An Incredible Baby Boy!

HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex announces the birth of his son.  

Henry announces birth

Lips trembled and I came undone whilst watching this beautiful spirit revealing his sheer delight at becoming a father.  As a last-born, I always more readily identified with this man rather than his brother.  

Archie meets HM

Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor being introduced to his great-grandmother HM Queen Elizabeth II whilst his grandmother, Doria Ragland, his great-grandfather HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh by his enraptured parents, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  

Doria Ragland

Doria Ragland, grandmother of Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl of Dumbarton.  This woman has the most exquisitely beautiful papaya-seed succulent, ensouled eyes.  

The wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, Pre-Ceremony, Windsor, Berkshire, UK - 19 May 2018

Meghan Markle en route to be wedded and pronounced, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  

There is a reason why there was so much beauty and love overflowing at the marriage of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, for less than a year later they would give birth to a most remarkable older soul.  Before getting to that, I still think that the best dressed woman at their nuptials was the dowager Duchess of Westminster who looked for all the world as though she were merely traipsing about her lair in her favourite muumuu.  There was something so disarmingly unpretentious yet elegant about the look and air she projected.  

Harry May 12 2019

At once delicate and vulnerable; it is so immensely satisfying to see this young man flower into the true essence of his being.  

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As Meghan possessed of a true sense of theatre, she who was formerly Margaret Beaufort, entered and strode the knave of St. George’s Chapel alone… a Queen returned, she joined her lover and invited us in to share in a love that was tangible, real and undeniable.  

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Less than a year later, the love blossomed into the most beautiful, magical flower.  

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There he is, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, of all the senior royals he would prove the oldest soul.  This young man will prove a most uplifting member of the British Royal family.  

Earl of Dumbarton

Mountbatten-Windsor, Archie H. 6/5/2019

Michael: This young fragment is a seventh-level mature priest – second life thereat.  Archie is in the perseveration mode with a goal of stagnation.  A, realist Archie does not yet have a centre. 

Archie’s, as can be expected, does not have chief features. 

Archie’s body type is Venus/Mercury/Mars. 

The fragment Archie is second-cast in the second cadence.  Archie is a member of greater cadence four.  Archie’s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418. 

Archie’s essence twin is a priest and the slave task companion is likely to be known at a later date. 

Archie’s three primary needs are: exchange, acceptance and communion. 

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 7 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

This fragment does have a facilitating agreement with the father, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex to be his son; he also has one with the artisan, his mother Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and it is that of parent/child.  All three, along with HM, The Queen are of course cadre mates. 

We would say that this inspirational fragment is likely to have some notoriety as would be expected and can serve to inspire others to cross perceived boundaries. 

The higher ideal has to do with unification. 

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HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales his paternal grandfather has to date been the oldest-souled senior royal.  Like HRH Prince Charles, Archie is a seventh-level mature soul; however, whereas Charles a warrior soul is an ordinal fragment, his grandson, Archie is an exalted fragment for being a priest.  Priests are the feel-good great souls.  I rather suspect that this man will go on to have the same inspirational effect as have Barack H. Obama, Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King Jr. all of whom are priest souls.  

Of course, President Obama is a young-souled priest, whereas both Martin Luther King Jr. and Nelson Mandela were both sixth mature priest souls.  Archie is an older soul than the latter two mature-souled priests and like both, his role will prove rather uplifting and inspirational to blacks globally.  Indeed, there is no happenstance that as TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel in the Ascot landau, after their nuptials, the Kingdom Choir sang, This Little Light of Mine.  

All priests have one thing in common; they have the most radiant, magnetic eyes.  You never forget their eyes; indeed, their inner beauty of spirit is more readily reflected in their eyes than with any other role – at least, that has been my experience of priest souls.  Priests constitute roughly eight percent of all souls in the cosmos.  They are greatly motivated by a sense of justice and are in the world to both inspire and promote harmony.  With his father’s double sixness, Archie, born a six day, is well equipped to inspire and empathise with the needs of many.  He is, like his father, greatly gifted with the ability to inspire others.  Archie also happens to be a cadre mate of both his parents TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, plus his paternal great-grandmother, HM The Queen.  

One thing is guaranteed, as the only priest soul who is a senior royal*, Archie is going to be a standout like no other.  This is a family of slaves, scholars, warriors and artisans.  I think that his parents’ open and abiding love speaks to them serving as parents to this rare soul being born into the BRF.  In a way, he is the perfect maturation of the qualities that his paternal grandmother embodied; Diana, Princess of Wales with her inordinate empathy and compassion gave birth to a deeply empathetic warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, who in turn has fathered the very embodiment of all the higher ideals that both mother (Diana) and son (Harry) have represented.  

*As I have not had channelled the Michael Overleaves of the three children of TRH Duke & Duchess – HRH Prince George of Cambridge, HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge and HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge, I do not know if any of them are older souled than HRH Prince Charles or Archie.  I also do not know if any of them is an exalted role – King, Priest or Sage, though, none of them strike me as any of those three roles.  

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On another note, what more proof does one need that Diana, Princess of Wales had greatly succeeded in being a parent.  

Mr. & Mrs. Thomas Kingston

Third royal wedding in twelve months, featured the handsome Lady Gabriella Windsor – look at that neck! As always, one looks for the notable sartorial moments.  

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Carole Middleton wearing the best hat and outfit that easily surpassed the Catherine Walker ensemble which she wore to her daughter, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding and her outfit at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex last year.  

TRH Prince & Princess Michael of Kent

Look, as we West Indians always say, ‘there is always a but’ her blackamoor brooch notwithstanding, I am always a sucker for a woman with a prominent forehead and HRH Princess Michael of Kent has always been a favourite of mine.  

mother & daughter

I definitely did not like her lilac outfit at the wedding; the mother of the bride looked infinitely more elegant in what she wore later to the reception.  

HRH Princess Anne The Princess Royal Lady Frederick Windsor HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex

HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal, Lady Frederick Windsor and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  

Hands down, Lady Frederick Windsor was the best-dressed lady at the recent royal wedding – that hat, those feathers that soothing blue… perfection.  

TRH Duke & Duchess of Kent

HRH Princess Marina, HRH Prince George TRH Duke & Duchess of Kent.  

Without doubt, the most handsome Windsor male of the past century.  Of course, that tiara was worn this past weekend at the royal wedding of the Mr. & Mrs. Kingston. 

HM The Queen

HM The Queen at Lady Gabriella Winndsor’s wedding.  

HRH Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh

HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh at Lady Gabriella Windsor’s wedding.  

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James Middleton attending the recent royal wedding at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, Berkshire.  

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There is no stronger validation for the fact that all gap-toothed Caucasians having been black in their immediate past life than this photograph of James Middleton.  James is a spitting image of a black Haitian former coworker in Montréal.  Same vibe, same eyes and the exact same teeth.   Jean-Yves was a pretty laid back man who loved fishing and riding donkeys in his native Haiti.  One gets the same vibe of James; his is a look that I have seen many times throughout the West Indian community – laid back men with the same gap-toothed smile.  Moreover, his smile is exactly like that of a voluptuous woman who lived in Sandy Point, St. Kitts when I was a child; who knows, perhaps, James is her reborn.  

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Here’s to love!  Here’s to this beautiful dream called life.  Here’s to HM The Queen.  God Save the Queen!  

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Most of all, thank you for your ongoing support, happy to have you vicariously along for this most lucid of flying dreams.  Be well as ever, and don’t forget to push off and start flying for magic is the stuff of the sweetest dreams.  I love you more.  

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

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Coz there ain’t no goddamn minor royal named Mama June!

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Will you just get a load of this old fraud, all got up in her Dollarama/Poundland jewellery.  

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You just know that were the Markles a family with a fortune of more than 200$m, none of this dreck would shamelessly be dropping on the world.  

Know your lane and stay the fuck in it!  

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Engine, engine number 9, time to hear the clock go…

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‘Being excluded is like a dagger through his heart’: Meghan’s sister Samantha begs the Duchess of Sussex to let her estranged father Thomas visit his new grandson Archie so they can ‘heal the rift’

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Never gonna happen!

Earl of Dumbarton

Keep looking… no matter how you try, they will never have you.  There is nobody named, Mama June to keep you company in Berkshire.  

scatter your arse

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and especially for the lovely feedback on my dream memoirs, which are available everywhere!  Sweet dreams and don’t you ever forget to push off and start flying.  

 

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

Posted in 20th Century African-American Artists, 20th century American artists, 20th Century Artists, 21st Century American Artists, 21st Century Artists, 21st Century Black Artists, 21st Century British Artists, Actors, African-Americans, American Artists, Americans, Art, Art Collection, Artists, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Books, British Artists, Diarists, Mature souls, Memoirs, Performers, Photography, Royalty, Statesmen, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Earl of Dumbarton.

