4.3.4 = 11 Masterful Numbers.

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Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has the most masterful numbers. She does, indeed, have master numbers: 11. Look at those eyes, the eyes of Margaret Beaufort, Queen Mother, to HM King Henry VI, grandmother to HM King Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I. She has staying power, thanks to those double 4s and with an attitude of 3, she is renowned for being most articulate and a skilled communicator of the message.  

There is no greater study of what an attitude of 3 is like than to look at and pay keen attention to the engagement interview of both Harry & Meghan, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.  Attitude of three is about the display of intellect through speech, presentation, phrasing, enunciation, mannerism and control.  You know that beyond that phenomenal emotional intelligence and poise, is a very ruthlessly shrewd operator.  That, of course, is supported by her master number of 11 for a destiny number.  Master numbers usually point to this incarnation being a complement to a prior incarnation in which one distinguished oneself.  Also, it is about the two lives mirroring each other and being two parts of a whole spiritual monad.  Harry Omega to Meghan’s Alpha is a cool study of his knowing exactly who she is at the level of soul.  His role is to lay the foundation so that she can then come through and shine.  

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4 – focussed, solid, self-made, resolute, inner-directed, reincarnated with an agendum.  

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3 – attitude of 3 – gracious living, the great communicator, when one speaks others listen. There is only win-win; failure is never an option for these persons. Incidentally, Ben Mulroney (someone who knows Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex) is an attitude of 3, which is why he is a gracious interviewer – non-confrontational. Also, I have noticed that a lot of persons who planned a life in the public sphere, tend to have 9 and 3 in their make up, as in both HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and his lovely wife, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge. Incidentally, these three persons, Ben and the Cambridges would have been very relaxed in each other’s company and true to her 9 energy body, Catherine would likely have made a dig at her husband along the lines, ‘He certainly has a great head of hair…’ As it is perfectly natural for straight men to be attracted to each other, they would not be human if they did not, both men would have been pleasantly warmed by the other’s make-up with their similar 9 and 3. Catherine and Ben both are 9 energy body; they would have found each other more than passingly fascinating. Catherine is a warrior which means that she will always be steely; as for Ben, don’t know his overleaves but I am guessing that he is more so on the expression axis rather than not – an artisan or sage soul. In my experience, whereas 9 women can be extremely rude and dismissive, 9 men are reserved and not given to readily passing judgment.  Another example of the 9 energy body and 3 attitude in a male is the actor, Brad Pitt; like Ben Mulroney, his is the public persona of the reserved, charming, refined and pleasantly spoken male.  

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There is also the matter of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge being in perseverance mode, which is as unrelenting a foe as you can ever imagine, on top of which, she is a warrior. This woman was born to be Queen Consort and that’s the end of that; there will be no Camilla rewriting the script. Interestingly enough, both Diana, Princess of Wales’ sons are wedded to very strong women – as well they should be. In both cases, both couples are entity mates, which is as good a partnering as one can hope for. Meghan, however, with double 4s and master number of 11 is here to rule as when previously she had as Queen Mother and Tudor dynasty matriarch.  This is why Harry & Meghan, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are now the world’s most famous couple rather than TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge.  

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Not only is 11 a master number but it also leaves all such persons lone wolves – regardless how popular they are. This explains why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex will faster-than-a-sneeze dispense with persons when need be. And yes, she has every damn right to be done with betraying persons who do not know the meaning of family: honour, fealty, discretion. I am, where the master number 11 is concerned, just such a person… 2.1.8 = 11.  Of course, like Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge that attitude of 1 means that I am more inclined to be shy and reserved than ‘on’. At least that was the rule when Merlin was incarnate and we were together. Now, more of the 11 comes to the fore and I simply give two-fucks and sound off loudly and most articulately.  

