaginable.  There above a series of Chinese shops, Milan owned the two storey apartment that was filled with an assortment of Bohemians – or at least trust fund types, bored out of their skulls whilst waiting to collect their inheritance.  

Milan possessed the largest music library, I had yet or since seen.  Moreover, within that library were the most extensive recordings of harpsichord music.  If that were not specialised enough, Milan owned a harpsichord which, after we had riotously slapped, nipple-bitten, punched and me gourmandise his pygmy fin whale schlong: girth and length that makes your upper lip sweat and eyes roll back like Whitney Houston in full song, he would spend the next hour playing what proved the most captivating instrument.  Always at such times, I would become sponge-like and expansive, feeling as though in between wakefulness and sleep with a plethora of the most lucid past-life dreams flooding and surfacing my conscious mind.  Not surprisingly, that harpsichord proved a touchstone to our past-life connections and specifically to the life as court musicians in London, England during the reign of King George III and the Regency when Milan, Merlin and I plus a whole host of others whom I have known in this lifetime were greatly, creatively fulfilled.  

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Newcombe, Milan 08/02/56 Toronto <O> Toronto

This fragment was a third level mature sage – first incarnation at this level, likely to repeat the level – in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance.  An idealist, he was in the intellectual centre, emotional part. 

Milan’s body type was Saturn/Venus. 

Milan’s primary chief feature was impatience and the secondary arrogance. 

The essence twin is a sage, also discarnate.  An artisan task companion he’s got, who is incarnate. 

This fragment is second-cast, cadence sixth in the greater cadence, entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, node 414.  Milan is in the same entity as Arvin and Merlin, sharing a strong connection through the arts. 

The three primary needs for Milan were: freedom, power and communion. 

Q: Past lives of note for Milan:

Michael:       This fragment has had many lives in the theatre and in performing, as would be expected, due to his soul age, mature and role, sage. 

He has been a well-known courtesan in nineteenth century France, to a second-in-command lieutenant to Napoleon Bonaparte and was involved in many secretive meetings to which she was privy, due to her ability to keep silent. 

She, however, was found guilty of espionage, at a later date, and hanged, at the age of 24. 

This sage has also performed with students of Hippocrates in the fifth century Common Era in Crete and also became interested in herbal medicine at that time. 

Lives in the performing arts total 24 altogether and have been both notable, such as in China in the eighth century as a puppeteer or in the caves of Borneo when he was a painter of walls with what would be called ancient hieroglyphs. 

This fragment was also present in the sixteenth century in Venice and was a student of a lesser artist, not sure about the name. 

Q: Past lives with Arvin:

Michael:      First of all, let us comment that these two fragments did have an agreement which had to do with the validation of personal expression. 

Number of past incarnations total twenty and include:

  1. These two fragments were present in the “George” life; King George III of England, when the sage was a fellow musician and trumpeter. The sage was competitive with the artisan and envious of the artisan’s natural talents.
  2. They have been married once before officially in an area of the Middle East, eleventh century BCE, when they were in an arranged marriage having to do with land and money exchange. They did get along reasonably well due to the entity connection but did argue.
  3. Makers of small ornamental objects in the first century Common Era, Crete. Both were female and cousins.
  4. These two fragments completed a sequence having to do with abandonment/abandoner in the São Paulo incarnation. The female artisan seduced the sage and then subsequently refused to continue in the relationship which led to emotional turmoil for the sage.

This first part of this sequence took place in the 1300’s in Spain when the reverse occurred but the sexes were the same, artisan still female, seduced by the sage then abandoned. 

Had this not been an agreement, there would have been mindfuck karma incurred. 

(KB: this was an important set of incarnations) 

 Q: Past lives with Merlin and the ET:

This fragment was present in the life aforementioned in the fourth century in an area of Tibet and was the mother of the task companion, former-Merlin but separated when the scholar, former-Merlin, was quite young due to religious training. 

There have been an additional four of note including one in the ninth century in China when these two fragments were enemies and came quite close to incurring karma; through combat, not agreed upon in advance, as well as one in the first century Common Era when they were married to the same male fragment; Common Law, Palestine area. 

This sage has also shared three past associations with Arvin’s essence twin which have included living in a small village in western Canada in the 1400’s both male.  They were childhood friends. 

Additionally they have fought side-by-side “on stage” when members of a travelling theatrical group in northern Italy in the sixteenth century.  The essence twin died of a fall which the sage tried to prevent but was unable to, happened when both were teens.  

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Milan was magical; his home lit throughout by candelabras and the salon an exacting reproduction of an 18th century English salon.  One of the most beautiful things about sleeping over with Milan at his magical lair, was that many were the nights when I would – whilst lying next to him in bed, pleasured and satiated – spontaneously astral project.  During these marvellous OBEs (out-of-body experiences), I would get up out of my body, turn around to look at our smiling pleasured faces harmoniously lying in bed fast asleep, see the cord of silvery white light that attached my astral body to my physical body.  This cord more so resembles a caravan of tiny balls of light that are unbreakable and which attach at the solar plexus of both bodies – astral and physical.  Milan was the most sensual lover and the greatest kisser.  