Earl of Dumbarton

HRH Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh, HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex, HM Queen Elizabeth II, Doria Ragland, Earl of Dumbarton (Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor), Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  

I positively screamed and then began ululating at the news that TRH Duke & Duchess had been safely delivered of a healthy son.  I broke into tears on watching the BBC statement made by the Duke of Sussex.  Everything about this extraordinary human being inspires nothing but warmth, happiness and compassion from deep within me.  

Henry announces birth

Watching HRH Prince Henry bursting with pride as he announced the birth of his son, Earl of Dumbarton, I welled up with tears and burst out crying.  To me it was a healing moment after I fell to the floor of my Côte-des-Neiges, Montréal apartment crying as he walked behind his mother’s casket almost 22 years prior.  He had made it through alright after all.  

Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor2

Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl of Dumbarton.  

The night after the birth, at the end of La Boheme, I cried my eyes out; happy at the birth of this wonderful child but also because I had just witnessed one of the best opera performances in long ages. 

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Based on past-life histories of the three persons in this photograph, there is no coincidence with them presenting the Earl of Dumbarton in St. George’s Hall, Windsor Castle.  

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Diana, Princess of Wales’ greatest legacy will always be how handsomely she succeeded at being a great parent. 

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support.  Thanks for your patronage in the past and do please continue buying my dream memoirs, available online partout!  

 

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

Posted in Actors, African-Americans, Africans, American Artists, Americans, Art, Art Collection, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Books, Diarists, Fashion, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Opera, Private Art Collection, Reincarnation, Royalty, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

CAMP: Notes on Fashion Met Gala 2019

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Anna Wintour Vogue Editor-in-Chief; because there would be no Met Gala were it not for her.  

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Dowager Duchess (Joan Collins) in Valentino… there is something to be said for staying power. 

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Alexa Chung; always stylish and those shoes!  

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Cardi B… because someone had to take up the slack for Rihanna.  

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Céline Dion: Reine de Charlemagne; true eccentric and guaranteed to bring it… every time.

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Cody Fern; when the dandy does camp… look out.  

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Because it’s Emily Blunt… that’s why! 

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Florence Welch because dream encounters with this one are truly evolved.  

Hamish Bowles Met Gala 2019

Because if André Leon Tally could not make it; someone had to show the children how camp is done.  Go ahead, Hamish Bowles.  

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When camp meets art, along comes Janelle Morae!  

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Diane von Furstenberg… staying power and then some.  

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Kate Moss… not exactly camp but then again…

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Katie Holmes… some ladies never do camp.  

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If only passingly so but there is something about Jared Leto that reminds me of Merlin and the few dream encounters with him would at the very least suggest that he may be a cadre mate of ours.  

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Who cares if it works or not, Katy Perry is back with Orlando Bloom and that’s all that matters.  

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J-Lo and the best accessory that anyone could hope for A-Rod.  

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The Queen slaying as only a queen can.  

Lewis Hamilton Met Gala 2019

Lewis Hamilton: I don’t know about camp but he should by now have been knighted.  

Salma Hayek Met Gala 2019

Salma Hayek is in the house… that’s who!  

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Priyanka Chopra & Nick Jonas; it is fairly obvious that if you attended one of the two royal weddings in 2018 at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, you would most likely end up being invited this year to the Met Gala.  Priyanka looked much better in years past.  

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Serena Williams & Alexis Ohanian became a power couple for walking the cobbled red carpet down to the lower ward at Windsor Castle’s St. George Chapel in May 2018 at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  

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Camp?  Cool and Sophisticated Zoe Saldana definitely is.  

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Nothing screams camp like Lupita Nyongo’s gold afro picks.  

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Zendaya takes Disney into the realms of camp!  

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There is something definitely camp about being goddamn illiterate… Just look at Tiffany Haddish announcing the 2018 Oscar nominations.  

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There ain’t nothin’ camp about Kylie and Kendall Jenner coming through being fierce.  

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Penelope Cruz in Chanel…. yes please!  

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Ciara in fishtail, glam afro and all that fierce attitude… Lord Jesus!  

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Billy Porter showing the children how you do camp.  Goodness, I am reminded of so many beautiful souls from NYC in the 80s, who are no longer with us.  Camp never looked more fierce!  

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Thanks so much for your ongoing support.  Sweet dreams, push off and start flying and buy my dream filled memoirs…. I love you more!  

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

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Otello: Race and the Arts.

 

 

After having pored through an interesting OperaCanada article that featured the opera Otello‘s lead, Russell Thomas, and a predictably snide review in The Star – look there is no black lobby in Canada, so one can always be expected to be as curt and dismissive of blacks at every turn; this is after all the culture where the obsession with Jazz is almost as fever-pitched as the predatory late-night runs of Klansmen with nooses at the ready – I comfortably settled into my usual ring three seat, next to trusty Lucian Mann-Chomedy and warmly awaited the magic that is theatre to unfold.  

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After a month that was not soon revisited, my mind was at times distracted by the dreck that one must at times endure in order to get by.  I thought of the heaviness in the air that the subject matter of the opera addressed; the quartet of retired ladies who usually chat about who has taken ill, moved to hospice or died since last they gathered, did a lot of coughing, sniffing and whispering.  And as these things are as predictable as flies on shit, sure enough, I heard one of them whisper, “Meghan Markle.”  Will these people ever just leave the damn woman alone and stop hunting her at every opportunity?  

otello

Otello, Verdi’s take on Shakespeare’s take on race relations did also from the row of retired and widowed ladies spirit the whisper of O. J. Simpson’s name.  Some things just never change… alas.  Indeed, at some moments as I looked at Otello onstage, I began to realise how we as a people are stigmatised and stereotypically projected onto.  I soon got greater insight to why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is so reviled.  Objectified, she as a black woman was only ever to have been nothing more than a bit of rough, a tryst.  

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Naturally, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his double sixness is seen as being readily taken advantage of and needed to be protected against the lascivious bit of rough who clearly conned her way into the royal family.  Born September 15, 1984, Henry born in the year of the rat has quite beautifully empathetic, compassionate numbers and with his double sixness is given to OCD behaviour as displayed by his need to fidget with his clothing – right hand inside his jacket et al.  Six people are awesome beings and Henry, a double six, is no exception.  15.9.1984 = 6.6.1 = 4.  

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With Otello, this projection of the black male as emotionally volatile, violent, easily manipulated has certainly proven an archetype that fits blind fools like Tiger Woods and O. J. Simpson to the letter.  Either way, it was uncomfortable to watch this production in places as it so mirrored the warped perception of a people by persons who question our humanity and who never seem able to perceive us beyond their generationally custodial perception of a people. 

Charter of Rights

Be that as it may, I so hungered to be removed from the morass through which I recently waded at the end of which, I dismissively remarked of yet another power mad woman in the work place: “She certainly doesn’t look like a fucking horse for no good reason…  Oh please, it’s just a matter of time before she rots the fuck in hell, eating every pope’s arse!”  If you cannot take offence then don’t damn well give offence…  Honest to god, some women in the work place are nothing but dickless faggots addicted to creating drama for the sheer sport of it and simply because they are just so drunk with power… to say nothing of being bored out of their frigging minds.  Well, like a bowel movement, it did not take too long for me to sniff, flush and walk the fuck away from the BS,  

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This Desdemona was an earthy, warm, beautifully soulful portrayal of a wronged woman, a woman dominated by an insecure and deceived man.  This production was a beautiful sweeping affair; I especially loved the dark broody look of the sets that captured the essence of the human condition portrayed.  Indeed, it proved a good elixir after all the dross that I had recently endured in the work place.  

Everythingwasbeautifulattheballet

During Otello‘s intermission, I received a forwarded Instagram post from an old dancer friend, which he labelled #everythingwasbeautifulattheballet.  Of course, it was a direct response to my last blog, which highlighted the intense isolation and racial animus that I experienced for two god fuck-all maudlin years in Winnipeg.  Yes, indeed, the world of art is saturated with lisping, bottom-feeding, small ‘b’ bigoted boors who see positively nothing remotely gauche about this sort of fare well into the 21st century.  

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On yet another too cold, rainy day, which proved all too reminiscent of Vancouver, I abandoned my art-filled lair in search of more inspiration the day after the opera.  I cannot quite recall a season in recent memory that has proven both so cold and raining as this protracted winter.  

That’s right, the day before attending Otello, there was a break in the perpetual rains that gave way to snow and hail…  truly, the dog days of summer cannot get here fast enough.  As more of the city’s 19th century streetcar tracks were being ripped up and replaced so that the racket that is the TTC outdoor workers and the local constabulary can make a killing in overtime, it took close to 40 minutes on a bus for me and my fuck du jour to get from Yonge and Dundas to Dundas and McCaul.  