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Recently, owing to a host of prickly transits, to say nothing of the mercury retrograde, I have found myself beset with some entanglements that have provoked the less polished side of my Venus/Uranus conjunction. This all began around the time that I wrote the blog about that blasted tarbaby frog’s true colours having finally surfaced. I had no less than 8 French Canadians getting up in my business, demanding that I delete aforementioned blog and that these were the indiscretions of youth. Bitch please! After having lived in Montréal for seven years with the best honorary task companion/comrade-in-arms – an equally seventh-level mature soul, though, she a warrior, we gave as good as we got. Of course, said warrior became my wife at Palais du Justice on the eve of Bob Marley’s birthday in 1999. Today, we remain the best of friends and she now he – it is the 21st century after all, has a fully grown beard that’s more than I have ever sported…. alas, I digress. 

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Early last month, I was being regaled by my sister, who lives in Nevis, about my mother’s cousin whose funeral it was that day. She died at age 107 and was attended by quite the turnout with le tout Nevis’ society in tow. Though I have never met her, her great-granddaughter was one of the descendants who eulogised the grand dame; that great-granddaughter is Mel B (Scary Spice) of Spice Girls fame.

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I have though several times met my mother’s other cousin, the inimitable and truly regal, Cicely Tyson, wife of Jazz genius, Miles Davis, a man who did not gladly suffer people who hate him or his race…. as well he damn ought not have had to.

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As I entered the little school in my neighbourhood, a spry spirit who always is good for a laugh, beamed on seeing me as he sat on his scooter with equally situated mates and inquired, “And who will you be voting for?” to which I shot back, “You can damn well bet, it won’t be for no blasted, cocksucking tarbaby-arsed frog!” raucous laughter peppered the air as I went in and voted conservative for the first time in my life. Enough of that sissy-arsed twat, who is nothing more than Modi’s pappishow with his displaced femme au foyer, fag-hag frau, Madame Plotte-Visage herself, who looks more and more each day like Tammy Faye Bakker.  You don’t like black people… go fuck yourself… god only knows, you did not invent Jazz!  

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HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York and Albany

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 primary chief feature is self-deprecation and the secondary, mild impatience. 

Meghan’s body type is Venus/Solar. 

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 warrior spouse, HRH Prince Henry of Wales, Duke of Sussex with whom she shares 20 past lives and 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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NPG 224; Charlotte Sophia of Mecklenburg-Strelitz studio of Allan Ramsay

That Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York & Albany likely is the key factor why she is black in this life.  Younger brother to HM King George III, HRH Prince Edward (former life of Meghan’s) was familiar with his older brother’s wife, Queen Charlotte who was, like Meghan, black of mixed race.  By all accounts, HRH Prince Edward was rather popular though dismissed as a frivolous, philandering dandy.  Also, he quite admired and favoured his older brother’s exotic wife, Queen Charlotte ‘the black queen.’ 

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(Lady Chapel at Westminster Abbey where circled in green #6 on the floor plan is the tomb of HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York & Albany and encircled in red #43 is where Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort is buried.  The Lady Chapel is my favourite part of Westminster Abbey.)

Two prior incarnations passed as a senior member of the House of Windsor and in both cases, she ended up being entombed at Westminster Abbey.  The original Tudor matriarch – not just another patriarch.  Yes, indeed, Margaret Beaufort was a real feminist, kicking arse… She came back to be somebody, yet again a feminist… a strong woman and not just another louche royal with an appetite for minor… oh never mind. 

 

                                        (Lady Chapel, Westminster Abbey.)

Meanwhile, the print medium engages in a campaign of race-baiting via clit bait propaganda, masquerading as journalism.  In the final analysis, the retribution for all this, is that HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York finds himself in a world of trouble, which the print medium cannot ignore since it is the only story consuming all other media.  Besides, when Lisa Bloom dons a double strand pearl necklace – what a hoot – you know she is on the hunt for big game; why indeed settle for trifling fare like Bill Cosby, Tiger Woods and Michael Jackson… indeed, Americans on safari in two-strand pearls.  

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Be that as it may, as is fairly obvious from her current overleaves, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex was born and destined for phenomenal fame on a global scale; her body type is Venus/Solar.  Rare is it that one sees someone with Solar body type.  Famous persons are usually Lunar body type as is HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and as were his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales and his paternal great-grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother.  Solar body type is merely next-level phenomenon.  Michael Jackson was also Solar body type.  In Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s case, the fact that she chose to be black has proven a hard pill for garden variety small-minded bigots to swallow.  Whether you accept or not, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being the legitimate wife of HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is merely your choice and nothing more.  