This song was Milan’s favourite tune and Nancy Wilson his favourite Jazz singer – just as Natalie Cole and Betty Carter mine and John Hirsch was Ella Fitzgerald’s undisputed biggest enthusiast.  Until having met me, Milan had never listened to Jazz or explored the genre.  However, like all persons in the positive pole of their goal of acceptance, he embraced, appreciated and explored the newfound treasure that for him Jazz would prove.  With an intensity never before experienced, Milan insisted on venturing to every Jazz concert imaginable.  To that end, we took several trips to Chicago, New Orleans and, of course, New York City to nurture our souls and forge to greater depths the bond we shared.  Whenever the loving was good and god do I love a cock… especially his – hey, three billion women can’t be wrong, Milan would then play some Nancy Wilson.  Our love faded on my relocation to Vancouver – he hated grey, dreary and rainy weather, I was come undone one early morning whilst meditating in the pyramid in Vancouver, Milan appeared to me and said so long.  I knew that he had died that day – another lover passed of AIDS.  I will ever experience the sweetest memories when listening to Nancy Wilson.  

Sweet and very blissful dreams indeed be yours Nancy: griot, linguist, shaman and truly great performer.  

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support, dream without giving a damn… cause you can and all the more reason to push off and start flying.  

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

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Sing it George!

Benson, George 22/3/1943 Pittsburg, Pennsylvania

Michael: This fragment is a fifth level mature artisan – second life thereat.  George is in the power mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Body type is Venus/Mars.

George’s primary chief feature is subdued arrogance and the secondary impatience.

The fragment George is fifth-cast in third cadence; he is a member of greater cadence four.  George’s entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – this is a cadre mate of Arvin’s and Merlin’s.

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

George’s primary needs are: expression, communion and power.

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

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Music is a language and Jazz is the language of a people; it speaks to no one else like it does us.  No other music readily restores one’s humanity and sense of self like Jazz does.  Interestingly, when a student at ballet school, I lived the most famous quote uttered by Diana, Princess of Wales in that Panorama interview that she gave to Martin Bashir: “There is no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.” 

That is why during my two hellish years in Winnipeg, the music of Jazz is what saved me.  Interestingly enough, three musicians I looked to during that time more than any others; years later, I would discover that they are all cadre mates: Natalie Cole, John Coltrane and George Benson.  

With the passing of cadre mates Natalie Cole and Roy Hargrove, it is high time to celebrate and pay homage to George Benson while he remains focussed here and now.  

Keep on flying right whether in the most blissful of dreams or the waking state’s unforgiving grittiness… then again, it is also maddeningly beautiful!  

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

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Wallis? No, no, no. Try Edward VIII 2.0.

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So horrid has been the unbridled racial animus at TRH Duke & Duchess’ interracial marriage that it is past the point of being alarming, to merely being plain hysterical.  Fuck these idiots; just get on with your miserable lives, which clearly were not made miserable by that weak, dimwitted race traitor, Harry, being bullied and hoodwinked into marriage by that Z list, pole dancing, unsuitable, twice-divorced Compton ho.  

wallis &amp; edward5

Naturally, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex an American divorcee, is being compared to her predecessor, Wallis Simpson who was also a divorcee.  She was said to be domineering sort and Edward VIII, her lover, a weak-willed sort who was totally controlled by her.  

wallis &amp; edward4

Similarly, as with Wallis, Meghan who is erroneously being compared to her American predecessor, Henry is seen as pussy-whipped and controlled as was deemed Edward VIII.  Be that as it may, of one thing one can be certain, unlike Meghan, Wallis was not skilled in the arts of the Kamasutra… so there is that.  

besotted and drooling

This shot of Henry during his aunt, Baroness Fellowes’ reading of scripture is seen as proof of his being controlled and foolishly controlled by the lowest of muggles.  Be that as it may, here is a man who is completely besotted and having upped his game, did win his bride in the end.  

henry eyes william

Of course, a sceptic to the core, there was Henry fixing a shrewd eye on his brother, William who everyone has failed to realise is the real Edward VIII in all this, rather than Henry.  William has more in common with the abdicated Edward VIII than does Henry.  

charles &amp; camilla

Granted, Rev Curry was a blasted buffoon who embarrassed no one but himself and it was nothing the royals had seen – to his dying day the right reverend will think himself to have been a hit… American conceit is staggering – but there were Camilla and Charles trying to make sense of what they had just seen,  

shade

Returned from having signed the registry with his son’s gracious mother-in-law, Doria Ragland, there was William whilst the cellist weaved his magic, openly ridiculing and throwing shade.  

shades curry

There could be no doubt of William’s loathing of Rev. Curry and all that he represents.  Trust you me, if Henry had taken a Jewish wife and there was some aspect of the ceremony after Henry had converted that was bizarre, there is no way in high hell that William would have sat there and openly ridiculed the rabbi.  This display, only demonstrates William’s open bigotry.  This among other things exposes him further at having been cognisant of the “blackamoor brooch” incident.  This is the same William who has seen fit to stridently decline going on tour to any predominantly black Commonwealth nation; this has been left to his father and his wife, Camilla to undertake instead.  Scholar souls when in the negative pole of their overleaves happen to be the smog, arrogant, prejudicial persons going.  Sadly, William will never change his outlook for the remainder of his life and it will cost him dearly down the line.  

This august woman, Camilla who does not gladly indulge hostilities declined to attend Andrew’s daughter HRH Princess Eugenie’s wedding last October to Jack Brooksbank; he had always been openly hostile towards her.  Similarly, she declined to attend Christmas Service 2018 at Sandringham as she is clearly not pleased with how the senior royals, namely William and Catherine are being frosty towards Henry and his American wife.  

wallis &amp; edward2

Just as Wallis was the centre of everyone’s vitriol, as time always lays bare all secrets, Edward VIII would be exposed for the vile, bigoted, Nazi sympathiser that he was.  So, too, William has proven himself a bigoted boor on par with his great-great uncle Edward VIII.  I think it interesting that so many of the souls who have reincarnated after the Me generation have turned out to be such petty, bigoted boors, which they love smugly terming conservative. 