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My date, a lissom twenty-something with smoky hazel eyes, which were vaguely reminiscent of Merlin’s, was good company.  I had for the past several hours pummelled his prostate as his daddy issues were satisfied and my angst from work place tensions were nicely dispensed with.  We men when in our 20s can be so alarmingly insecure; I have often wondered how Merlin managed to stay with me during those angst-ridden and redundantly solipsistic years.  

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My date on exiting the Yayoi Kusama Infinity Room expressed chagrin at not having done magic mushrooms before leaving my place where incense and Jazz magically perfumed the air, intoxicating our spirits as we riotously fucked our way out of winter’s gnawing frigidity.  

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Without question, no trip to the AGO is completely inspiring without a visit to the galleries where the stellar art of Inuit artists are housed.  There are some real masterpieces in the AGO collection.  

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As it was the tail end of this exhibition and I still had not visited, I simply had to make it there.  Whilst walking along the long corridor to the start of the exhibition my fey-eyed beauty suggested that we take a break and go make out in a stall in the washrooms.  Fingers interlaced, I assured him that there was better intimacy to be had the sooner we got through the exhibition and hightailed it back to my place by Uber.  

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To my very discriminating eye, the moment I saw this verbose title, I fully expected to observe a show that was curated by too much extraneous fare and not enough impressionist art.  Tumescent and impatient, I had no time for reading, reading and reading more yada yada, all of which was to compensate for the lack of genuine, to say nothing of quality, impressionist art.  Just as well, I was growing achingly moist by the minute as both my energetic ectomorph and I hungered to be carnally consumed with each other… yet again.  

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This marvellous bronze fully captivated me; it would prove my favourite piece in the shoddily curated exhibition.  

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Highlights from a rather underwhelming show.   

Detail featuring two of the most beautiful creatures.  Their depiction is not the most masterfully executed but there is something rapturous about the look of the dogs as they ambled with their human companions on a journey which they had taken countless times before that made me stop and gaze overlong whilst being truly inspired.  

Detail of what for me proved sheer magnificence… the lighting is phenomenally executed.  

A masterpiece to be sure; however, where it was hung and the palette of the salon were decidedly inappropriate.  This was all I needed to see to finally wink the left eye at my horny power bottom and to speed home by Uber in the rain for noisy, exhausting, passionate play.  

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As ever, for your ongoing support I am both deeply grateful and indebted.  Sweet dreams and don’t you ever forget to push off and start flying because life is a most beautiful drink.  Cheers! 

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

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Schadenfreude: Acts I & II… And a Dreamquest to Probable Future Life.

Recently, I caught up with an old friend from last century – that sounds so deliciously cool… in any event, whilst hanging out, I got a call from one of those deranged clowns from the world of the theatre to whom one’s only response was to simply hang up and readily call-block the damn nuisance. Who has time for yet another egomanical twat who drones on ad nauseam about life decades long past?

In any event, soon there was talk about Winnipeg and had I not heard the news? If I am honest, Winnipeg is the only place on the planet that I would never revisit… ever. For two years whilst there, if I spoke more than a thousand words, I spoke a lot. Diana, Princess of Wales’ astute remark in her televised interview with Martin Bashir, deftly betrays the hellishly bruising isolation that I knew for living in Winnipeg: “There’s no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.”

For two excruciating years, I, the school’s only black, was the most invisible, ignored, objectified, ridiculed and dismissed. More than that, each of those two winters, on especially cold days when the windchill approached -40°C and below, a male colleague would piss into my locker and into my sole pair of shoes and socks. Those walks home in piss-soaked socks and shoes which by the time I made it home to my 380 Assiniboine Avenue apartment, my feet would be frozen and swollen.

Sitting across the desk from the hairy back-and-arsed, glass-beaded-eyed male in the near-dark clutter of his office, I knew that this man was the most venal, to say nothing of transparent liar. So after he sat there with that smug grin on his face, I approached him a month later, asking if he would let me become the school’s janitor to help my sorry financial situation.

Naturally, I was confident that this dim, shallow, transparent bigot hadn’t a clue that I was as shrewd to say nothing as intelligent as I am. Months earlier, after having been relentlessly pursued by a pudgy, local tea room devotee, I gave in and ended up being blown and rimmed like it was nobody’s business. Pretty soon, my paunched lover got to the business in hand. Surprisingly, he was an ex-lover of the man across from whom I sat being boldfacedly lied to. Adamantly, he insisted that I not get my hopes up because his ex had an almost violent repulsion to blacks and there was positively no way that I would ever make it into the company…. over his ex’s dead body he had declared.

That notwithstanding, I daily did extra minutes of daimoku in hopes of magically spiriting my way into the company. As long as I live, I will never forget the pain of icily frozen feet, glazed in loud syphilitic piss and the smirk and goofball idiotic grin of the circus freak fare whose cock more so resembled an extra girthsome angel trumpet flower and pushing either side of six inches when flaccid. Once my feet were so swollen that I went into my sparsely stocked kitchen and broke every glass by hurling them across the tiny space.

That episode was the only time that I have ever felt suicidal and the only thing that saved me was the thought that the fucking idiot would be the one to laugh loudest on hearing of my demise; truly, nothing more than a bipedal, STD-riddled petri dish. Neither technique nor his idiotic personality can ever explain this person’s decades-long sojourn in Winnipeg save that the glass-beaded-eyed one was dismissed by his ex-lover to be the city’s most notorious size queen.

So alas, a career which ought never to have been then morphed into many things as no size queen ever wants a prize catch out of sight. So there was I, for the few weeks that I did the job of custodian at the then Portage Avenue studios, rushing feverishly through the tasks of brilliantly cleaning the place so as not to give cause for concern, then into the offices I would take. Whilst there, because I was ever confident that for being only perceived as “black” far be it from them to passingly have associated a shrewd intellect with me. Meticulously, I pored through this man’s files of every male student dancer and then made handwritten copies of what he wrote.

Years later, whilst living in Vancouver, I reminisced with an alumnus of the school and classmate. As he spoke of why he took leave of the school and his troubles with the glass-beaded-eyed one, it suddenly came back to me; within those notes, there was the portrait of the sexually predatory taskmaster. I vaguely recalled that his description of the fellow alumnus validated what my classmate shared; he had no desire of being bedded by and being touched inappropriately in class and feeling like he was being groomed into submission – this resulted in a tense confrontation between both men once during the barre section of class.

Not only is an obvious bully a sexual predator, in my experience, said bully also proved a racial predator – despite the fact that neither academia nor medicine will acknowledge what clearly is fact. No one made me feel more dread, repulsion and loathing than the source of current infamy associated with both the company and school, the latter with which I was familiar and the subject of current media scrutiny having been for those two years a classmate.

He did not exist in a vacuum and his enabler is just as culpable, having groomed, promoted and harboured overlong said predator when of negligible talent; trifling talents, I might add, which were allowed to manifest by any means to allow and support what masqueraded as creative artistry. More bruising than having to walk home in piss-soaked socks and shoes, was having to sit there in the dark during the dress rehearsal of the company’s 1981’s production of Romeo and Juliet where the predator’s mentor sat a few rows back of me in the house and laughed his head off at my not being in the production. Indeed, so exquisitely isolated was I that I was the only one never to come down with mononucleosis when it ravaged the school. Truth be told, never once during the two years of being in Winnipeg did I have sex with anyone from either the school or the company.

Well, it certainly was well worth the wait to have the truth karmically surface and expose that vile dog as it finally has to eat its vomit. Go on bitch, start licking; ain’t a damn thing like schadenfreude to embalm old wounds.

Finally, I caught an air pocket after the spiritual turbulence that was Winnipeg and ended up in New York City without knowing a soul there. Within a year, I was dancing independently and got reviewed in the New York Times. More than that, I found there, away from the hellish, racially predatory madness that was Winnipeg, the most gloriously soulful pair of eyes yet met in this lifetime. Into my life, one cool Friday evening strode the very magical Merlin from a dream dreamt four years prior.

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A masked ball

These rather lucid astral-projected dreams occurred whilst Merlin was still then incarnate in summer of 1989.

I have come to realise that many of the dreams that have to do with being astral-projected to past or future lives often occur when the Moon transits cancer. For whatever reasons, this seems to be a strong likelihood in my experience.

I really don’t think that it matters much over which house my Cancer rules. Rather, it seems more telling that ruler of Cancer, the Moon, is in my case found in the seventh house.

Too, it should be noted that though much of my second house is dominated by Cancerian energies, Gemini sits on the second house cusp with the cusp of my third house being 20º of Cancer.

Truth be told, they were rather insightful dreams to have experienced. As such, these dreams occurred on Sunday, June 4, 1989 whilst Merlin was then incarnate.

Too, at the time, the Moon magically transited both Gemini and my first house wherein my Mars sits nicely conjunct the ascendant. This placement of Mars – along with its grand mutable square associations to Luna, Pluto and Chiron, tends to have me attract persons of less evolved spirituality who are ever ready to project their base emotions my way.