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There is a reason why they do not make many public appearances in Britain, the intense hatred towards TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their son, spurred on in large part by venal bigots like Piers Morgan and the gang of racially predatory boors, masquerading as journalists at the DailyMail, is good enough reason.  Yes, they can attend events like the Remembrance Day at the Cenotaph in Whitehall because HM The Queen is there and the security is unparalleled; however, one cannot expect that level of security at each of the Sussexes’ events.  And there are real and dangerous threats that they face; I am quite sure that there are very serious threats made against that family, which no other royal has ever faced, simply because Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is black.  That is why her Smart Works launch occurred on the secured rooftop of John Lewis – these are very controlled locales as is Windsor Castle where recently she met with charity workers.  Why put Archie at risk when Britons have proven so overwhelmingly hateful and nothing more than blood-lusting inbred hooligans?  Sadly, it was infinitely safer for Archie to be introduced in South Africa than to be out and about in London.  Indeed, quite rightly, Archie was presented at court at mature soul slave, Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu – a far more spiritually uplifting experience for a young child, Archie – 7th level mature Priest soul – than being exposed to bigots like blackamoor brooch-wearing HRH Princess Michael of Kent.  

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The treatment of Meghan has done one thing, it is has left me even more impatient with having to suffer the bile that is the racial predator… being around such persons is as repugnant as having to be around persons who cigarette smoke and the fetid stench of their malignant hides as they pollute the fucking air that I have to breathe.  Not a single cigarette smoker has to awake multiple times every night to have a cigarette.  Truly, if they were so dependent on cigarettes that is precisely what would happen; it is a crutch, a very selfish, environmentally irresponsible one at that.  I have been known to use ‘voice‘ on such persons and violently yell, ‘get away from the fucking door’ as I approach and they, like the winged rats that pigeons are, simply are too damn close to a door that I am about to enter… I don’t want to smell like an ashtray, dammit.  If you can sleep a solid eight hours without having to once awaken to smoke a cigarette then you can damn well pass the waking part of your day without subjecting me to unnecessary pollution.  Funny how not one of these persons ever appear on their social media accounts, IG in particular, smoking cigarettes.  Own your shit goddammit!  

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Days earlier en route home with my little suitcase in tow, I got up off the bench to take the Wellesley 94 bus eastbound to my art-filled lair. The bus pulled in and queerly parked, such that the back door was a good three feet away – I have never seen the appeal of metric… nothing beats knowing whether you are dealing with 9.5 or 10.5 inches! Though my suitcase was too heavy, I was prepared to step off the platform to make for the rear doors, yet, the doors did not open. Finally, I joined the Dravidian male who had been waiting to board the rear doors as well. When I got to the front door, noisily pulling my suitcase, I looked up stunned as the doors slammed shut just as I was getting ready to board. The doors then opened after the driver looked at me with a smug smirk, creasing her lizard-lipped face. I got in and as ever, I said thank you. As I progressed towards the double seats by the rear door, the bus suddenly broke, causing me to lurch forward. Taking it all in stride, I opted not to assume anything by this trio of events, which most blacks would see after the third incident as being racially provocative. Up the couple of steps I got with my heavy suitcase; this only made me realise my advancing years as suddenly the urge to pee came on. I had switched from Bleu par Chanel a couple of years back when senior leak suddenly meant that after five minutes Bleu fades and gives way to god forbid that most malodourous of bouquets: loud-smelling, dribbled piss. Now it is Christian Dior’s Sauvage as the scent lingers and dissipates any provoked thoughts of raunchy water sports.  