Lead Free Pewter Large Maple Leaf Connector

The same is seen in the current Canadian PM who has thought nothing of repeatedly running off to India to act like a buffoon in a Bollywood flick, attend every town in the land’s Gay Pride parade; however, he flatly refused to attend the 50th anniversary Caribbean Carnival celebrations in 2017.  Instead, he went kayaking.  Naturally, the same social butterfly tried his damnedest to score an invitation to the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex but was justifiably decline.  He also saw positively nothing odd in excluding either blacks or Chinese from his cabinet in 2015.  Enough about Bathhouse Pierrette and his über Ketaine, just-a-tad-too-eager fag hag.  

carriage kiss

For any and all sceptics (Princes Philip and Harry – and yours truly) what we pay attention to is details.  We don’t focus on what you say but we are ever keenly focussed on what you do not say and more importantly what you do.  This can sometimes have us come off as slightly on the paranoid side but, trust you me, nothing escapes our shrewdly focussed gaze.  

William has emerged as Edward VIII’s bigoted reanimation rather than Meghan, Wallis’s reanimation.  Not a single tour to a predominantly black Commonwealth nation, turning away during the scarf incident this past Christmas when Meghan tried to engage him in conversation.  

Charles and Camilla standing at the end of the receiving line of Westminster Abbey clergy to greet senior royals, who in this case would be HM The Queen and Prince Philip.  Naturally, The Sovereign exchanges pleasantries then greets her son, father of the groom and they share a congratulatory kiss at the occasion of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge’s 2011 wedding.  

Westminster Abbey, this past Armistice Day for the service of remembrance.  Though, I was then in London, I did not attend outside the Abbey to observe; rather, I was attending a commemoration concert at Barbican Centre by the London Symphony Orchestra.  Here, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex wait, as is customary, at the end of the receiving line of the incoming senior royals.  

TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge deliberately stayed overlong, greeting and chatting up the Westminster Abbey clergy; they were making a point of snubbing the Sussexes.  Naturally, another betrayal of his role of instigator in the “Blackamoor Brooch” incident, William has no qualms about dismissing his brother and his otiose wife as he and by now his equally curt wife see things.  Her reaction on entering the Abbey and noticing the Sussexes spoke volumes.  

As it was plainly obvious to sceptic Harry that he was being snubbed by that conceited, thick-as-plank, bigoted brother of his, he simply walked away and was followed by his wife, rather than continue suffering the indignity of being made to wait overlong.  William is a bigoted arse of the first order and where the Duke & Duchess of Windsor are concerned, the parallels are to William the bigot and Edward VIII the Nazi sympathiser rather than Wallis the divorcee and Meghan also an American divorcee.  

wallis &amp; edward3

The Cambridges no more wanted to talk to the clergy and PM Theresa May than they want to have to tour some predominantly black Commonwealth nation.  They were snubbing the Sussexes because Meghan has draw and mass appeal and is not a mousy little whimp when speaking publicly like the bigot’s mare who looks frightfully severe when not grinning like a semi-feral gibbon en chaleur. 

meghan-markle-royal-wedding-dress-1526730077

Oh well, there was Meghan ascending the steps of St. George’s Chapel with John & Brian Mulroney, doing their parents proud, to say nothing of Ivy in her own right.  Thank god for Jessica Mulroney, for her role in that wedding as she helped to strike it straight out of the park – and she also happens to have the most deliciously vulgar laugh that tickles the soul every time.  A wedding like no other and that will always have sphinctered, drivelfest, bigoted boors seething with grudge because… well, petty humans can be expected to behave no differently.  

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and don’t ever forget to push off and start flying when lucidly awakened in the dreamtime.  

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Roy Hargrove 16/10/19692/11/2018

Image result for roy hargrove autumn leaves

Hargrove, Roy 16/10/1969<O>2/11/2018

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature scholar – 2nd life thereat.  Roy was in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth.  Roy was a realist who was in the intellectual part of moving centre.

Roy’s primary chief feature was arrogance and his secondary was impatience.

Roy’s body type was Mercury/Lunar.

The fragment Roy is second-cast in the fifth cadence; the fragment is in the first greater cadence.  Roy is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – here we have another entity mate of both Arvin’s and Merlin’s.

Roy’s essence twin is a scholar and the task companion is a sage.

Roy’s three primary needs were: expression, adventure and security.

There are 9 past-life associations between Roy and Arvin and 14 between him and Merlin.

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I have always exquisitely found centre for listening to this recording.  Time seems to drift away and ideas flow with greater ease… indeed, how sweet it is to be richly inspired by an entity mate.  

“I’m in service.  I am here to touch people and make them feel better through music.” – Roy Hargrove.  

Well if that is not validation of being a member of an entity six of a cadre one, I don’t know what it.  

I always good for long days after a concert of his.  A beautiful human being.  

Sweet and blissful dreams be yours dear ennobled entity mate.  

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

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The Scarf… There’s the Culprit.