Of course, it goes without saying that I am always unwavering in deflecting that dense energy with lightning shamanic speed. Keep your dreck away from my aura!

More than that, the dreams were audiocassette-recorded on audio tapes nine through ten and are to be found in the as-yet published Volume II of the dream opus. Sweet dreams as ever and as has been recently observed – nothing says wretched existence like bipedal canines who fixate on their quadripedal kin.

One can only hope that most of these otiose overbred castoff humans do not eventually breed. What do they know of either art or dreams the lot?

*I am reposting these dreams as subsequent to having shared them in July 2015, I have since had the Michael Overleaves charted for two of the persons featured in these dreams. To that end, at each dream’s conclusion the Michael Overleaves for the applicable person will be shared. As ever, I am most grateful for your ongoing and burgeoning support. Sweet dreams and don’t forget to indulge your shamanic skills: shapeshifting, manifesting one’s aura, rendering oneself invisible, walking through walls and, of course, pushing off and starting to fly!

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A Brimstone Hill Sandy Point Panorama

In this the first dream, I saw Nicole McHugh. She was cooking with a White man in a kitchen.

He was standing around and was quite friendly so offered to help out, that sort of thing, out of the goodness of his heart. She had these large trays of food.

She was cooking a great deal of food for a great many people. The flame was an open blue-white one and, somehow, he put his hand over the flame to pull out a tray – yet it did not burn him at all.

He did not react to it. I thought that he must have been cooking for quite some time, and been accustomed to these flames, to have had the flames not burn him at all.

He did go off and he had a glass of water – some of which he drank. I went over and I thought of saying to her and did, “Would you like a spritzer or something?”

She did, in fact, say, “Yeah, that would be nice.” She had sweat on her brow because she had been working very hard.

I then went outside to look in my locker because I did, in fact, have a locker there. In an earlier scene, I had put some stuff in said locker.

There were some washing machines – tiny, tiny washing machines. This place resembled a dormitory in the basement area of a co-op or building where people lived.

I was somewhat upset because my locker had, somehow, been displaced and replaced by washing machines. They were tiny, little brownish washing machines.

I had opened the lockers just to see if maybe my lunch was inside them where, in fact, it should have been – inside the fridge. There was, however, nothing inside the lockers.

There were one or two other lockers at the end but mine was more or less in the left of centre. There, in place of my locker, was where the washing machines now were.

Nothing was removed except the one locker. I did open it and it wasn’t mine.

Inside were the contents of somebody who reminded me of that Black guy who worked part time at Nature’s Own. Tall, handsome; his mother had nicely positioned him into the company.

I then went off to get the stuff when I saw a man who seemed to be Bert Jacques but it wasn’t him. He was walking a little girl who was one of Madella Jacques, rather, Maryse Jacques’s daughter.

She was a sweet little girl who was wearing a blue dress. She was quite light-skinned and sunny.

He was walking her outside and coming across the bridge past our yard in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I was in the yard and where the orange tree was under the genip tree, in the waking state, I was putting monies into a slot.

I remember taking money out of my pocket to put in – 50¢, I had had two quarters. I noticed that there was a token as I took the money from my right pocket.

When I saw the token mixed with the money I thought, ‘Oh I must be aware not to do this.’ I then got the dime and I was trying to put it into the slot but it was having problems going in.

As a result, I moved away the metal part of the slot. Interestingly enough, you could then see the tree.

I then put in the coin but you still did not hear it fall inside with the rest of the money. I then peeped up because the slot was higher than my field of view – higher than eye level.

As a result, I had had to poke the money in; it was a dime. However, it was sort of flat on its side; it was standing up so that the face of the coin was looking out at you.

I was poking it in to help it to fall in. At this point, whilst I was on the veranda of the house, I was aware that Nicole McHugh was coming down the lane.

I had been looking into the garden where the curtain trees were on the south side of the property. Here in the dreamtime, however, the curtain trees were gone.

In their place were three or four little baby curtain trees coming up. The rest of the land was dug up and it hadn’t been watered.

The soil was drying out and so I said to myself that I would have to water it. I thought I would have to go inside and get some seeds or plant some wonderful little flowers that were going to bloom.

Until the curtain trees grew up, I figured that they would add beauty to the place. So on remembering, I said to Nicole, “Oh yes, let me get you the spritzer.”

So I went and I got her the spritzer. She came and was then going in the house.

A lady then came out of their house and there was some sort of consternation. As it turned out, a White woman had a little terrier-like dog.

The dog had a black collar and the same fur as a Calico cat. This had been Nicole’s cat which the dog had obviously bitten up or eaten it up or whatever.

So there was quite a great deal of consternation. Nicole was standing up outside a wooden half-dilapidated house.

On the far right side, there was a cement staircase much like the arrangement at The Boys’ School in The Alley, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. That part of the house, the cement part, was also crumbling.

Vida McHugh was there with Nicole and someone else – a little girl. The girl who had had the terrier was being rude.

She was cursing and saying, “Watch yourself wid me.” She had wanted to get in the door, from out on the landing, but the McHughs were in the way.

So she cursed and carried on. Eventually, she ended up rushing her way into the house.

Then I immediately was on the inside of the house where I watched this drama unfold. The events were as if an Opera and I said to myself, ‘My goodness this is Opera.’

Truly, this was much as if Opera. Then persons were coming in and there was movement – people coming down and pointing their feet.

They had on wooden toe shoes. As the movement progressed, there was advancement then retreat.

There were different forces of people. Like a ballet really, it was all being done in silence.

They had on long period costumes. The dramatisation was interesting.

Next, there was a sense of seeing the same woman, and everybody else, being extremely studious. The one woman was in a large area that had stained bronzed, clay-coloured, sand-coloured glass.

She was in the pews with the man who had been helping Nicole earlier. This was set in a large area and she was studiously reading the Bible.

She did take the Bible to be the literal word of god. Everybody else was more or less of that bent – I thought that it was so sad.

At this point, I was struck by the fact that this was where the Christ was going to be reborn. London, England, in fact, was where this was going on.

At this particular point, Diego Lunamas was about because there had been lines of people who were in the balletic part of the opera. Diego had been one of them.

At the time, he was sitting down on a set and it was lit by blue light. He was being grilled by this asinine White guy who was talking about, “Well if you believe in oversoul 7, then you also believe in overbigtoe 7, and what about oversole 8, and overhead 7?”

He was making fun of the philosophical concepts by way of the anatomy because oversoul could have been spelt, as though ‘sole,’ as in the sole of your foot. He was really stupid.

Diego was saying, “I’m not familiar with what you’re talking about.” On Diego’s behalf I interjected saying, “Through my experience, I’ve read the Seth Material which I find far more well put together an idea construct.”

At this point Seth did, in fact, come through and began channelling. His voice was booming and it shook the entire place to the beams.

This was happening outside in the street between the McHughs’ and our houses in Crab Hill, Sandy Point. A stage had been set up in the street – a bluish-white lit stage.

I thought about Diego and the guy who, was in front of him, wore a blue-white costume. The booming voice was coming from behind the McHughs’ house.

Everybody was absolutely scared because here were these god-fearing, fear-obsessed people. Totally dismissing them, this was a booming voice which claimed to be Seth; the channelled voice then began calling them fools.

They were very fearful. I thought that it was absolutely great.

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Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from 'Les Orientales' by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo)

CHT163698 Nijinsky performing the Danse Siamoise from ‘Les Orientales’ by Foquine (1880-1942) performed in Paris, 1910 (sepia photo) by French Photographer.

In the second dream, I was in a wooden dance studio. The floor was wet because, in place of resin, they used water.

I had a sense that it was in the past, however, I seemed to be my present self. Even so, there were aspects of me that were different.

I remember the way that I postured and used my face; I knew that I had very Caucasian features. I could see the tip of my nose and yet I felt like I do now.

*I was not so much Caucasian-featured, if there’s actually such a thing – frankly there isn’t. I was, though my present self, actually Caucasian.

I was present in the exact same body and I was my usual-personaed self. However, the body was no longer Black but White.

The packaging had changed but nothing else had. END.

Ahead of me was a guy in black trousers – nylon stretch trousers. He was, in fact, the reincarnation of Vaslav Nijinsky and again male.

Again, he had very mercurial energies and he was a mover. He had exceptionally large thighs.

He could phenomenally jump and leap about. He was just incredible.

When at the barre, I was directly behind him and then just behind me was Pandora. Although, truth be told, it wasn’t Pandora herself but an aspect of Pandora’s.

I never really had made eye contact with Pandora. I remember after we had finished the barre, Nijinsky went and laid down on his stomach – in the frog position to work on his turnout.

The girls then went and they were feeling his muscle tone because it was quite unusual-looking. His feet were so pliant and flexible as well as his calf muscles.