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Having made my way to the back seat, there were all told less than a dozen souls on the bus. On arriving at the first stop from the station, the driver got up at Church Street. I thought that there must be someone wheelchair bound, trying to board, hence she got from her seat to assist. As I was otherwise engaged in thoughts libidinal and what I’d like to do with that burly mesomorph at work, whose woman just upped and left him, I remained focussed on artisan channels 3 to 5 instead. Just then, I noticed the bus driver step up the two steps and make it towards me, seated at the centre of the bus’ long back seat. Leaning in, her nasty-looking perm straight out of the 90s, she gruffly barked at me in a manner that suggested that couth had ever been foreign to her. “Look, everybody has bad days okay. There’s no need to swear at me.” I said nothing, looking instead past her as the thought occurred to me that the bus was being driven by duppy incarnate. Since my name ain’t Shaneequa, I remained calm and looked up at a face warped uglier by rage, which I also found uncomfortably too close. I was hemmed in. “Get off my bus or I call the police!” As I chose to say nothing or move a single muscle, she got even more incandescent with irrationally unprovoked rage, “That’s it, get off my bus now, I’m calling the police!” As she turned to walk away, it gave a good look at her flat-arsed, no-calved god fugly hideousness and I got up and began making it for the bus’ front doors. As I slowly strode for the front doors, I expertly memorised her bus ID and every detail of her slender hipped, extra-vertebrae-looking alien body and realised that she was likely trans; either way, just then a definite non sequitur. For once, I said nothing on exiting and as I really needed to pee, thought of hailing a cab when noticing another bus directly in back of the scene of my misadventure.  I got aboard, said hello to the driver, a guapo Filipino, and grabbed a seat on the even less populated bus. Also, I memorised the ID information associated with the second bus. On exiting the bus, as per usual, I said thanks and exchanged pleasantries. As soon as I got situated at home, with Buster on my lap purring away, I took to the TTC’s (Toronto Transit Commission) site and chose the tab that allows for filing complaints. In exquisite detail, as well you are aware than I can, I shared what occurred and confidently knew that at no point would any of the bus’ cameras capture me saying anything to the female driver. She is, as per her contract, never to leave her seat nor confront a passenger. I have never seen her since.  

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Well in the grip of Mercury retrograde, I strolled into one of many little joints, which I love frequenting as I like chatting with the proprietors and in the process, giving them my business. On close to a decade of frequenting this particular store, where I picked up a lottery ticket or two, my bike was leaning against the row of sugary treats, I turned just in time to see an old weathered hag out on Yonge Street, beadily gawking in and cutting her hateful eyes at me. Possessed of some right afforded her by god only knows fuck-all whom – the blasted motherfuck, she bounded into the store, well into her ninth decade and looking and smelling of ill-health and poverty, “Get that goddamn bike outta here.” I was wearing my helmet with lights attached front and back in broad daylight as one does. Without so much as missing a beat, I took two steps back from her then launched into her with a ferocity, she likely had never before encountered, which is why she felt perfectly entitled to take such liberties. “Get your fucking ugly arse out of here, go the fuck to Wal-Mart, make your way to the back of the store and tell them I sent your poopy old arse to put a down payment on your fucking casket; you are obviously too fucking poor to afford to die all this time…” Never before having had her racially predatory behaviour challenged, she stood there suddenly catatonic. “Go on, here you go, start that fucking down payment today…” with that, I tossed the few coins in my pocket at her feet and barged on in full throttle loud, vituperative stride. “Pick it the fuck up, high time your fucking ugly, broke arse and casket were lowered into the ground. Come in here opening your motherfucking lizard-lipped mouth, barking at me. Pick it the blasted motherfuck up and crawl the fuck in your casket.” She tried to weakly say something to which I kept up my defense against being racially preyed on, “Shut up and die, go on… scoot. There’s no need for your fuck-all ugly, broke, smelly arse hanging around… get the fuck off the planet.” Never ever during a mercury retrograde will this venus conjunct uranus leo hold his West Indian-rooted tongue when being racially preyed on. Faster than the loudest sneeze, I rapaciously rammed my fist up her rotting arse, yanked and ripped at her calcified soul, pulled it out, wiped arse with it, then slapped her silly in the face with her weak, burnt out soul, before making her gag on a soul being held hostage by her otiose existence.