Scarf moment 2018

Without doubt, though the most reviled black woman on the planet, I knew that though cited as the instigator in the tabloid media, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex could not have been the cause of the obvious rift between Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons: HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  When someone is guilty of having wronged, denigrated or slandered another, that guilty party is always acutely uncomfortable in the presence of the subject of their animus.  This past Christmas church service at Sandringham, HRH Prince William unwittingly unmasked himself as the guilty party.  I never for a moment believed that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge was the instigator.  

george-prince-william

In September 2017 when HRH Prince George of Cambridge was widely photographed attending his first day of school in Battersea, one thing stood out in the reporting at the time: his father’s very close friend and cousin, Lord Frederick Windsor’s daughter Maud by actor wife, Sophie Winkleman also attends the same school.  This is the same cousin whose cocaine addiction had caused HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales to put an end to the close relations his sons enjoyed with their cousin; however, HRH Prince William remained close to this cousin.  

Engagement photo

One of the things that struck me is the interviews given after their engagement was announced in late November 2017.  

Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall was her usual adroit, eloquent self, and her husband, 

HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales was the second most upbeat.  

At the time, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge was less upbeat, did not mention Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex; rather, he essentially characterised his brother as a thief.  

 

Similarly, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge spoke of their happiness but never mentioned Ms. Markle and this came a day later after her husband; indeed, it was as though, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge had been tasked with doing damage control after William’s snub of Meghan by mentioning her name.  

Princess Michael of Kent with the blackamoor brooch

A month after the engagement announcement, though not yet a royal bride, Meghan Markle was invited to attend HM The Queen’s traditional Christmas lunch with her especially enamoured fiancé, HRH Prince Henry of Wales.  So as not to be mistaken, the continental put-on wore a starkly white coat such that her blackamoor brooch would not be properly photographed on a dark coat.  At the time, there was justifiable furore in the press and the narcissistic twit was made to issue a rather disingenuous-sounding mea culpa.  Clearly, she could never in a million years have acted on her own.  

Xmas 2017

Later that month, Christmas Day, 2017, again Meghan not being from Britain was invited – though not yet a royal spouse – to HM The Queen’s Christmas Church Service at Sandringham.  On looking at the video, it was clear that there was tensions between the two senior royal couples.  By that point, there was widespread open animus towards Ms. Markle and though it was never directly addressed and always vehemently denied, her race was the source of the vitriol.  Whilst entering the church, there was smugness from HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge towards Ms. Markle.  As they left the church, there was no denying HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ open affection for Ms. Markle and in the above photograph, he is beaming directly at Ms. Markle, making her feel welcome whilst the keenly onlooking HRH Prince William in the rear was tense-looking.  

William, Kate, Harry and Meghan at the Royal Foundation Forum

A couple of months later, when appearing as the ‘Fab Four’ charter members of the Royal Foundation, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge spent most of his time crouched forward; his posture was predatory and he was keenly eagle-eyed as he monitored Ms. Markle’s performance.  As ever, HRH Prince Henry of Wales looked nervous, Ms. Markle was poised though her chief feature tended at times to get the better of her – more on that later.  I shall do a thorough overview of these major royals’ Michael Overleaves, which were channelled by two authentic Michael channellers and by none of the ever burgeoning scores of two-bit charlatans.  

William cruising Ben Mulroney

Finally, the big day arrived for Diana’s younger son; and what a wedding it would prove.  There sat HRH Prince William displaying those urges for which a life at public school leaves one possessed of certain proclivities.  In the above photograph, William is eyeing Ben Mulroney – well, because he can – at the time neither of his inner circle chums (Thomas & Charlie van Straubenzee) were present in the quire.  At least on two other occasions, William openly coveted Mr. Mulroney during his brother’s nuptials.  

the betrayer

On her arrival to the altar to join her husband, Meghan looking more confident and radiant than most brides was being suspiciously eyed by her brother-in-law in his role of disproving, to say nothing of delusional, final arbiter.  

no wave william

As the newlywed TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel in the Ascot Landau, all the members of the Cambridge family at the top of the west steps waved off the couple save, of course, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.  He kept holding George’s hand and the order of service in the other.  

 Senior members of the Royal Family appeared impressed as the array of aircraft flew over Buckingham Palace

Windsor, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 21/6/1982 London, England

Michael: This fragment is sixth-level mature scholar – third life thereat.  William is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance.  A pragmatist, he is in the intellectual part of moving centre. 

Body type is Lunar/Mars/Saturn. 

William’s primary chief feature is stubbornness – death of his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, was the triggering event and the secondary arrogance. 

The fragment William is third-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence seven.  William’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 208. 

William’s essence twin is a scholar and he has a warrior task companion to whom he is married, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. 

William’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and security. 

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 3 with Merlin. 

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Windsor, Catherine HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9/1/1982

Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior – third life thereat.  Catherine is in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth.  A pragmatist, Catherine is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Catherine’s body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus. 

Catherine’s primary chief feature is stubbornness and the secondary, arrogance. 

The fragment Catherine is fourth-cast in the sixth cadence.  Catherine is a member of greater cadence one.  Catherine’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6 pod 208. 

Catherine’s essence twin is a warrior and the task companion a scholar, her husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. 

Catherine’s three primary needs are: expansion, power and expression. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 8 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

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Windsor, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex 15/9/1984 London, England

Michael: This feisty fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior -– fourth life thereat – to his sixth-level mature brother, William.  Henry is in the power mode with a goal of growth.  A sceptic, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Mars/Saturn. 

Henry’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness. 

The fragment Henry is first-cast in second cadence; he is a fragment of greater cadence three.  Henry’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 – Henry is an entity mate of his paternal grandmother, HM Queen Elizabeth II. 

Henry’s essence twin is a warrior and he has a scholar task companion. 

Henry’s primary needs are: freedom, adventure and exchange. 

There are 9 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin. 

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Windsor, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex 4/8/1981

Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature artisan in the tradition of the deceased mother fragment who was Diana, Princess of Wales — third life thereat.  Meghan is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance.  An idealist, Meghan is in the moving part of emotional centre. 

Meghan’s body type is Venus/Solar. 

Meghan’s primary chief feature is self-deprecation and the secondary of mild impatience. 

The fragment Meghan is fourth-cast in the fifth cadence.  Meghan is a member of greater cadence four.  Meghan is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 — she is an entity mate of both her spouse, HRH Prince Henry of Wales with whom she shares 20 past lives and also an obvious entity mate of Her Majesty, The Queen. 

Meghan’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior. 

Meghan’s three primary needs are: expression, acceptance and expansion.

There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 

Incidentally, this artisan has been a member of the British royal family twice before.

Firstly, as Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, she was the cousin of King Henry VI and mother of King Henry VII.  As such she was the matriarch of the House of Tudor.  Her grandson was Henry VIII and her great-granddaughter, Elizabeth I. 

This artisan in that lifetime was involved in the sacraments of the church being included in the newly established college system.  She founded Christ College, Cambridge and was instrumental with the founding of St. John’s College as well. 

Secondly, she was HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York and Albany and younger brother to George III, whose father the Prince of Wales, HRH Prince Frederick died before ascending the throne after George II.  In that lifetime, the artisan (now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex) was interested in military structure.  He, of course, died young of a then unknown illness but which had to do with dysentery. 

Incidentally, in the current incarnation, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has suffered from gastroenteritis, which is related to the last-life health issues – this is the immediate past life and not that in 18th century when the artisan died aged 28.  

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Windsor, HM Queen Elizabeth II 21/4/1926 London, England

Michael: This fragment is third-level mature slave –- second life thereat.  Elizabeth is in the perseveration mode with a goal of dominance.  A realist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Venus/Lunar. 

Elizabeth’s primary chief feature is stubbornness and the secondary self-deprecation. 

The fragment Elizabeth is fourth-cast in fifth cadence; she is a fragment of greater cadence six.  Elizabeth’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418. 

Elizabeth’s essence twin is a slave and the task companion is a priest. 

Elizabeth’s three primary needs are: security, adventure and exchange. 

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin. 

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Mountbatten, Prince Philip HRH Duke of Edinburgh 10/6/1921 Greece

Michael: This fragment is fourth-level mature warrior – second life thereat.  Philip is in the observation mode with a goal of preferred dominance.  A sceptic, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Saturn/Mars. 

Philip’s primary chief feature is stubbornness – due to early death of a family member and the secondary subdued impatience. 

The fragment Philip is seventh-cast in first cadence; he is a member of greater cadence six.  Philip’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 408. 

Philip’s essence twin is a warrior and he has a scholar task companion who is known to him. 

Philip’s primary needs are: exchange, acceptance and power. 

There are 14 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 

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Frances, Diana, Princess of Wales  July 1/1961<O>August 31/1997.

Michael: The fragment who was Diana Frances is a second-level mature artisan and was in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre. 

She had a Lunar/Mercury body type. 

Diana’s primary chief feature was stubbornness with a secondary, not of self-destruction but of self-deprecation. 

Diana Frances was first-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence.  She is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 48, pod/node 380. 

This fragment’s essence twin is a discarnate artisan and her task companion is a discarnate sage, both of whom are staying near her, waiting for her to become oriented to her situation. 

Here, we had an artisan with drama in her casting but also with a very deep need to serve both the common and the higher good, which she did with grace, charm and a good deal of conviction. 

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Windsor, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales 14/11/48 London

Charles Windsor is a seventh-level mature second-cast warrior.  Charles Windsor is in observation mode, with a goal of acceptance, and attitude of pragmatist, moving part of intellectual centre.  

Charles’s body type is Mercury-Saturn. 

Charles’ primary chief feature is stubbornness, secondary is self-deprecation. 

He has an incarnate warrior essence twin with no plans to meet and a discarnate priest task companion, who exerts considerable influence on him. 

His casting is virtually the same as Robert Bateman’s: entity two, cadre four, greater cadre 16, pod/node 404 but he is a second-cast in a fourth cadence, entity four, cadre four, greater cadre 16, pod/node 404. 

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Windsor, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall 17/7/1947 London, England

Michael: Yes, this scholar is at the mid-level of the mature soul cycle — third life thereat.  Camilla is in caution mode with a goal of growth.  A pragmatist, Camilla is in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Body type is Lunar/Venus.

Camilla‘s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary arrogance.

The fragment Camilla is third-cast in sixth cadence; Camilla is a fragment of greater cadence seven.  Camilla‘s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 129.

Camilla’s essence twin is a scholar and the task companion is a warrior.

Camilla’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and power.

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.

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Now for the esoteric Michaelese breakdown of what all this means.  All told, there are 9 major players chosen here; of them warrior souls predominate with four such persons: Catherine, Henry, Philip and Charles.  Two scholars: William and Camilla.  Similarly, there are two artisans, Diana and Meghan.  Lastly, there is but one slave, HM The Queen, who happens to have the strongest overleaves of them all.  As HRH Prince William is the subject of this blog, I shall explore his overleaves lastly.  

First and foremost, there are only two ways to approach all of life, either from a place of fear or a place of love.  That having been said, there are both positive and negative poles of all overleaves.  Similarly, just because an individual is an older soul does not mean that they are a more evolved human being and is all good.  Of all these 9 royals, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, is the oldest souled member with Diana, Princess of Wales having been the youngest soul among them.  Bear in mind, too, that some of these persons are if not entity or cadre mates, at the very least are pod mates.  I am going to go through these nine souls in order of soul age and though Charles is the oldest of the group, I will discuss William’s last even though he is the second oldest soul.  

The Diana, Princess of Wales

Diana: Second-level mature artisan; she lived the charmed life, great overleaves.  She had the great goal of acceptance, which incidentally so too do William, Charles and Meghan.  There was considerable Maya involved and she created a ton of drama out of sheer boredom and also as a way of fighting back when realising that she was in a loveless marriage and nothing but a pawn.  No idea, if she is yet reincarnated.  

Queen Elizabeth II attends a service for the Order of the British Empire at St Paul's Cathedral on March 7, 2012 in London, England. (Photo by Geoff Pugh/Getty Images)

HM The Queen: A third-level mature slave soul, she is on her second life at that level and is in dominance.  This is as close to perfect and positively manifested the overleaves of anyone within that family or elsewhere.  These are great overleaves, which are positively manifested.  

Camilla: She is a mid-cycle mature scholar soul and a pragmatist in growth.  This woman is a solid and as gracious a scholar as you can find.  No surprise that she focusses on literary charities and organisations and hosts the annual Man Booker Prize awards.  She is a scholar’s scholar and does not do drama.  Camilla is another BRF (British Royal Family) member who gets it right and is manifesting in the positive pole of her overleaves like HM The Queen.  

Meghan: Like Camilla, the Duchess of Sussex is also mid-cycle mature; however, like Diana, Princess of Wales she is an artisan.  As is obvious from her overleaves, she chose to reincarnate to do something.  Where she is is precisely where she is supposed to be.  One does not end up with body-type of Venus-Solar and do nothing and does not become a major player on the global stage.  Incidentally, usually only one life is passed at mid-cycle mature; it is a bridge lifetime between third mature and fourth mature and it is the only soul age where this occurs – there are exceptions to everything as this is Meghan’s soul’s third life as mid-cycle mature.  At the end of fourth mature, more of the brain is used going forward and there is greater complexity to the persona.  Meghan, having been Margaret Beaufort in a past life when she was the most pivotal Lancastrian woman during the War of the Roses, matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty, cousin of King Henry VI, mother of King Henry VII, beloved grandmother and mentor of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I.  Furthermore, Meghan is an entity mate of both HM The Queen and her husband HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  They form a troika that is unshakeable.  She is an idealist in acceptance; she will always be emotionally and empathetically open and mature.   Sadly, though, the fact that this soul chose to be black in this lifetime has meant that she has become the most reviled black woman on the planet for having married into the BRF and its most loved prince.  Incidentally, her husband, HRH Prince Henry was black in his immediate past life.  Meghan’s primary chief feature is that of self-deprecation which is never attractive and this leaves her copping the shy smile routine and in particular placing her hand over her mouth.  Your chief feature is a cactus never to be cradled… that said, this soul who as Margaret was first wedded before the age of two and had four husbands will be striking it out of the park in this lifetime again.  

The Duke of Edinburgh has undergone a successful hip replacement

Philip: Fourth mature warrior in dominance, this is an equally solid soul as is his wife, HM The Queen.  A warrior’s warrior to the core.  

Prince Harry

Henry: A fifth-level mature warrior; this man is the most interesting and underrated royal.  First of all, at fifth-level mature, he is more complex than any of the other royals thus far; he is also a sceptic and the only other of the nine being the rather shrewd Prince Philip.  This means that he is all 9 parts intellect, sees straight through everything and is able to think outside the box.  Fifth-level is also synonymous with the goal of acceptance; therefore, this man will always have great appeal within a group dynamic.  He is also thoroughly unpretentious and in growth.  As a warrior, he inputs on one channel as do scholars and kings.  Similarly, as a warrior, Henry will never forgive disloyalty of any kind; a betrayal of any kind is unforgivable.  

Catherine Duchess of Cambridge

Catherine: Like Henry, Catherine is not only also a warrior but she is also fifth-level mature.  These two are rather simpatico and there is no way that they would never get along; there would be nothing but mutual respect and understanding.  Fifth-level mature is also a time of incredible creativity, especially among warrior souls.  Catherine also happens to be not just an entity mate of her husband’s but they are also task companions, which is as close a relationship at the level of soul that you can have as is possible.  Task companions are like oxen sharing the same yoke; they get things done and Catherine also has a goal of growth like her brother-in-law, Henry but she is in perseveration mode.  Catherine is all steel and will endure much and scale any mountain to get the job done.  Admirable lady.  

Prince Charles

Charles: the fourth of the warriors, he is also the oldest soul of the senior royals.  Dream encounters with this man are truly evolved.  Naturally, as a seventh-level mature warrior issues of stewardship of the planet would be paramount among his concerns.  He is also a warrior in acceptance and lives a life that is truly a positive expression of his overleaves.  Kind and inclusive, he is understanding and truly accepting.  Like every warrior there ever was, he does not forget or forgive disloyalty.  

Prince William

William: He is the second scholar soul and also the second oldest soul of the group.  Sixth-level mature, William is at that all unforgiving sixth-level where those lives are all about paying back karma and having to work in the larger arenas of life and providing stewardship.  William, born on the summer solstice, was also born with a stellium in his astrological chart which among other things means that he is prone to being very narrow in his focus; more importantly, it indicates someone who cannot see the forest for the trees when expressed negatively.  

Though William has a goal of acceptance, he also has a chief feature – no chief feature is ever positive – of stubbornness, which means that he is rarely regardless of his perfected persona ever either at ease or accepting of anyone.  Moreover, when a scholar is not in the positive pole of its role – as Camilla is – then that scholar will be an obstinate (stubbornness) negative and prejudicial (acceptance’s polar opposite rejection goal). 

image

This is why it is almost 100% likely that William not only knew of HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s intention of wearing the blackamoor brooch to the 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace but he likely was the one to have sanctioned it.  William is very close with Frederick who with his Jewish actor wife spend lots of time in Los Angeles where there is inordinate racial animus towards blacks.  

Wearing the blackamoor brooch to HM The Queen’s Christmas Lunch was tantamount to wearing a swastika to said lunch the first year that Sophie Winkleman attended, knowing fully well that Lord Frederick Windsor’s wife is Jewish.  The idea that somehow Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is behind a rift between both princely brothers or is contentious with Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge – who as a warrior is more likely to be openly hostile towards Meghan than the other way around – couldn’t be further from the truth. 

James Middleton roasts Tom Bradby

I think that it is safe to say that the Middletons have become rather high and mighty with themselves as evidenced when James Middleton was seen being socially hostile towards ITV’s royal correspondent, Tom Bradby outside St. George’s Chapel at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  

Here are further examples of HRH Prince William being rejecting, obstinate and plain rude.  William and not Meghan refused to have Sarah, Duchess of York attend his wedding.  William and not Meghan sat in the Chapel at St. George’s Chapel and openly ridiculed Reverend Curry to his father, HRH Prince Charles.  It was William and not Meghan who decided after the birth of HRH Prince George of Cambridge that the infant’s paternal grandparent would not be afforded access to his first grandchild.  William rather than Meghan told Dave Clark that he was not desirable as a husband for his cousin, HRH Princess Beatrice, thereby putting an end to a relationship that was no business of his.  

One of the most disarming things to know about HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is that he is basically stupid and lacks awareness.  This is how he always comes off in very lucid dream encounters.  Furthermore, like all scholars in the negative pole of their soul/role, he is given to being discriminatory and readily judgmental.  As a scholar with a chief feature of stubbornness, William is not given to being open to change and has an inordinately corrupted, almost delusional, sense of self.  There is high conceit when dealing with this man.  Indeed, he has taken  his brother Henry, with an attitude of sceptic, none too seriously and definitely not as an equal; however, HRH Prince Henry does not – for being a sceptic – take this man too seriously nor does he take personally his hyper-inflated sense of self.  

engagement interview 2010

During their engagement interview, Catherine sat on the edge of the sofa; only once did they touch and it was her initiating.  William during the interview self-congratulatorily referred to his great sense of humour – blind conceit.  Catherine’s hair almost covers her eyes so that she can remain tunnelled in focus and not become overwhelm by William’s intimidating nature.  Catherine’s mouth is pursed and turned down at the corners, betraying her discomfiture for being in William’s presence; this suggests an unpredictable nature and a violent temper.  Frankly, Catherine looks as though she fully expects to be slapped at any moment and with some regularity.  

Catherine enters Abbey

Catherine as she appeared on entering Westminster Abbey and being greeted by the Dean of Westminster.  Her smile is warm, relaxed and she radiates her inner beauty; indeed, it is uneclipsed.  

Vows2

Catherine, now in the presence of William becomes clenched, clipped and her radiance lacks its lustre.  All this because of the unpredictable nature of the man she is about to marry.  This very man is also her task companion; however, his perfectly good overleaves have become corrupted and are not positively expressed in the least.  

gloves

William the none-too-bright finally figures out how to properly fasten his gloves.  

carriage entry

William enters the carriage and sits with his back to the horses drawing the carriage; he had even looked back over his shoulder to the horses, yet still sat down in the improper position in the carriage.  

readjusted

William in this photograph has now changed seats after having been instructed to do so by the footman, wearing the white-plumed hat; the footman did so under his breath.  

footman &amp; pipa

In this shot, after having told William to properly sit, facing the front and not the back of the carriage, the footman could be seen looking at Pippa Middleton and she looks at him with a knowing and dismissive look and smile.  This interchange between both the footman and Pippa indicates that it is common knowledge by those in the know that William basically is stupid.  

Observant Henry

A keenly observant HRH Prince Henry on entering Westminster Abbey with his older brother on the day of William’s wedding.  This is the look of someone with an attitude of sceptic.  He knows that he has to hang back and take everything with a grain of salt as basically, his brother William is dense and unaware. 

Dismissing Henry

While being hosted by the dean of Westminster, Henry ventures a comment and like a scholar in stubbornness and who has been groomed to always be deferred to, William in essence tells his brother to shut up with a dismissive remark.  At all times, like a person in stubbornness, William’s body language is rigid and controlling with his hands ever clasped, the same few remarks and the same loud vacuous laughter and of course that ever present smile that is evocative of his mother Diana, Princess of Wales.  

fighting

Scholars in the negative pole of their role/soul can be the biggest bores; ever, they are a font of useless information and often unsolicited.  Here the newlyweds ride up the Mall to Buckingham Place; at least three times on the ride from Westminster Abbey William became impatient with Catherine and they rowed.  Here, he is shouting at her and telling her to be observant; she like the warrior she is, anywhere and anytime, she will sound off and protest without so much as thinking twice.  Love her!  

rowing on the mall

Do not be fooled by Catherine’s smile; he is grilling her and she is fighting back.  This, of course, is a healthy part of their relationship as long-term lovers and also for that matter for being task companions. 

Catherine truce

After the harsh words, naturally, William was a sulky petulant bore.  Warrior to the core, Catherine leans in and nudges him with her left shoulder and gets him to get out of his funk.  Catherine is one of the strongest royal women going.  

balcony deflection

Once on the balcony, William becomes a right bore with the endless drivelfest of observations.  On more than one occasion, one captured above, Catherine simply dismisses the ennui that is William by pointing instead towards the Canada Gates whilst he was directing her to look down the mall towards the approaching planes taking part in the flypast.  And at all times, Catherine maintains equilibrium with that Cheshire cat grin.  

William simply assumes because he is destined to be king and is never challenged, he could do as he pleases and attack his brother’s lover without there being the slightest repercussions.  

engagement interview 2017

Newly engaged, Henry and Meghan openly displaying their love for each other and both possessed of emotional intelligence that speaks to their reincarnational history, their being entity mates and the fact that as a yogi who has mastered the kamsutra, Henry is a happy camper.  Xerxes, a seventh-level mature warrior friend sums up the warrior’s motto thusly: feed me, fuck me but do not annoy me.  

Henry winks

Here, Henry on taking his vows and slipping the ring on Meghan’s finger with the most sexually suggestive intimacy, then winks at her.  This is a couple completely and thoroughly besotted, in love and passionately consumed with each other.  

Now there is a happy warrior; Henry deplanes when on first tour of the Commonwealth with his serenely pregnant wife, whilst sporting a chubby.  

the kiss

William, who is inordinately so a control freak, is threatened by his brother’s wife who is not a controlled, plus one and subservient wife.  Meghan has style and is not a blank foil to allow the blood royal spouse and only the blood royal spouse to shine at all times.  I don’t, though, agree with Meghan’s inability to strictly follow royal protocol and walk behind her blood royal spouse.  

meghan-markle-royal-wedding-dress-1526730077gallery_5_3 (1)Sussexes

Henry made sure to have a wife who would be for him what his father never was for his mother; a lover, companion and equal team member.  Meghan is forthright, articulate.  Like every artisan soul, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex inputs on five channels (the most of all the seven soul types) which means she can evoke mood and inject that certain “je ne sais quoi” into what she wears.  Artisans are said to be atmospheric; just slipping into an item of clothing and it is as though we shift personae and become as well as project the right mood into the environment.  Artisans are atmospheric; we set the mood by just being.  

Most of all, this appearance by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex at the 2018 British Fashion Awards is why William fears her.  Hatred is nothing but fear and to be obstinate and conspire with the Kents for Frederick Windsor’s mother to wear the blackamoor brooch only points to how much William fears his brother’s wife; to fear someone is to readily reveal how miserably you have no power over that someone.  Onto that stage, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex walked and had the room in the palm of her hand.  William knows that Catherine his wife could never have that command of an audience; what’s more, Catherine is a whimpering mousy little thing as compared to eloquent, confident trained thespian, Meghan. 

In the 21st century, Brand Windsor needs an ambassador who is media savvy and can walk out onto a stage and deliver like only Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex does.  That awards ceremony at Royal Albert Hall would have been a room with more than 60 per cent artisan souls whereas artisans make up 22 percent of the population of souls cosmically.  In Meghan, the fashion worlds of couture, design and jewellery have one of their own – she is akin to a patron saint.  This was the same effect that Diana, Princess of Wales also had for being an artisan soul. 

rs_634x1024-171221041524-634--1PHMM-MK122117

In Meghan, William is having to endure some self-karmic issues; you own no one and cannot push around anyone as you please.  Thus far, he has irreparably damaged his relations with two strong warriors – his father and brother.  Long before Meghan arrived he had sabotaged his relationship with Charles for not approving of Camilla, blaming his father for his mother’s death and denying his father access to his first grandchild.  With regards Henry, he has done Meghan a big favour for with his open animus and hideous bigotry vis-à-vis the blackamoor incident, William has lost Henry’s trust and it will only forge the love and loyalty between him and Meghan.  

Duchess Kate and Prince William's togetherness was discreetly on show as she placed her hand on her husband's leg at an official welcoming ceremony on day one of their 2016 royal tour of Canada. Photo: Karwai Tang/WireImage

Thus far, William and his family have twice been to Canada on royal tours; they have also been to the U.S., Singapore, Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific Commonwealth nations and India; however, William and his family have yet to set foot in a predominantly black Commonwealth nation.  There are no coincidences.  Persons in stubbornness are the most difficult people to deal with as they are pigheaded in the extreme and relish being difficult.  As he clearly has no interest in being on tour in a predominantly black Commonwealth nation, this is why TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex were appointed as Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors.  Far be it for William to become Sovereign where more than half the countries in the Commonwealth are peopled by blacks.  As ever, tabloid media will blame Meghan the unsuitable black woman for the rift; truly, one need look no further than William, who is not in the positive pole of acceptance; rather he is in the negative pole of its opposite, rejection, which makes for the scarf incident, the blackamoor incident and all the other deplorable things he’s gotten up to: Sarah not at his wedding, Charles having little to no access to newborn George, froideur towards Camilla and now Meghan.   Too bad for his scheming, though, because within a year of marriage, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will be mother to a royal child which further solidifies her staying power.  

As ever, don’t let fear and chief feature get the better of you as so clearly it has HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.  Just straighten up and fly right… especially when lucidly awakened in the dreamtime.  For your ongoing support, I am inordinately grateful.  Happy New Year and here’s to the very best in 2019.  

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

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