He had eventually turned over because Dannie Cyrta, who was one of the instructors at the head of the class, was saying, “Guys, just leave him alone.”

When we were then doing the grands battements, I remember being really elongated and holding my port de bras. You had to do it turned out, doing grand battements, turned out to the front.

You had to do it out, towards the centre of the room. Also, then in second position, you were facing directly ahead of you. When doing grand battement en arrière, you did it out again.

The arm positions were up and in second position. When you did grand battements en arrière, you would put your arms up again as though you were peeping under your arm – when you were in arabesque doing the grands battements.

I remember before I was doing the exercise, whilst I was doing the current exercise, I was thinking of how I would do the position and how I had to use my port de bras. So I remember standing there in développé and you had to do these grands battements in plié and, somehow, I was in plié and I was holding my back up in port de bras.

My back was absolutely perfect; my port de bras and torso were perfectly open and I wasn’t sticking out my chest. I was thinking, ‘This is so improved.’

I remember my neck being quite elongated, with head held high, as a result. I was wearing a navy blue woollen set of tights and white dance slippers.

My feet were beautifully pointed. There was a sense of looking up.

Interestingly, my whole sense of self – attitude and posture was all about looking down my nose. This was when I realised that there was something about me that was Caucasian – physiologically.

*There was a half-mirror across the room and I was never at the front – the girls, of course, of custom were. That was when I looked and found myself, I was indeed Caucasian more Tartar than not – dark-haired.

I had a strong sense, for looking at myself in close-up without moving, that my eyes were smoky-green-coloured. My nose though aquiline was flared in the Tartar style and my teeth were gap-toothed.

This is not uncommon a feature when someone is currently Caucasian but was Black in their immediate past life – in fact, I was told by Sarah J. Chambers that it is always the case without exception as she was instructed by the Michaels.

Case in point, Madonna Ciccone, the Pop icon, who in her immediate past life was Black American entertainer, Bessie Smith – she has the same gruff raunchy persona. Prior to that, though not immediately before that life, her soul was then incarnate as Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

Vis-à-vis Madonna, her life is a completion of the agendum she set out to accomplish, in her immediate past life. She thought that it sucked being Black and a woman in showbiz.

However, her immediate past life did give her an understanding of the way the world works. So she decided to take the world by the balls, a ‘give-me-what’s-mine’ approach, as it were, this time around.

Madonna, as per her immediate past life has the same talent, same drive, “Now give me what’s rightfully mine!” Power to her! END.

Dannie Cyrta was, unusually so, very nice to me. She was saying, “Yes, yes Arvin. This is perfect and is much improved.

“Everybody look at Arvin because this is the way it should be. This is as close to perfect, as you can get, in the way your torso ought to be.”

*Imagine that – the Mormon princess, Dannie Cyrta, being remotely civil towards me. She even feigned to pretend that I was not a strongly projecting phantom as she treated me back at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s School. END.

I remember the Nijinsky-like character, coming off the barre to look at me. The other people who were behind me were peeping around to look at me.

I felt very open and joyous. Mine was a really good, good feeling.

When we were doing the exercise and I was holding my torso, Dannie Cyrta and the rest of the people were discussing and saying, “This time he’s really ready to go out and perform and he’ll be okay.”

I felt that way too and I knew that I was going to be okay when I went out and performed. My body was quite together.

I was prepared within myself to face an audience. I felt really good for being in the studio.

*Dannie Cyrta’s energies were extremely unusual and contrary to what they were during Winnipeg days. I felt there was a good feeling in this class.

What was really sad, though, was that Dannie’s behaviour had much to do with the fact that I was not Black but Caucasian. In that sense, she truly was ‘the blind’ because she still did not realise that it was me.

To her, it was someone named Arvin but more importantly it was someone who was White. More than that, Vaslav Nijinsky is a mature sage entity mate of Merlin’s and mine. END.

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A green-eyed tartar

In this the fifth dream, I saw a beautiful hairless White boy who seemed Tartan. He was dark and handsome.

He also seemed to be a mélange of White, East Indian, Oriental and Black. He could well have been one or any of all those ethnicities because he actually had a bronze or even Hispanic look.

He had a bronzed hue to him. He was not however, for being so hued, extra-human.

Such that he seemed somewhat High-Yellow, he had taut smooth skin. He was extremely good-looking.

He seemed like a male prostitute or a gigolo. He was half-naked and teasingly aroused.

I was quite attracted to him. I made a play for him.

He seemed to be in the lane up by ‘Aunt’ Edith Dean, outside by Beryl Babbin’s wall, in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts. I made a play for him but he dismissively brushed me off.

He then moved off and went along his way. I felt quite rejected and naked really.

Afterwards, I was thinking that perhaps I should not have made a play for this person. Nonetheless, I had and I was not fulfilled in my desires.

My aspirations were not met but that was okay.

*What’s really interesting, too, is that he was basically a younger version of the Tartar, green-eyed, ‘Arvin’. So, in essence, though in the body during the dance class, I would see myself at a younger age.

At that time, however, I was outside of my younger-future-self’s body. I was resoundingly rejected by him – that is precisely what I would have done at that age.

Later on, of course, I was taking class with the reincarnated, Vaslav Nijinsky. A class it was which was being taught by Dannie Cyrta.

I shudder to think that in my next life, I will be a male prostitute, gigolo. Then again, it would not have been the first life passed in the much-maligned profession of providing succor to the sexually-repressed and the sexually-obsessed.

Long after this dream, I have since learnt that my essence twin is now reincarnated. He is male and was born during the second decade of the new millennium.

He is born to German, Japanese parents and lives in Germany. Our overleaves are quite similar though he is a realist.

They are, in fact, rather writerly overleaves. Too, one or both of his parents are artists; I believe that the mother has been a dancer and the father a portrait painter.

Perhaps, I was picking up on him in this dream. If not, it may well be me in a near-future incarnation.

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Photo: Costumed performers in period piece

Sandy Point, St. Kitts seen from Brimstone Hill Fortress.

Vaslav Nijinsky in costume for Siamese dance from Les Orientales.

Green-eyed Tartar young man.

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

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Audience with Magnetic Old King Soul.

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Battle, Kathleen Deanna 13/8/48 Portsmouth Ohio

This fragment is a seventh level mature sage – second life at current level, likely will be old soul soon.  Kathleen is in the power mode with a goal of growth.  An idealist, she is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type is Venus/Mercury. 

Kathleen’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary martyrdom. 

The fragment Kathleen is seventh-cast in seventh cadence; she is a member of greater cadence six – very cardinal.  Kathleen’s entity is four, cadre six, greater cadre 5, pod 408. 

Kathleen’s essence twin is a sage and her task companion is an artisan. 

Kathleen’s three primary needs are: expression, freedom and expansion. 

There are 16 past-life associations with Arvin, 14 with Merlin. 

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Image

This next dream does reflect the beauty of being in the company of spiritually evolved souls.  Said dream was the first on Monday, June 17, 1991, whilst the Moon transited both Virgo and my fourth house – close enough to the summer solstice.

Interestingly enough, there was a dream within the dream in question.  This was one of the most rhapsodic and uplifting dreams had during my fourth decade of life.

I was going out from this apartment block’s front door.  I was aware that in apartment 6, down the hall, the door was slightly opened.

I could hear some classical music being played and tried to figure out who the composer was.  It was very complex music.  I went down to the front door of the building, unusually enough, to call Whoopi.

However, I had decided not to open the door to call her because if I were to have called her there, I wouldn’t have wanted her to then start showing up at that door to be let in.

I had noticed, on the way to the door, a whole stack of mail outside the door to one of the apartments here.  It was a door, which sat in the middle of the hallway wall, where there shouldn’t have been a door.

Stranger still, it was brown unlike the other four doors which were white.  So at that, I decided to walk under the ground floor by going down into the basement.

Whilst I was going, I was still listening and then heard Kathleen Battle being introduced on the radio…  She was going to sing.

As I was walking, Whoopi appeared in the basement as I headed for the backdoor of the building.  She began playfully running amongst all the many boxes stacked high in the basement.  From time to time, the adorable cat would run ahead of me and was quite playful.

Kathleen Battle† then began to sing and, my dear sweethearts, greater music has never been woven in the waking state.  The music was highly complex indeed.  It was supremely divine.

The aria this woman sang and the beauty of her voice was supremely stellar.  It was dignified; it was divine.  It was so beautiful that, as I walked and Whoopi joyously played, my body became healed to have heard this music.

At that, I hurried Whoopi upstairs into the apartment and took to lying in the bed to more intently listen to the music.  There was much talk afterwards about the music.

There was a White man around and I was being told by him that this music was, in fact, not native to this world.  The music was not native to Earth, he claimed.

I certainly agreed with the information.  It galactically towered above any of this world’s greatest music to date.