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I have become so less inclined to tolerate this perpetual abuse which we as blacks far too often stupidly choose to endure on a daily basis, yet, pretend as though it does not exist. There are, though, times when you need to protest. And unlike most blacks, under no circumstances am I going to enter my art-filled lair and talk about low vibrational shit like run-ins with racially predatory boors.  Taking two steps back allows, when using voice, for your rage not to be bounced back onto self.  Two steps back allows you to direct the power of voice to as much of the predator’s aura as possible.  Using voice is a way of focussing the light to cast out the ugly darkness that is the racial predator’s weak, umbraed, vampyric, ill-evolved light.  

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Bond Street to the left, looking north & St. Michael’s Hospital complex on the left.  

Back in 1988 after meeting Wayne Robson’s firstborn, as I moved south down the west side of Bond Street to go visit Merlin at St. Michael’s Hospital, who was suffering his first bout of AIDS-related pneumocystis, I screamed at the top of my lungs at an old Caucasian female, who on noticing me began hurriedly crossing to the east side of Bond, “I don’t want your fucking handbag…” Never ceases to amaze the arsenal of behaviours that non-blacks project onto us as they get their racially predatory fix: sniffing, outright ridicule, dragging feet, yawning, bumping into you, blowing cigarette smoke in your direction, spitting at your path as you are oncoming… those are but few of the passive racially predatory acts one perpetually endures in this society for being black. More often, it is like that act in the convenience store, so racially obsessed that one feels oneself perfectly entitled to project that ignorance in a malicious, accusatory, bullying manner towards blacks. Indeed, ever notice the inordinate number of overweight blacks; they like all persons who were sexually preyed on in their early years more often than not develop eating disorders.  

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With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s lynching daily in print medium, social media and just about everywhere else, I have become increasingly intolerant of any and all such BS. Do not because I am black start, apropos of fuck-all nothing, braying about how much you hate and can’t stand that Meghan bitch as if the blasted fuck these arsewipes know the woman.  Out of the blue, someone whom I thought had long made the only logical move viable to her sorry arse and crawled into her casket, called up trying for the nth time to get me to start today and join that pyramid scheme of hers for which she is ever travelling to some rah-rah seminar and on the cusp of getting rich, yet still ain’t and needs you to join this very day; this, I can assure you, is about as appealing as a matchmaking attempt of hers, a few years back, to get me to bed some moneyed old Polish aristo fuck with a micro penis, farts that smell as though a komodo dragon had crawled up his arse and died, killer bad breath and to cap it all off, dentures that bobbed during speech as though a Venetian gondola during a spell of rough high tides. Nah… I’m all about the dharma – here was I thinking all this time that she had been safely call-blocked… well, she is now.  

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Last summer friends called up, demanding to know if I were not going to the Raptors championship parade. Hell no! Crowds you say… not happening. The day of the parade, I kept being called up by excited friends, asking me if I was watching and wasn’t it phenomenal?  Very matter-of-factly, I declared to one, “When these fucking Goys do Yom Kippur, they certainly do know how to go all out.” Of course, after having explained myself days later at a dinner party, the point was well taken. This is a country with soft ethnic cleansing of blacks: negative immigration and population growth, a entrenched history of employment discrimination, which sees blacks being ghettoised in casual positions in the work place, especially at crown corporations (government-owned) – I have worked at two: Canada Post and the Toronto Convention Centre; in the case of the former, I arrived in Montréal from Vancouver to find myself the first full-time black in the work place; as fighting is nothing but foreplay in my books, I organised a lone Haitienne and got her to file a Federal Human Rights complaint which she won. This resulted in back-pay and all the mostly Haitian blacks awarded full-time and back-pay where they had served as casual for 5, 10, 15 years. Naturally, the messenger/lightning rod always comes into someone’s cross-hairs. At one point, where they tried firing me, the local union president told me to go to hell and go back to Canada; thus, I ventured into my firing interview with a lawyer in tow – had never happened before and was not then fired after multiple frantic calls to Ottawa to find out how to deal with him. Before being fired, that blasted porcine pequiste fucker cum union president decided to avail himself of my tax dollars by running in the federal election; thankfully, he did not win but when he tried two years later, I wrote to Jack Layton, who had frequented our Cabbagetown home in the 80s when we lived next door to a rather parvenu and highly snobbish Alfred Sung and informed Mr. Layton that if he did not withdraw that vile racist, my lawyer and I would go to the media and expose him – the letter of course was cced to all the other federal party leaders. In the end, the Bloc Quebecois thanked me for the letter and ran a black Haitienne in the riding from which the NDP union president candidate was summarily dropped and that Haitienne, Ms. Bardot won her seat, only to be replaced in Papineau riding by that blasted, racist tarbaby-arsed frog… but I digress. Two million persons cheering on black excellence when this is a country that actively eradicates any participation of blacks in its cultural fabric – hello JazzFM where you would be dismissed as stupid for thinking that Jazz is black culture. 

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Naturally, as one has to whitewash blacks from any connection to Jazz and the notion that Jazz could possibly be an idiom that is uniquely and distinctly black, there are multiple neighbourhood Jazz festivals in Toronto.  Of course, there is the marquis event, the annual Toronto Jazz Festival where blacks are ghettoised and accommodated by free concerts which feature mostly R&B acts from the 70s, 80s et al.  Keep them poor, miserable and without a lobby or voice, so what if they bitch about it?  We’ll do what Canadians always do, render them invisible, keep calm and carry on looting black culture, whitewashing Jazz of their hated ass being in any way associated with it.  

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Too, there are the Beaches Jazz and Kensington Market Jazz Festivals.  Of course, there are no Country music festivals in Toronto as there is no need to whitewash that idiom and similarly Rock ‘n Roll; however, there is every castoff from Mohawk and Humber College purporting to be a Jazz musician.   No matter how hard you try, you will never vanquish the soul of a people.  Sooner rather than later, blacks will reclaim Jazz and put an end to this egregious whitewashing of the culture, which of late has seen the promotion of desirable non-whites as the new darlings of Jazz.  Honest to fucking god.  

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Sure, there are window-dressing blacks in the TV medium but they are not the norm. Not a single prominent Canadian protested and demanded that the vile racist politician resign when his blackface past surfaced. Naturally, his people stridently argued in his defense. Would that these ungrateful fucks who hold the country to ransom finally fuck off and leave. No one outside of Québec, who does not work in the government, is remotely bilingual. Seven years of living in Montréal made one thing perfectly clear: theirs, by its sheer ubiquity, is nothing more than a northern confederate flag… and they certainly are possessed of unapologetic xenophobia. The only peoples deserving of having a party in the Canadian parliament, which not all Canadians can vote for, are the First Nations and Inuit peoples.  

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Back in late 1982 whilst Merlin and I held up in the Trockadero loft in Manhattan’s Chelsea on Sixth Avenue below 23rd Street, I got in one evening after looking at rehearsals of the Nanette Bearden Dance Company, to find Merlin having dinner and strategising with Jim Henson. As they shared the same agent, Joyce Ketay, they were prepping and throwing around ideas for how to thematically film the series, Fraggle Rock which would be shot in the coming new year in Toronto at CBC’s studios. Merlin had made his favourite dish a chicken paprikash which John Hirsch had taught him. Joining them, I dug in to what was my favourite of Merlin’s prepared meals. I will always remember Jim saying, “first you start with a compliment and then you hang back and listen, listen to what’s said but most of all, what is not said…” Sage advise that I have always followed.

What I love about us artisan souls is that we always reveal our nature and the fact that we input on five channels whenever we speak. Listen to Naomi Campbell in her acceptance speech for the CFDA Icon Award. Straight out of left field in the tenth minute, she remarks, “God my lips are dry… sorry.” No other soul but an artisan soul would shift subjects so abruptly so seamlessly and carry on without so much as missing a beat. This quirk of ours, mine, Naomi, Meghan and every last artisan soul who has ever breathed, makes for a master tactician and someone not easily understood or shaken. With a destiny number that proves master numbers like Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is an 11 – she is a diamond through and through and why HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales refers to her as Tungsten.  

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Just finished looking at episode two of season three of The Crown in which my favourite British actress, Helena Bonham Carter, did the most riveting star turn for which she is richly deserving of acclaim and an award or two.  Her portrayal of HRH Princess Margaret is powerful, riveting, nuanced, controlled yet on the cusp of explosive fireworks and deliciously complex.  Of course, in the episode, Margaretology, the dynamic of the dull and the luminous, the duality of light and dark was highlighted by HM Victoria and HM Edward VII, George V, George VI who had Edward VIII.  Of course, just as HM Queen Elizabeth II had HRH Princess Margaret, so too did HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales have Diana, Princess of Wales.  Of course, though not mentioned during episode two of The Crown there was HM George IV’s shine to HM George III’s lacklustre reign – of course, during that time, both Merlin and I were then incarnate and musicians at court whom were known to both HM King George III and HM King George IV – I was male and Merlin my female lover and harpsichordist.  

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The latest incarnation of this duality is being played out between the House of Sussex and the House of Cambridge.  After 8 years of being the mousy crypt thing, along comes Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, being touched by her philandering, bland, scholar soul husband – sooner or later, as with Andrew, Duke of York, William’s affairs will surface.  The worlds of theatre and stagecraft are the realms of artisan and sage souls, which Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is (artisan) and an actual trained thespian and a damn good one at that.  So there they are, the grudging Cambridges who seem to think that you can eclipse a light so bright as someone possessed of a body type of Venus/Solar.  Indeed, not coincidentally did the Kingdom Choir sing, This Little Light of Mine as the newlywed Sussexes departed St. George’s Chapel one glorious Saturday afternoon in May, which will go down in history as one of the most memorable and beautiful royal weddings… that entrance by the bride – pure theatre on a global stage. 

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Indeed, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex worked with the Grenfell survivors and added her patronage to the Together cookbook and wouldn’t you know it, betraying their obsessive grudge, along comes the announcement that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is to have a cooking show special this Christmas on BBC with Mary Berry. 

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Get out!  Talk about transparent.  There was a newly rebranded Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge stopping to prove herself articulate by putting the gurning on hold, to offer up that mousy little generational, coal-mining muggle’s voice’s for CNN’s Max Foster, to which all god’s coloured queens gave some serious side-eye then sucked their teeth at.  

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Mark my words, within a couple of years of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex having worked in tandem with designer, Misha Nonoo and others on the Smart Works clothing range, a charity to get women back into the workforce, look for an announcement of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge starting a clothing range likely for children as her area of focus is early childhood mental health development.  Never an original idea but for everything that HRH Duchess of Sussex innovatively undertakes she is heavily criticised in the print medium in particular.  

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Right about now, don’t they just wish that they hadn’t done so much racially predatory lynching of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex?  Right about now, would be a perfect time for Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex to come forward, shine and eclipse the horrid spectre of that barrel-hipped Porchester kinder and the serious damage that his lack of stagecraft… to say nothing of knowing of the fact that lying is an art form, which he in all of six decades has failed to have mastered.  But no, there you have it, like her speech at the 2018 British Fashion Awards, the Internet has been scrubbed clean of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s shining light, which most beautifully manifests as an unrivalled  intellect within the House of Windsor whenever she speaks.  Silly bald scholarly dud, thinking that by merely choosing to be born first, he therefore is entitled, along with his eight-year crypt-dwelling mouser, to shine brighter.  Please darlings, you are only human after all.  

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A couple of days ago, I took a breather from devouring the new Andrew Lownie biography of Louis & Edwina Mountbatten (masterful fare) to gawk at an article online.  The story was of a DJ who after having made light of HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge’s first day at school, he found himself invited to Kensington Palace to meet with the child’s parents.  What he then reported, proved all the validation of the number 9 when negatively expressed.  There was the commoner thinking himself at the palace to be sat and graciously hosted to dinner, only to find himself being berated by Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge for having had the temerity to make light of her child’s awkwardness.  