Also, lying on the bed with me was a girl.  She deliberately was forcefully putting her feet down the bed and was trying to put them in my face as I lay in my bed with my head at the foot.  She was White and I was just too into the high just experienced with the glorious music to have had time to go fighting with anyone.

Later on, I went out to wait for a bus.  Yet here too, at the closest bus stop, the music kept on playing.  It simply permeated the fabric of the dream experience.

radio2

*Of course, it should come as no surprise that all throughout sleep, the radio here in the waking state was on in the room whilst I slept dreaming.  END.

However, the music being filtered into the dreamtime had been considerably transformed.  Here it was uplifted and expressed in a superior light which befitted the dreamtime’s magic.

The radio being on became my leap off point to experience some truly uplifting moments in the dreamtime.  Though CBC FM was playing classical music, at the time of my dreaming, the galactic music that I was hearing far outdistanced the familiarity of classical music by light years.

It was so complex and cerebral that as I stood there, at the bus stop, I suspected it was the classical music created by cetaceans.  I speculated that a pod of dreaming cetaceans was weaving their music, in the classical idiom, in the dreamtime.

I merely happened to have tuned into it, whilst the waking state music served as the leap off point, for vicariously entering the cetaceans’ dream dimensions.  This was so much more complex than classical music.

It was an intellectual high beyond belief.  Kathleen Battle, throughout it all, kept on singing.  It blew me away, to contemplate the amount of breath work involved in Ms. Battle singing that complexly and for that length of time.

There was a guy when I got onto the bus which was like the double-deckers of London.  I was on the lower level, in the middle section, looking back to the rear.

On the same side, as I was seated, there was a guy there who seemed very familiar.  He was aware of me in the same soul-resonant way that I was him.  However, we did not interact.

Across from him, there was a rowdy guy who seemed drunk.  The police had come and taken him to the front of the bus to take him away.  Interestingly enough, the police wore the uniform of the London Bobbies with the hat and the whole gear.

When I got to where I was going, it was a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful tropical island with a beautiful mountain range.  There were two large homes and I was told that both of these homes were, in fact, owned by Kathleen Battle.

This was where she retired to recharge her batteries.

‘How fine, indeed,’ I thought.

There was a party being thrown for her by marvellous celebrities.  It was then that I recalled having been at a concert earlier prior to going out and taking the bus.

It was either at Salzburg or Bayreuth.  When Ms. Battle was onstage, she wore a blue dress that billowed in the breeze which created a wonderfully hypnotic slow-motion effect.

She had more fucking-goddamn fire planets in this dream, I can assure you, than Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis does with her six fire planets no less.  Kathleen Battle possessed, in this briefly recalled dream within a dream, great spiritualism.

She sang and what she was doing with her voice was nothing short of magic.  She was as if the ocean because each note was so liquid, time-stretched yet complex.  There were more nuances worked into each note than is, in the waking state, humanly imaginable.

It was not unlike all the funky innuendo that a female Jazz singer can cram into one little song.  It was absolutely incredible what she was doing.

operahouse2

When she was done, the house went wild.  Everybody here was so spiritually elevated.  I was up in the balcony, on the right side of the stage and I screamed down bravo with thunderously deafening passion.  My ecstatic celebration made all the people close to me laugh with enjoyment at my rapture.

As I lay asleep, my body simultaneously began zinging and tremblingly with energy as I thunderously shouted, ‘Bravo’.  When articulating my passion, I had shoved out my neck and at that my neck began elongating.

My overjoyed face moved possessed as my voice operatically roared from my soul itself.  My face ended up snaking down through the air, from the balcony to the stage, my neck like some exquisite anaconda swimming through the air bearing my proudly ecstatic face.

My face was peeled wide-open with ecstasy.  Indeed, the fire in my eyes was just phenomenal.  This dream was inordinately empowering.

It was as though I had become truly animated with a hyper-elongated neck and my face was not unlike the faces of those spiritually elevated and regal ladies that I had recently dreamt of.

Also, I was quite certain that my warping behaviour in this dream had been much inspired by the eloquence of physique that these strangely beautiful women had presented me with their august bodies in another dream of days earlier.

To have best expressed the gratitude that I felt, from my very soul itself, it was as if my neck had become a giraffe’s.  Here I was looming down over the house and up to the stage.

To begin with, in all of this, I had not even been seated at the front of the balcony.  My ‘bravo’ was a very long, extended, purely male-energied war cry.  This was pride in this woman that had nothing to do with our shared race of being both Black rather our both being human.

I was simply applauding her very soul itself for its great achievement in artistic self-expression.  In point of fact, I actually got a high from hearing the thunder of my voice when saying bravo because this very deep and resonant baritone was not my familiar register.

Moving up, I climbed up the hill to both Kathleen Battle’s houses.  There was a woman there who was White and older.  She was helping this old, old, ancient White man.  I wondered,

‘Who is this man?’

I knew straight away that he was definitely very important, in the spiritual scheme of things, here on this planet.  I thought that, perhaps, it was Herbert von Karajan but he is now passed on.

He did, after all, have quite an attachment to Kathleen Battle.  This is why she was always invited to Salzburg.

However, then too, I thought that it was more than likely Herbert von Karajan because the energies of this man were incredibly magus fitting the archetype of the magnetic old king from the Michael Teaching which Herbert von Karajan was/is.

I thought that perhaps he looked as old because he was doing so much immense energy work in his function as a sixth level old, magnetic old king soul.  Naturally, his agedness would have been a reflection of his having passed a large number of lives, to date, at sixth level old.

He was very transcendent and, you could tell, was no longer physically focussed.  More importantly, everything about this dream indicated it being very much so alive.  The dream was very much so real and set on the astral plane which is where that magnetic old king, Herbert von Karajan, now resides.

In any event, he was being helped down by this long-legged, handsome, strong-willed woman.  She much reminded me of Marella Agnelli, the wife to the CEO of FIAT motors of Italy Gianni Agnelli.  However, this woman was older than Marella Agnelli presently is.

*One of the things about some, definitely not all, wealthy persons is that their stratospheric wealth enables them to be in their element.  As they are such mature-souled, august, reincarnationally sophisticated souls, money allows these spiritually elevated persons to exist in the world unencumbered by the Maya of the wretchedness of every day existence.

Such wealth enables them to transcend the Maya of financial limitations that entraps and stifles the merely working class to upper middle class.

For the latter classes, the lines of demarcation are more nebulous than they would like to accept.  Hence, the excessive restrictiveness and obsessions with class, looks, greed, Brahmanism et al.

Some of these truly wealthy people do not suffer the strictures of belief systems.  This allows them to just live in their element and be supremely human.

This is not true of all wealthy persons because, for one, the nepotistic cupidity of Hollywood certainly validates this.  These people, such as Gianni Agnelli and Marella Agnelli, do not suffer the displacement of humanity that many greed-fixated wealthy persons experience.  END.

This woman here in the dream, in that sense, reminded me of Marella Agnelli.  The latter impresses me as someone who truly does embrace her humanity.  One gets the sense of her that she is not separated from the little people of choice.

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We then all came down after, of course, I had gladly gone to give the graciously handsome woman a hand with assisting the magus himself.  We sat in this long, long, long enclosed veranda that had a fine linen mesh covering it.

There was a wonderful breeze.  The magus was on my immediate right and talking away.  Indeed, he did make my energies zing and become reshuffled.  It was at the level of the atomic and it was subtle but noticeable.

He was talking about the music, raving about how great it was, and how fabulous Kathleen Battle had been in performance.  Next, he opened a large bottle of spirits which was like champagne but it looked more like a bottle of gin.

He then took up a magnum of some expensive champagne or other and raised it saying,

“My dear, you must have a drink.  You have earned a drink.”

He had a wonderful soulful voice.  Whatever he said became the law.  He was beingness in the flesh.  He simply held court.  You experienced his spirit, more to the point, one experienced his very soul.

He was truly what the Michael Teachings would call a magnetic old king.  One just intuitively sensed and knew it because this, after all, was the astral plane.  One did not doubt insights gleamed here.  He was so grounding to have been next to.

When he was pulling out the cork it proved very long.  In fact, it was extremely sexual what he was doing with the cork.  It was very slow and hypnotic.  I got a sexual high experiencing him uncork the champagne.

I never did look into this man’s eyes overlong because his face was so powerful and so tremendous.  He was someone who was clearly passed on.  I also knew that it was not Merlin.

I had only looked at his face, in the distance, when he was up on the hill.  He wore the most spiritually refined face imaginable.  Up close, I knew that I just did not have the power to peer overlong into this face.

I was too drunk by his magus energies that bled outwards magnetically permeating and fine tuning everything – man and nature.  Thus I had to hold the champagne flute with both my hands with my knees sexily drawn up whilst my feet rested on the edge of the chair.

Giggling, simply giddy from his energies, I said en Français,

“Champagne!  Oh god I love champagne.”

He began pouring in the champagne whilst it was fizzing.  He poured it in a decadent manner.  As it crashed into the glass there were a lot of bubbles from the bottle, gurgling aloud, where gobs of drink orgasmically splashed over the rim of the flute.

It was so sensual, so timeless and wonderful that on concentrating on his actions, I experienced the stasis of time.  I began besottedly drinking and grew giddy at the implications of the fine company that I was in and that he was serenading me at that.

It much reminded me of the garden party that I attended in Toronto with Merlin, the second to last summer of his life, when the writer Ted Allen had me sit by him spending the party regaling me and flirting with my spirit.

It was a nonsexual thing… just an intimate commune of our spirits.  Really fine and memorable it was too.  There were other family members about – Pandora as well as Harella.

He told me to move away the glass before the champagne did not spill, over onto my lap, which shortly it would have had he not prompted me.  I moved it to the right between him and me.

Immediately, on taking the first sip from the flute my mind stood still because the cool potent touch of it illumined me.  Instantly, I realised that the bottle of drink was merely a metaphor.  What I was being given was an elixir from his very soul itself.

The magus was healing me thus.  What utterly potent aqueous magic.  It was cool yet simultaneously warm.  It was all the things that the music was and more.

In fact, it was exactly what I needed after having been made drunk and high from the music of Kathleen Battle’s magic.  When he finished, it turned out that he had only poured a drink for two other persons of all the others gathered at the party.

I was so blown away by the fact that he genuinely wanted me to be sitting next to him.  Perhaps, it was because I had been considerate enough to have assisted him.  I had made it possible for him to go down, the hill from the upper mansion’s gardens, to the veranda of the lower house.

He chose not to have passed on the drink to anyone else.  It was very subtle but was not, of course, lost on me.  He did not pass it around although everyone had glasses and were quietly waiting to be served by him.

Certainly, the impressive magnum could have amply supplied every glass.  I was then told by Harella not to be greedy and she advised me to perhaps offer my glass to others.

Ignoring her, I languorously looked out beyond the mesh and thought aloud in a whisper,

“God this is such a wonderful dream.  What did I do to deserve this dream?”

Just like that the dream dissolved for me being doubtful and seemingly unappreciative.

vDream one.  Earlier, in one section of the dream as I had listened to the music, I saw an inner vision of a holographic diagram.  The hologram indicated where in the Cosmos the particular music that was playing, to which Kathleen Battle was singing, had originated.

There was this cardboard-like diagram, which much resembled an Olaf Nordstrom lithograph, which was very sculptural and intellectually placed.  Olaf Nordstrom interestingly does, in fact, have six air planets.

Simultaneously, I knew that as much as the successive diagrams were of the cosmos, they were also of the human spine, the nervous system and the human chakra points.

I could see the crown chakra which was very, very expansive.  I then saw the first chakra which was close to the tip of the spine.  I was being shown that it was very tight and needed to be opened up.

I was being told, by way of seeing this network of cables of light, one had to have one’s energies realigned.  It basically was about yoga, breath and, also, about the awakening of Kundalini energy within my body.

It was about becoming more so opened up, at all chakra points, so that I could get more flow.  Too, it was stressed that I needed more positive light into and through me.

There was a great deal of blue light flooding the diagram’s holographic systems.  There was red light, as well, in certain areas of some of the chakra points.

It was deemed to be neither good nor bad.  Rather, it was an energy that was presently focussed in my body.

I was being told that it could be successfully transmuted.  I certainly think that I know, to what it was referring, in terms of the sexual energy flow and my sexual centre’s proper functioning.

It was mentioned that it was terribly ego-based and not all that highly evolved in the end.

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As ever, thanks so much for your ongoing support; I am immensely grateful.  Sweet dreams and don;t ever forget to push off and start flying.  

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

Posted in 20th Century Artists, Austrian Artists, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of famous persons, Longreads, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Old souls, Shamanism, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Shaman Holds Court.

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This past week, I made the most glorious discovery whilst enjoying the BBC’s coverage of the Commonwealth Day Service at Westminster Abbey.  As if the gospel choir were not enough or the Indian drummers rapturous, there in the middle of both performances was William Barton  This extraordinary shaman with his didgeridoo weaved the most sublime magic; it was the music of cetaceans as experienced in the most elevated dreams.  Truth be told, it was the music of a culture of the highest order.  

Despite the horror which unfolded on the Ides of March elsewhere in the Commonwealth, this service served to remind and inspire us of what it is about our humanity that binds rather that separates us.  Music is the language which moves, inspires, reflects and spiritually binds us as humankind.  Shaman Barton’s music proved the most healing balm after the horrific events of the Ides of March.  

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Dream dear shamanic dreamers as never before you’ve dreamt, for I am you and you are me in this shared ocean called humanity.  May William Barton’s magical whalesong inspire you to push off whilst lucidly awakened in the dream realms and start flying.  I love you more… well, why not!  No seriously, though, I sincerely do. 

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

Posted in 21st Century Artists, Aboriginal Artists, Animism, Art, Artists, Australian Artists, Authors, Award-winning artist, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, British Artists, Composers, Creative Genius, Dream Shamanism, Dreams, Dreams of cetaceans, Eminent World Leaders, Fashion, Memoirs, Music, Music Video, Musicians, Photography, Royalty, Shamanism, Singers, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, Video, Visionaries, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Markle Sparkle.

The duke and duchess were two hours late for their welcoming ceremony due to the knock-on effect of an earlier delay to their scheduled air service

Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in Valentino Haute Couture in Morocco.  

Many moons ago, in the 80s when living next-door to designer, Alfred Sung on Cabbagetown’s Amelia Street, I was more obsessed with fashion than I now am.  Back then, lots of friends used to bemoan the paucity of black models appearing on catwalks of major house, in particular, Armani.  

In this 1992 Fashion Television feature portrait by Jeanne Beker, the thinking model, Veronica Webb makes passing reference to the paucity of black models in ad campaigns and even walking the catwalks of some houses.  

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Then along came a picture-perfect day in Berkshire when Sol shone with rays that sparkled as though laced with diamonds and platinum.  This phenomenal woman, this soul who had previously been Margaret Beaufort, she with an unparallelled sense of theatre, with poise, self-absorption and awareness in the space of a couple of hours proved herself a game changer.  That poise, elegance and revolutionary arrival onto the world stage got everyone to sit up and take notice.  Certainly, Pierpaolo Piccioli took notice.  He clearly thought that if Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex were going to favour haute couture in choosing Givenchy for the elegantly minimalist wedding gown then Maison Valentino had to step up and court the Duchess.  

Bored out of my mind, one day, I happened to be tune into a live event on Eva Chen’s IG @evachen212.  It was the Spring/Summer 2019 Maison Valentino Haute Couture show and as Eva shouted and praised the models and creations as they walked, I began crying.  Never had I seen so many black models walking in a show.  Then Naomi Campbell appeared, closing the show and I was simply floored.  Never had Ms. Campbell looked more radiant when walking the catwalk.  There was so much tangible love in the air, in that room.  This was a moment like no other.  There was no denying that Piccioli was courting Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex with that show, not just the ubiquity of black models but the number of creations that featured a bateau neckline were clear homage to the latest duchess of the House of Windsor.  

Listen to what Naomi has to say, near the end of the video, when speaking to British Vogue Editor, Edward Enninful.  There was nothing more overwhelming that seeing the response in that salon, from Naomi crying, to the adorably eccentric Reine de Charlemagne, Céline Dion crying her eyes out whilst sitting FROW along with Mr. Valentino himself, Valentino Garavani.  

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Campbell, Naomi 22/5/1970 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a second-level mature artisan — third life thereat.  Naomi is in the caution mode with a goal of rejection.  A realist, Naomi is in the moving part of emotional centre. 

Naomi’s body type is Saturn/Mercury. 

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

The fragment Naomi is fifth-cast in the sixth cadence; she is a fragment of greater cadence four.  Naomi’s entity is two, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414. 

Naomi’s essence twin is an artisan and her task companion is a sage. 

Naomi’s primary needs are exchange, expression and freedom. 

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

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Valentino : Runway - Paris Fashion Week - Haute Couture Spring Summer 2019

Naomi epitomises what someone in the positive pole of discrimination looks like.  Of course, she is an artisan soul, which gives her that kaleidoscopic, chameleonesque mystique.  She also happens to be an entity mate of both John Hirsch and George Hawken; this is why George was always left speechless when she appeared on television.  He was bewitched and fascinated by her, which was rare for him where adoring famous persons was concerned.  As the recent trip by TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex to Morocco revealed, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex certainly took notice of Pierpaolo Piccioli’s homage to her discriminating  sense of fashion and design.  