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Suddenly, Catherine, this mousy little two-dimensional Edward Gorey character of no discernible depth and definitely not a voice, proves monstrously vampyric when not gurning… some surprise that.  Yes, indeed, why pray tell would TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex want to be around that?  Let someone else stay there in the newly renovated, baronial Kensington Palace apartment next to their in-laws’.  There is no need to be around all that dense-energied, toxicity at the Court of Cambridge, where it is great sport to indulge in playing dress-up – blackamoor jewellery and all. 

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As a child, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex would have been punched, had her cruffy hair pulled and been pinched, kicked, bullied and name-called by both her step-siblings, Samantha and Thomas Jr.; that is precisely why in adulthood they have been so opposed to her success and marriage to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.  Their guilt over the deplorable way in which they treated her as child, had them resent and reject her with her global fame.  Of course, she too with a proud black mother, Doria Ragland, and her innate integrity, would never suffer for a moment racially predatory behaviour of any kind. 

(Margaret Beaufort, Tudor matriarch, HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York & Albany and Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  One soul, three lifetimes passed as a high-ranking member of the British Royal Family in its many manifestations: Tudor, Hanoverian & Windsor.)

Karma 101: the person owed karma will always be resented, attacked and obsessed over by the one who has yet to clear up that karma.  Even when the karma is resolved, there will still be residual guilt and resentment from the one who committed the original karma.  Often, in a family dynamic, the person who owed you karma, though it was resolved in recent past lifetimes, nonetheless, you are thrown together of choice to resume and repair the business of harmoniously getting along ; however, this is precisely what almost never happens as the party which originally owed/created karma still has a grudge and bullies, attempts to undermine or betray the sibling to whom they originally owed karma. 

This dynamic is perfectly validated by Samantha, Thomas Sr. & Thomas Jr. towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  There is no other response that a person with master number of 11 would make as Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has done with both her step-siblings and ultimately with her father who chose to betray her.  Cut out, they are banished and the decision is always irrevocable.  Seriously, regardless who in the Markle family run to the press and slander Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, just know this, if Meghan had suffered an injury that left her addicted to opioids and her life spiralled out of control to living on the streets, not one of these sons of bitches would look over their shoulder.  She would have one rock solid support and that is Doria Ragland.  Fuck the rest of them, that’s how a master number of 11 rolls.  

Like that Sunday in February, 1990 as the archangel herself, Winnie Mandela, descended into hell and returned triumphant, afro and all, with Nelson Mandela by her side, I just had to celebrate.  I am talking about that glorious day, November 27, 2017, when Meghan and Harry walked into the sunken garden at Kensington Palace and announced their engagement.  I just had to have a moment, to rejoice, give thanks and celebrate.  I moved away the coffee table and listened to this very song.  Lips pursed and face reaching way up beyond the ceiling into the very bosom of the astral plane and beyond and perceive without lids open.  

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Rocking steady in one place, I sang along, clapped, covered my teary face with the scarf; it was a joyous day… there was so much healing in this union.  Healing it was which was reflected in the sheer simplicity of the silk double caddy dress, which Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex mounted the west steps of St. George’s Chapel, bringing theatre to a royal wedding as never before seen.  Oh happy day indeed.  

So happy too was I later when their engagement interview was aired.  Because no matter what, it is always all about the music when one is black.  At the end of their stunning engagement interview again, I moved aside the coffee table and began standing in the middle of the BOSE stereo’s speakers and had Melba Moore’s very soul sweep over me, lift me up and take me higher.  

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Who cares about the demonisation and lies… all of which have been put in glaring relief with Prince Andrew’s façade melting away and an ugliness emerged which can never be denied or swept aside.  The beauty of Andrew’s supernova is that it demonstrates how utterly fictitious has been the campaign of negativity promulgated by the print medium, especially so as proffered by DailyMail.  In the end, matters not because every day whilst serenely ensconced in my pyramid with crystals, I always take the time to send TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex loving, healing light energies, for themselves, Archie, Doria and TRH Duke & Duchess of Cornwall.  No amount of negativity which is ever based in fear can ever conquer love no matter from whence it comes; unconditional love matters and it buoys them up, keeps them focussed and secured against the harm of weak, ugly of spirit others.  

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About Arvin da Brgha

Lucid dreamer. Dream adept. Dream Author.
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