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As ever, I would be remiss if I did not take this time to state how deeply appreciative of your support all these years I am… thank you.  Here’s to life.   Here’s to you dreaming the most lucid of flying dreams… cause you can!  

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

Posted in 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, 20th Century British Art, 20th century Canadian artists, 21st Canadian Artists, African-Americans, Africans, American Artists, Americans, Artists, Astral plane habitué, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, Books, British Artists, Canadian artists, Creative Genius, Design, Diarists, Dreams, Fashion, French artists, Gay Artists, Italian Artists, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Photography, Reincarnation, Royalty, Spirituality, Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

War of the Roses: Deuxième Partie.

Margaret Beaufort Portrait

After having been the most influential woman during the War of the Roses, trust you me, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is no pushover. So there was DailyMale – that coven of vile, racist, castrati media whores – gleefully celebrating the fact that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge had not invited her otiose sister-in-law, HRH Duchess of Sussex in January to her birthday party.

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TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge at the EE BAFTA 2019, Royal Albert Hall.

Naturally, this gorgeous Gucci dress worn by HRH Duchess of Cambridge mirrored the black Givenchy that HRH Duchess of Sussex wore to the 2018 British Fashion Awards, also at Royal Albert Hall.

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HRH Duchess of Sussex 2018 British Fashion Awards, Royal Albert Hall.

At the time, the blatantly racially predatory perception of HRH Duchess of Sussex was that it was an inappropriate gown for a royal to have worn. Of course, after HRH Duchess of Sussex’s commanding performance at the BFA 2018, there was a flurry of appearances by HRH Duchess of Cambridge which were all about keeping up and staying au courrant. Regardless the DailyMale‘s make-over of the DoC – there are no longer any photos of the DoC where she is not pulling her death-mask grin – some truths remain unchallenged.

Missoni in Ireland ahead of blood royal

TRHs Duke & Duchess of Cambridge in Ireland.

Whilst recently touring in Ireland, Catherine HRH Duchess of Cambridge did something, which made me adore her even more. As they are keenly aware of how Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is vilified and hunted like the most reviled runaway slave, especially in the DailyMale, Catherine as though to eclipse the criticism of the DoS (Duchess of Sussex), walked ahead of her blood royal spouse, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and shook the hand of the attendant dignitary first rather than, as she has customarily done, after her husband. So there goes that criticism of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex not abiding by rules and traditions and deliberately breaking royal protocol by walking ahead of her admirable husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. I do like the DoC’s elegant Missoni outfit.

stressed

After having spent the past half decade being demure wallflower, all of a sudden, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is being jousted to get out there and compete, perform and not be outshone by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

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To be sure, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is simply radiant in that Gucci dress but there is no denying fact: public speaking is not her forte and she is looking increasingly stressed and impatient as she is suddenly being hustled to get out there and perform/compete with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

mic

Let’s face facts: for Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex a mic is a tool; it is a benign tool. However, a mic is a means for her to project her formidable eloquence, intellect and emotional intelligence.

For Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, mightier than any sword, the mic is the most sophisticated of weapons in this media-concocted War of the Roses 2.0. Conversely, as is plainly obvious each time she delivers a speech, and as per the two video clips cited above, for Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge a mic is but Kryptonite.

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex @ Mark Hotel, New York City

Not invited to the DoC’s birthday gathering, faster than a Serena Williams ace, the DoS (Duchess of Sussex) decamped to Manhattan and throws a baby shower. Naturally, the excuse for staging it in New York City is that it is not an English tradition; more importantly, as males are not invited, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Catherine would not be expected to travel sans her spouse and especially since she has a less than one-year-old infant. Nicely served.

Jessica

Abigail Spencer

Jessica Mulroney & Abigail Spencer at the DoS’s Baby Shower in Manhattan.

Abigail Spencer is the quintessential artisan soul. Interestingly enough, she is born the same day, same year as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex; they are likely cadre, possibly even entity or cadence mates. Abigail’s eyes do, though, have the shape that is usually associated with priest souls rather than not but she does strike me as an artisan soul. Jessica, what’s not to love, she has the most deliciously vulgar laugh that is void bile or repression and has rather alluring eyes. The real intrigue for me is her daughter, Ivy Mulroney whose eyes look way too much like the actor, Annette Bening’s for them not to have a soul connection. Incidentally, Annette Bening is, like Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex mid-cycle mature-souled artisan; however she is on her second life whereas Meghan is on her third at said soul age. Annette is the fourth position of the fifth cadence and her husband, Warren Beatty is in the fifth position of the same fifth cadence. That would make both persons cadre mate of mine as they are in entity one to Merlin and I being in entity six of cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

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sir anthony van dyck

Jim Henson & Sir Anthony van Dyck – Entity 1, Cadre 1, Greater Cadre 7, Pod 414.

Also in entity one along with Warren and Annette are Jim Henson – with whom Merlin worked as director on Fraggle Rock and Sir Anthony van Dyke who is currently incarnate and my oldest friend and truly gifted lover as he is currently a fourth old soul artisan. By the way, Warren is a seventh level young-souled artisan.

https://dreampoetica.com/2019/02/22/jessye-norman-glenn-gould/

The above is a link to the last blog post wherein there is a rather operatic dream which was shared as it was a celebration of Jessye Norman’s having recently been afforded the Glenn Gould Prize. The dream in question occurred after the first two with Jessye Norman and it involved, Shirley MacLaine, Madonna Ciccone, Warren Beatty and Annette Bening. That dream was triggered by my soul connection as cadre mate with both Ms. Bening and Mr. Beatty. I chose to focus as part of my spirituality in this lifetime on dreams, hence this is facilitated by my Venus/Uranus conjunction; incidentally, that aspect also leaves one with a very shrewd, vulgar and dismissive tongue when provoked – hey, fighting is foreplay.

Gayle King

NEW YORK, NY – FEBRUARY 20: Gayle King arrives at Meghan Markle’s baby shower on February 20, 2019 in New York City. (Photo by Adrian Edwards/GC Images)

Misha Nonoo

Gayle King & Misha Nonoo @ Meghan HRH DoS’s Baby Shower in Manhattan.

Amal Clooney

NEW YORK, NY – FEBRUARY 20: Amal Clooney arrives at Meghan Markle’s baby shower on February 20, 2019 in New York City. (Photo by Adrian Edwards/GC Images)

Serena

Amal Clooney & Serena Williams @ Meghan DoS’s Baby Shower in Manhattan.

Match point!

valentino in morocco

Dior in Morocco

Next up, the thoroughly modern jetsetting royal was off to Morocco to be hosted by the King Mohammed VI. I love that red Valentino which of course was snapped up after the House of Valentino went all out to woo the DoS with its bateau collar gowns, an ample staple of blacks walking the show and the inimitable Naomi Campbell closing the show. One of the best Valentino shows ever – SS Haute Couture 2019 Valentino with the deliciously eccentric reine de Charlemange, Céline Dion, weeping in the FROW.

Carolina Herrera in Morocco

The Duke And Duchess Of Sussex Visit Morocco

ASNI, MOROCCO – FEBRUARY 24: Meghan, Duchess of Sussex and Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex watch students play football during their visit to Lycée Qualifiant Grand Atlas, the local secondary school on February 24, 2019 in Asni, Morocco. (Photo by Facundo Arrizabalaga – Pool/Getty Images)

TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex in Morocco.

So immensely happy for HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex; after the way I cried watching him walk after his mother’s casket, so very good to see him grounded, happy and fulfilled. I for one certainly hope that the nation’s selfie queen took note of the fact that if a non-Commonwealth nation can host THR Duke & Duchess of Sussex, it certainly does behoove his arse to have invited them on tour here by now; god only knows that Canada holds a special place for them.

sporty kate

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“Why do I have to go out there and make all those bloody speeches. I hate it!”

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“Okay fine! You can go out there and be Sporty Kate but just remember to keep grinning like a semi-rabid loon.”

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Alas, all is well in the universe.

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Keep on shining groovy people… more than ever, push off and start flying as snow falls in Los Angeles and Vegas and two warring religions, nuclear-armed no less, have begun hissing at each other. As ever, I am grateful for your patronage; I do trust that you enjoy my dreams, wit and observations. I love you more!

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

Posted in 16th Century Art, 16th Century Artists, 20th Century Art, 20th Century Artists, Actors, African-Americans, American Artists, Artists, Authors, Black Americans, Black artists, Black creative artists, channelling, Creative Genius, Diarists, Dreams, Eminent World Leaders, Fashion, Italian Artists, Longreads, Mature soul Artisans, Mature souls, Memoirs, Michael Overleaves, Michael Teachings, Music, Musicians, Oil on canvas, Oil paintings, Old souls, Opera, Opera diva, Painters, Painting, Photography, Portraiture, Reincarnation, Royalty, Shamanism, Singers, Spirituality, Stage performers, Statesmen, Visionaries, Writers, Young souls | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment