Hello, My Darling!

04.12.202412.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Triptych August 1972

Oil and sand on three canvases

My five-day trip to the most glorious jewel, London, was bittersweet. I got a call from Vanessa saying that Clive’s cancer had proven stage four with little time left him. There was but one choice, nothing to do but hurry off the phone, book a flight tout de suite to London. Back in late October 1982, after having met Merlin, my friend Clive, studying in the city, I set up on a blind date with Vanessa. She broke off the date at the last minute to rush home to Bermuda and attend her grandmother’s funeral. Undaunted, on her return, I insisted that they get together. By this time, Merlin was returned to New York and holding up at the actor, Patricia Neal’s UWS airy apartment. Merlin had met Clive and Vanessa separately and thought to have them to dinner; naturally, he cooked his favourite dish, chicken paprikash, which he had been taught by Stratford Festival Theatre’s artistic director, John Hirsch.

Manhattan rooftop water tanks

As we dined, with the shadows of water towers beyond the large living room windows, it was fairly obvious that my attempt at matchmaking had proven successful. From time to time, Merlin winked at me and squeezed my knee beneath the table as Clive and Vanessa on their first date had handsomely struck it off. As the blind date was going so well, Merlin suggested that they were welcome to stay and continue visiting whilst we headed off down to midtown Manhattan to take in the midnight showing of Gandhi at the Ziegfeld cinema. Merlin suggested that they could leave the apartment’s keys with the concierge and we would collect them on our return; it was obvious that they were getting along well and needed more time together, minus us as well. Clive and Vanessa laughed a lot and it was clear that they were smitten with each other.

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne

Oil on Canvas

Provenance: Tate Britain

Pushing five in the morning, we returned and thought it odd that the suite’s keys had not been turned in. We got off the elevator and on making our way down to the hall, there was the familiar shower of both persons laughing and giggling. Merlin knocked, not loudly, and we were greeted at the door by the smitten couple, each with cake frosting on their nose. They had been up talking and decided that, as it was well past midnight and therefore her birthday, they would bake a cake! Lots of laughter and warmth, whilst the cake set, Merlin decided to make a hearty breakfast of pancakes with Canadian maple syrup! Since that day, Vanessa and Clive have never been separated once; they even slipped into Toronto to visit me a couple of weeks after Merlin’s passing.

The bust of a man

Pen and Ink

c. 1545

Baccio Bandinelli

Hopped off the Piccadilly line, I crossed Green Park, on day one, to alight at The King’s Gallery, Buckingham Palace. The red-interiored salons were familiar, warm and grounding. I was bothered by the fact that the exhibition of Renaissance Drawings among which were works by unsurpassed genius, Leonardo da Vinci, was masterfully curated and hung. Each piece was expertly placed such that you could never evade the glare of intrusive lighting and the works of art hung on the opposite wall. I laughed aloud to a couple of women staffers, then eventually on making to the next salon, a lone silver-haired beauty engaged me. She wanted to know where I was from; naturally, my Canadian accent as articulated with the women registered with her. She lived, it turned out in Mississauga as her husband had worked at the corporate headquarters of the elegantly designed Mies van der Rohe TD Bank (Toronto Dominion Bank) for a couple of decades. She insisted that I make the trek to St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle before leaving; I assured her that the journey was foremost in my plans, having shared that there were 4 governors-general in my extended family to date. She was a gracious human of whom I dreamt two nights later and her aura unsurprisingly was most pronounced.

Reclining Figure

Plaster and string

1951 Henry Moore

Henry Moore & Francis Bacon, Tate Britain

From the King’s Gallery, I briskly made my way to Victoria Station, alighting at Pimlico where after being moved by Chris Ofili’s tribute to the Grenfell Tower tragedy, I scuffed at the Turner Prize fare, which would have been more convincing if there were also homeless persons encamped. The Francis Bacon & Henry Moore exhibition was soul-stirring. By now my feet were beginning to seriously ache as I had forgotten to pack walking shoes. Stepping into the unseasonably crisp sunny air, I hopped aboard the Uber boat and swiftly cruised down the river Thames to the Tate Modern. I was not especially inspired for having visited and for the first time, after so many visits, successfully strode across the millennium bridge where I ended up at St. Paul’s Cathedral. As always, I paid homage to Henry Moore’s plaque. From there, I returned to my hotel in Russell Square. My feet were blistered and ridiculously ached.

Moore, Henry 30/7/1898<O>31/8/1986

Michael: This fragment was a first-level old artisan – third life thereat. Henry was in observation mode with a goal of dominance. A realist, he was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Henry’s body type was Saturn/Venus.

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

The fragment Henry is fourth-cast in the second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence one. Henry’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – he is an entity mate.

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

Henry’s three primary needs were: expression, freedom and security.

There are 8 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. ______________________________________________

Though I had about 1.5 hours to showtime, in light of the election results in America and because I simply cannot bring myself to make compromises when it comes to Jazz, I chose not to attend the oppressive brutalism of the Southbank Centre and endure Jamie Cullum apeing Black culture. Fuck that! Besides, I realised on arriving at the hotel that the ticket was for a standing room spot; not with with blistered feet was I going to time-waste. When Whites said fuck you, we are not voting for a Black woman, all bets are off that I’ve got time to suffer stubborn racially predatory boors. Whites were enticed by the spectre of Trump’s Bible, which omits amendments 11 through 17, most importantly, the 13th amendment which promises mass incarceration if not enslavement for American Blacks. Thus, I spent a couple of hours talking to Vanessa, Clive and my spouse whilst icing my sorely battered feet.

Fortnum & Mason, Piccadilly

Rested and with lots of buzz from London’s vibe, I decided at 2215 to head to Leicester Square. Got off the tube into the thick of the Friday night throngs, making my way past the Hippodrome Casino. Outside beneath the marquee was a group of statuesque, beautiful Black women in their mid to late twenties, walking past, I said to the tallest with her back to the street, “You’ve the most beautiful hair!” “Oh thank you!” She had the largest afro of the group and wore the most gorgeous, large silver hoop earrings. As I gingerly walked along, they could be heard howling and remarking at the fact that in the middle of the chill late evening air, I was fanning myself – thanks in part to the side effects of one of the medications which regulates my health well into my seventh decade. I then slipped into the Knatchbulls’ formerly owned Curzon cinema in hopes of seeing Gladiator II; however, it was sold out and I would not likely be able to see it until after midnight. Next stop, the Vue cinemas to attempt seeing Wicked; still no luck. Never mind. I then gingerly ambled to Piccadilly Circus and enjoyed the groovy beauty of Fortnum & Mason then headed back to my Russell Square hotel.

Royal Academy of Art

Next morning, bright and early, I got to Russell Square tube station only to be horrified by the note that read that the Piccadilly line would be closed both Saturday & Sunday; perhaps, I ought to have ventured out to Windsor the day of my arrival. Undaunted, I elected to head by bus to Piccadilly circus and made my way to Lilywhites where I purchased a pair of sneakers and chucked the pair of too tight and heavy, foot-blistering nuisance in the bin. Spent little time at RAA; the Michelangelo was underwhelming and too crowded for my ubiquitously masked comfort – my spouse is 24/7 on oxygen; I can ill afford to become exposed to respiratory contagion.

Iris

Oil on Canvas

1890 Vincent van Gogh

Provenance: National Gallery of Canada

Next stop, Trafalgar Square and the rapturously overwhelming Vincent van Gogh exhibition at The National Gallery. Breathtaking beauty that is each canvas was marred by the fact that there are simply far too many persons currently incarnate. Sixty-one phenomenal works of art by the modern Dutch genius, which must have a market value of at least 2B£. Obviously, it is all about the biggest bang for one’s buck but the heat radiating off the masses moving from salon to salon was at times overwhelming. There could have been a system whereby 50 persons max per salon to allow everyone a good appreciation of each piece. As ever, the tallest persons always have a knack for planting their obstructive frame before a painting and taking their sweet damn time before moving on.

Sketch for a Portrait of Lisa (Sainsbury)

Oil on Canvas

1955 Francis Bacon

This exhibition, next-door at The National Portrait Gallery, because it left me so pronouncedly aware of George Hawken being ‘around’ that it, plus the sheer staggering beauty of Francis Bacon’s genius moved me to tears. This portrait of Lisa Sainsbury, the way her eyes mimic Akhenaten’s end up remarkably resembling singer, Thom Yorke’s delicate beauty; even the colours betray the haunting melancholia of Yorke’s soulfulness. By the time that I left The National Portrait Gallery, I was listening to Radiohead’s 1997 debut album, OK Computer. The movement and emotional brilliance of clarity in each Bacon canvas is humbling in its beauty. This, by far, was the most ravishing drink for the spirit. Also the very posh Milanese couple and family members were grounding to be around; they sung the language, which I studied for two years in high school.

Bacon, Francis 28/10/1909<O>28/4/1992

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature artisan — fourth life thereat. Francis was in perseveration mode with a goal of rejection. A sceptic, Francis was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Francis’ body type was Saturn/Lunar.

Francis’ primary chief feature was impatience and the secondary arrogance.

The fragment Francis is fifth-cast in the fourth cadence; Francis is a member of greater cadence five. Francis’ entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Francis’ essence twin is an artisan, who is extant, an interior decorator and female; his task companion a sage.

Francis’ primary needs were: expression, freedom and expansion.

There are 12 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin. (February, 2018) _________________________________________

Portrait of D. H. Kahnweiler II

Crayon transfer Lithograph

1957 Pablo Picasso

British Museum

Day two of the Piccadilly line being down, and out into the grey-skied chill air, I ventured from the hotel, cutting across Russell Square and proved the first in line on Great Russell Street for the British Museum. Soon, Juan and I were chatting; he is in his eighth decade, enjoying retirement after a career spent at the Prado; he never said what he did. He clearly loved art and came every few months to London where the best exhibitions were to be had. Paris was long passé, Juan declared with a dismissive clipped laugh. After the not very dramatic Picasso print exhibition, I took off for The Japanese Galleries where, as ever, I found centre whilst visiting London. As agreed, we met up in the café, close to the two beautiful totem poles that lord over that sector of the sprawling institution.

Picasso, Pablo 25/10/1881<O>8/4/1973

Michael: This fragment was a seventh-level young warrior — third life thereat. Pablo was in aggression mode with a goal of dominance. A sceptic, Pablo was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Pablo’s body type was Venus/Saturn.

Pablo’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance and the secondary greed fixated on accomplishments.

The fragment Pablo is second-cast in the second cadence; Pablo is a member of greater cadence four. Pablo‘s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 404.

Pablo’s essence twin is a warrior and his task companion a scholar who was known to him.

Pablo’s primary needs were: expression, freedom and security.

There are 3 past-life associations with Arvin and 1 with Merlin. (January, 2018) __________________________

The Japanese Galleries, The British Museum

Returned to the hotel, I quickly fell into sleep’s welcome embrace. As is habit, I dreamt rather lucid dreams, especially so for being in London. Among those eight dreams in 3.5 hours was a rather lucidly awakened encounter with Prince William and his wife; she was cool, tense and disinterested. I had a distinct impression that her mood was more so to do with their state of affairs than myself or anyone else for that matter. The three of us were the only persons. Catherine who had been stooped to the moist, wet ground was planting clippings. She declined to look when William called after her announcing, “Look who’s here.” When she finally stood up, being clipped, dismissive and took leave of more so him than me, William placed his left palm on the small of my back, caressed me with his left thumb; throughout the dream, I could very intensely smell him. He was calm, centred and without the trappings of his waking persona – numerology, chief features and centre. William is an older soul – sixth mature, who like every one in acceptance was gracious and civil – his father, King Charles III is also in acceptance. I awoke and ventured by taxi to an evening with Vanessa, Clive and two of their four sons. It was a very emotional evening and none of the past 42 years of rich memories, family life and subsequent generations would have unfolded had I not acted on spirit and dreams which assured me that I had to set up Clive and Vanessa on a blind date, a lifetime ago.

St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle

Moments after having spent a good two minutes in reflection, head bowed, facing due north, I quickly took this photo looking eastward. I was not the first to have arrived in the line at Windsor castle on day four, but as everyone ventured towards the castle’s staterooms, I turned westward and briskly walked towards St. George’s Chapel. There was an American family who’d never been before. On entering, they turned right, as I turned left towards the great west doors, en route to pay homage. After a few words with the crimson-garbed cleric, I bowed and meditated. Suddenly, the first dream had of the recently passed Elizabeth II lucidly mushroomed in my mind. The dream reanimated about me as I watched myself walk towards the transitioning astral plane habituée and placed a garment about her, keeping her warm, honouring her richly ennobled life.

King George VI Memorial Chapel (DailyMail)

I came to as the American family, having erroneously wandered off to the Albert Memorial Chapel approached. I took leave, allowing them to visit with the large black Belgian marble slab with bronze inlays that marks where Queen Elizabeth II, Elizabeth, her mother, George VI, her father, Margaret Rose, her sister and Philip, her husband are together entombed. Simple, elegant… poignant.

Freedom. George Michael 1990

Naomi

Well before noon and I was returned to London where I alighted in South Kensington. Small, intimate and the two films that accompany the exhibition leave no doubt in one’s mind that Naomi is a Queen. If weight considerations were not a concern, I would have purchased a few coffee table books from the exhibition. I listened to George Michael’s Freedom for the rest of the afternoon until taking a nap. This tiny exhibition infuses the Victoria & Albert Museum with intense beauty and style.

Campbell, Naomi 22/5/1970 London, England.

Michael: This fragment is a second-level mature artisan – third life thereat. Naomi is in caution mode with a goal of rejection. A realist, she 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 member of greater cadence four. George’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. ____________________________________________

Andy Warhol & Jean-Michel Basquiat. Michael Halsband 1985

Next stop, I was off downstairs at the Victoria & Albert Museum to be thoroughly consumed by the staggering creative legacy of pieces from Elton John & David Furnish’s art collection. Truly arresting and brilliantly impressive, Fragile Beauty is a masterful exhibition. In light of Quincy Jones’s recent passing, the constrictor enrobed Nastassja Kinski photographed by Richard Avedon proved even more captivating. Why have I yet to get the hype over The Beatles? George Harrison and his vibe, I fully get. Hey Jude will ever be a touchstone, but them as a ‘thing’ remains for me utterly elusive. Billie Holiday captured in song proved more captivating than I anticipated. Some shots brought back memories of living in New York City in the early 1980s. Always found Keith Haring’s pheromones off-putting; he moved in the same art circles as dancer turned designer and lover, Attila Isaksen. Smiled at the memory of Attila and I, watching through a skylight Robert Mapplethorpe engaging in S&M at a loft in Chelsea. Our one sexual encounter was intense; I felt overwhelmed by the inordinate looseness of the man. On two occasions he had been leaving the S&M loft upstairs as I came bounding up the stairs to the second storey loft below his friends’. The third time this occurred, he rushed into the loft after me and our tryst was a noisy, feverish business; it was obvious that he was taken by my explosive kinetic energy. The exhibition’s photograph of Mapplethorpe reveals a possessed ghost of the dazzling persona I had encountered in late 1982; clearly, at the time of the photograph, he was being consumed by AIDS. By far, the best photograph of Malcolm X is part of the Elton John & David Furnish collection.

Trial proof of Self-Portrait: Reflection. Lucian Freud 1996

There could be no doubt why the pilgrimage was undertaken. This Lucian Freud exhibition of prints, though, not disappointing, was not the soul-stirring rapture that was the Francis Bacon exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery. I had been hoping to see Kai, Bella and other more notable works. The whippet Hugo was, without doubt, the highlight of the exhibition… at least for me. Feet sore though manageably so, I was returned to Russell Square and a dream-filled nap with one very memorable flying dream.

Freud, Lucian 8/12/1922 Berlin<O>20/7/2011 London

Michael: This fragment was a fifth level mature priest – third life thereat. Lucian was in observation mode with a goal of dominance. Lucian was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lucian’s primary chief feature was stubbornness and his secondary chief feature was that of impatience.

Lucian had a Saturn/Mars body type.

Lucian’s casting is in the fourth position of the fourth cadence in the sixth greater cadence. He is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – Lucian is an entity mate of both Arvin and Merlin’s.

Essence twin for Lucian is a priest and his task companion is a slave.

The three primary needs for Lucian were: exchange, freedom and power.

There are 17 past-life associations with Arvin and 14 with Merlin. __________________________________________

The Tales of Hoffmann. Royal Opera House

Ah the magic of theatre. Naturally, as the house lights go down, Merlin always falls into my mind. I loved the fantastic elements of the Offenbach opera; so very rich, pandimensional and dream-like. A good seat was mine and adding to the experience was, the man in his early 30s sat next to me. He was possessed of that yearning so common to us the tribe of men. A Briton, he seductively danced as he had since boyhood with his chums. I sat comfortably engrossed in the opera, but was ever mindful of his arm and leg gently, with increasing tension, caressing against mine. By act three, he was sat arms folded his index and middle finger gently caressing my arm. Neither of us had moved from our seats during the second intermission; the date, copine, épouse whomever did leave whilst I sat deeply engrossed in my phone. Rhythmically, his thigh muscle flexing, thus he kept up the dance’s intensity. Though he proved arousing distraction, I was still disturbed after having visited with Vanessa and Clive, the latter clearly not much longer focussed in this world.

The Farnese Hercules. Royal Academy of Art

Last full day in the city where in the 18th century I enjoyed a life (male) at court as a musician. Always indeed, it is good to go home. I was returned to the Royal Academy of Art to finish off my tour of the place. There were, three days prior, too many kids screaming their lungs out. Satisfied, I then crossed Piccadilly and indulged in putting together an F&M hamper of goodies just in time for the holidays. Returned home, I read and rested up for the night ahead.

Tosca, Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

Round two and back for more! Returned was I for a glorious night of Puccini as the most beautiful production of Tosca unfolded. Gloriously improved seating; good to feel the orchestra fully washing over me. This performance was riveting and its staging and design were stellar. During my return from the first intermission, I looked up to where I was sat the night prior. My yearning seat companion leaned forward in his seat to peer down at me. The dance ever endures. The sets were marvellous.

Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

The second intermission and I went outside to make a phone call. Whilst admiring the monstrous Rolls across the street and whose grill is visible in the right corner of the preceding photograph, a concert goer approached and declared that he was alone. Did I smoke? No. Would I like some company afterwards; I had almost forgotten how cocky I used to be when young. My phone buzzed; there was my cue. Silently, I returned across the street and pleasurably relaxed into my seat for Tosca’s final act. Midway through the curtain call, I made a dash for the exit and hung out just inside the stage door for about half an hour then made it to the Covent Garden tube station… alone. Yes, my darling, à la prochaine, London!

Jones, Quincy 14/3/1933 <O> 3.11.2024

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature artisan – third life thereat. Quincy was in the power mode with a goal of dominance. A sceptic, Quincy was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Quincy’s primary chief feature was arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.

Quincy’s body type was Venus/Mars.

The fragment Quincy is second-cast in the first cadence. Quincy is a member of greater cadence four. Quincy is a member of entity one, cadre one, greater cadre 4, pod 129.

Quincy’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion is a sage.

Quincy’s four primary needs were: expression, adventure, power and communion.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 11 with Merlin. _______________________________________________

Quincy Jones & Orchestra

Jazz pour tous

___________________________________________________

You are to Jazz what wings are to an ostrich; what the fuck do eagles care that queer, unaware ostriches have wings?

_______________________________________________________________________________

A Skilled Artisan Weaves Her Tapestry…

29.12.202310.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**The Family of Queen Victoria in 1887. Oil on Canvas 65 x 89 Inches Provenance: Royal Collection Trust**

I took the preceding photograph whilst being ravaged by the painting which featured in the exhibition: RUSSIA, ROYALTY & THE ROMANOVS at The Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace when I visited in 2018 on the occasion of the centenary of Armistice Day.

The Christening of HRH Prince Charles, December 1948. Standing L to R: Baroness Patricia Brabourne, HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, HM King George VI, David Bowes-Lyon, Lord Athlone & HRH Princess Margaret. Sat L to R: Princess Victoria, Dowager Marchioness of Milford Haven, HM Queen Elizabeth II, HRH Prince Charles, HM Queen Mary.

**HRH Princess Victoria, Marchioness of Milford Haven**

Princess Victoria, dowager Marchioness of Milford Haven was the granddaughter of HM Queen Victoria by way of Princess Alice of the United Kingdom (1843-1878) and Prince Louis IV, Grand Duke of Hesse by Rhine. Victoria was married to Prince Louis Battenberg, who later anglicised the family name on relocating to England from Germany. The Mountbattens had four children: Princess Alice, mother of HRH Prince Philip, Louise, Queen of Sweden, Prince George Mountbatten, 2nd Marquess of Milford Haven & Prince Louis Mountbatten, 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma.

**Prince Louis Mountbatten, 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma, Oil on Canvas.**

Son of Princess Victoria, dowager Marchioness of Milford Haven, Prince Louis Mountbatten was the father of Baroness Patricia Brabourne & Pamela Hicks – the most marvellous royal raconteuse; she was wedded to international interior designer, David Hicks whose son Ashley is an equally gifted designer. Pamela & David’s statuesque Bahamian-habituated daughter, India, is mother of four sons and a daughter – also, a designer in her own right; she was a bridesmaid at her godfather, HM King Charles III marriage to his first wife, Diana, Princess of Wales.

**Louis IV, Grand Duke of Hesse by Rhine & Princess Alice with their children. Princess Victoria stands at her father’s side**

Princess Victoria, dowager Marchioness of Milfod Haven’s mother was Princess Alice of the United Kingdom, daughter of HM Queen Victoria. Princess Alice wears the crucifix and she, of course, did have a trying life; for being a carrier, she did know tragedy, owing to her offsprings’ haemophilia.

**HRH Princess Alice of the United Kingdom**

Princess Alice was born 25.4.1843 Year of the Horse. 7.2.9 = 9. Strong numbers and the energy body of 7 would leave her ever gracious and socially unflappable. Fourth number of 9 is about disvesting oneself of all prejudicial thinking.

**HM Queen Elizabeth II 60th Birthday Portrait. Michael Leonard. Acrylic on Cotton Duck. 65 x 89 Inches Provenance: National Portrait Gallery, London**

On the occasion of HM Queen Elizabeth II’s 60th birthday, artist Michael Leonard painted the official portrait, which is part of the permanent collection of the National Portrait Gallery. HM Queen Elizabeth II 21.4.1926 Year of the Tiger. 3.7.7 = 8. Now let’s explore where it gets truly interesting.

Windsor, Elizabeth HM Queen Elizabeth II 21/4/1926<O>08/9/2022

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

Body type was Venus/Lunar.

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

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

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

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

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

Past Lives of Note:

Michael: Past lives of note include the following:
1. Daughter of Queen Victoria, Princess Alice of the United Kingdom. Devoted servant of the people through medicine (nursing). Health was compromised due to exposure to many contagions.

*There are 4 other past lives of note for Queen Elizabeth II’s soul; however, I have chosen not to share them herein. END.

__________________________________________

As is obvious from the christening photograph from December, 1948, Princess Victoria the dowager Marchioness of Milford Haven was sat immediately beside her reincarnated mother, Princess Alice, who was recently HM Queen Elizabeth II. As for Prince Philip that meant that he married his grandmother’s reincarnated mum, his maternal great-grandmother, Princess Alice. Conversely, King Charles was born to Queen Elizabeth II, his reincarnated paternal great-great-grandmother, Princess Alice of the United KIngdom, Queen Victoria’s daughter.

Queen Victoria would serve as mum to daughter, Princess Alice who in time, long after Queen Victoria’s passing, would reincarnate as Queen Victoria’s great-great-granddaughter – via Queen Victoria’s son, HM King Edward VII and become the longest ruling Sovereign of the United Kingdom, her late glorious – HM Queen Elizabeth II. Princess Alice’s soul had Queen Victoria for both mother and great-great-grandmother. Both HM Queen Elizabeth II’s numerology and overleaves left her in great stead to complete the task of not just having a strong constitution but being able to honorably serve as no other Sovereign before her has. HM Queen Elizabeth II, when Princess Alice of the United Kingdom was mentored by HM Queen Victoria’s steady example and it served her well when she chose to reincarnate and serve the dynasty in the capacity as Sovereign.

I have chosen to post this dream of the late Queen, had November 2021. The dream dealt with her approaching passing, which did occur less than a year later. The dream was had in stark lucidity on the eve of HM King Charles III’s 73rd birthday on November 14, 2021. Late last month, November, 2023, I had a rather lucid dream encounter with HLM The Queen, it involved her engaging in needlepoint and being rather contemplative. I have experienced this previously, a famous, departed person engaging in needlepoint; it seems as though it is a form of meditation whilst they actively engage in past-live review of the just completed life. I had just such a dream encounter with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis after her passing. I think too that these dreams hark back to past life endeavours of such persons, where the life was bucolic and the famous astral plane habituée returns to a pastime that brought that great serenity.

Needlepoint, seems, in that sense, to enhance their spiritual focus. The Queen was alone at night, in a large salon and as I approached, she looked up, smiled and returned to the business in hand. I was suprised to find that her needlepoint was of the most beauiful koi in a pond; I had been expecting it to be a work featuring corgis or at the very least horses. Perhaps, it harked back to a meditative lifetime long ago where she lived a spiritually focussed life at a temple where koi brought her great peace.

Homecoming… EIIR 1926 ]-0-[ 2022

Homecoming – Dream of HM Queen Elizabeth II’s Imminent Passing

Tivon Pennicott – Spirit Garden

Young saxophonist, composer, arranger and true creative genius.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Oh To Be Black & Jew

05.01.202310.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Al Jolson giving possible birth to the notion that Jazz has its roots in Klezmer.

Al Jolson Singing Mammy!

Though someone’s perception of you is no damn business of yours, it does though matter when it is a whole people’s deliberate intention to demonise, vilify and portray a people as goddamn fools.

__________________________________

At the time of Henry and Meghan’s royal wedding, there was a dearth of Jews commenting on social media about their union. There were no Jewish celebrities opining about how they thought that it was great that an American, an American actress was marrying into the royal family. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. There is more to discern in people’s silence than in exactly when they are silent.

The Woman Is Fucking Nuts. Who Can Possibly Find This Remotely Appealing.

Mic Drop President Barack H. Obama

Sorry Sweetheart, you are an inarticulate, embarrassment. STFU and STFD, Basta!

Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge/Princess of Wales by Paul Emsley National Portrait Gallery London 2012

Now that the Sussexes, Henry & Meghan, have massively succeeded in articulating their truth in the Netflix and Archewell Productions co-production, which to date has had 241 million viewing hours, the dynamic has shifted. The war campaign has now entered a new phase. To date, it has been the toxic Royal Rota hacks and their plants/sympathisers in America who have been flapping their dirty yaps at Meghan’s expense. All the lies that they have hammered away at the low-browed, knuckle-dragging cultist of the island kingdom have been exposed to Americans and the rest of the world.

Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge/Princess of Wales Wearing Jenny Packham in Jamaica, March 2022.

Just look at this 9 energy-bodied, self-toxic boor; she is vile. Most of all, she is the most inarticulate, mumbling, sarcastic, bitchy socially displaced moron imaginable. Let me make it perfectly clear, you think it nothing to abuse Meghan to the nth degree because she, after all, is just a mere goddamn nigger – let’s get real. Well guess what idiots, ever will I be most fuck-all indefatigable in defending Meghan’s honour. All of this for the simple fact that she is a Black woman. There is no greater symbol of structural racism than the British institution of monarchy.

The Crypt Dweller Giving Her First Speech As A Royal & Desperately Trying To Sound A Right Toff

The United Kingdom’s recent half millennium was caught up in the savage pillage of empire from the Orient, across Africa to the Caribbean and North America at the heart of that vast imperial expansion was slavery, cheap dehumanised labour, to get sugar, cotton, spices and all manner of commodities back to the heart of the empire, London. Catherine, to be fair, dresses up nicely but beyond that, she is a hollow, burnt out, inarticulate, mumbling, blasted embarrassment.

Here is the mumbling inarticulate self-toxic, 9 energy body boor, trying to look professional and upping her game in 2021 after Meghan had breezed through and showed this bit of sodden cardboard, who seemed to think that she was being cast for the role of Sleeping Beauty, how it’s done.

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

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

She had a Lunar/Mercury body type.

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

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

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

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

*One of the reasons why Diana, Princess of Wales felt so out of her depth amongst the royal family, is because she is from pod 380, most of the senior royals are all from the 400 series pods. She would have felt just as isolated as Meghan for being Black in a milieu where structural racism is deeply entrenched.

__________________________________________

The fact is, the roles of these persons are deftly validated by their behaviour and the choices that they have made to date. Diana, Princess of Wales was shy and guarded at the start of her reign as the most loved woman on the planet; however, when she found her feet, she was unsurpassed. Diana was an early mature soul artisan. Artisan souls bring a certain magical je ne sais quoi to whatever they are focussed, especially most alluringly so when female. Prime examples of artisan souls with this glamour effect and also persons who can magically articulate the message are: Marilyn Monroe, Martha Graham, Evelyn Hart, Whitney Houston, Ella Fitzgerald, Naomi Campbell, Judith Jamieson, Annette Bening, Billie Holiday and Natalie Cole. All these female performers add great death, delicacy, eloquence and beauty to their art, regardless the medium. The reason why Catherine does not have the charm and charisma that was Diana, Princess of Wales’s is because she is a warrior soul; besides her overleaves do not lend themselves to being soft and alluringly charismatic.

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 of 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 spouse, HRH Prince Henry Duke of Sussex with whom she shares 20 past lives and also an obvious entity mate of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.

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 18^th century when the artisan died aged 28.

*Two artisans, Diana and Meghan possessed of inordinate eloquence, star power and charisma. Both Diana and Meghan had/have a goal of acceptance; this is the great goal and all such persons have great appeal and are much loved. For less spiritually evolved souls, these persons with goal of acceptance can provoke suspicion and fear; they can even experience the opposite of their goal which is rejection and certainly, thanks to race and her unique role within the monarchy’s history, Meghan has proven a source of great fear and phenomenal rejection. She has mightily threatened the fair story and the White tribe’s sense of its superior blood’s purity and Meghan has caused many to feel truly displaced as their Caucasian blood/genetics is being threatened by the African/Black blood/genetics, which means no longer guaranteed blonde and blue-eyed offspring.

__________________________________________

Meghan, Duchess of Sussex Opening Remarks at One Young World Summit, 2022

Most of all, like Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex is an artisan soul and also an early mature soul artisan. Regardless of what one projects onto Meghan, she possesses magical qualities, like Diana did, when she takes to a mic. For Catherine, a mic is Kryptonite. Full stop.

This Is The First and Only Royal Foundation Meeting/Interview with Meghan Participating

Meghan performed handsomely as one can expect of an artisan soul with a goal of acceptance and an actor to boot. However, as is obvious from Prince William’s posture and his having had the last word in the interview, he was hawkish and Meghan performed too well. She, as far as William is concerned, upstaged not just his mumbling idiot wife but he himself. How dare she upstage him when he has been groomed from birth to be the star? She was a damn Yank and a show-off, trying to act as though this were the Meghan show. What kind of institution is that which would misogynistically want a woman to merely be an appendage. In the modern age, one has to be on and represent. Charles as with Diana and William as with Catherine have to realise that there are times when it is important based on the chosen charities that the wife has to go off and engage and make speeches to drive both attention and funding to chosen charities. If you have a blithering idiot for a wife who merely goes out and shakes hands but cameras are not allowed inside to see what an embarrassing zombie the damn woman is, then what is the point? There is no value for money there. And you can bet that William would have overbearingly been giving critiques and directives to Meghan as to what she can and cannot say or do. I cannot state enough how difficult persons with 9 mindset are to deal with. They do not listen and they never take anyone’s counsel. They know and no one is good enough to tell them anything. Just imagine that degree of conceit being exalted in someone with tunnelled vision for having a stellium in their birth chart and groomed from the word go to be sovereign.

No matter how persons here and now arse-kiss the current heir to the throne, history, the final arbiter, will dismiss William as one of the most woefully inept sovereigns, who was out of touch and a difficult prick and a half. This photograph perfectly encapsulates who these two 9-energied persons are. He is from another age and time, full of self-import and entitlement and she just another fake, gurning White female who wants the world at her feet whilst not giving a living damn. No other couple on the world stage embodies the myopia of 9 energy than these two. He will not be acceding the throne in the age of HM King Edward VII or for that matter that of HM George V when good old HM Queen Mary maintained the social rigidity of the Victorian Age to the hilt.

The Queen has died and had no assurances that the realm over which she ruled, is going to be in capably fantastic hands of a regal couple who will be able to steward the dynasty through the remainder of the century. Having been to St. Andrews and acquired an art history degree by the time of her fifth wedding anniversary, Catherine should have proven herself an asset to the Crown. All she did was an introduction to an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery about early photography, in early 2018, seven years into her marriage. At her disposal that archly lazy and socially discriminating boor has done positively nothing to uplift, inspire and proven herself a loved figure. Who gives a rat’s arse how insecure and rigid William is. Putting to good use her academic credentials, she could, by The Queen’s passing, have done three arts related televised shows per year. As arts patron of the Royal Ballet, she could have been ably assisted in hosting a television production, which would then be shown on one the BBC networks. Cameras would follow her around as she films a day at ballet rehearsals then at opening night she is attendant for a ballet like the Nutcracker so that children across the social strata are introduced to a world which could prove both inspirational and possibly lifechanging. That is a show that could then be sold internationally and those funds go to engage working class kids to become and be supported in pursuing careers in the arts. Similarly, another telecast could be mounted for the production of say the Royal Opera’s Marriage of Figaro.

Portrait of HM Queen Victoria With Her Family, Exhibition At Queen’s Gallery November 2018 Royal Collection Trust

Still another production could feature the young and capable academically accredited Catherine, giving a behind the scenes tour of some aspect of the Royal Collection Trust, which would in due course form part of the rotating exhibitions that move from the Queen’s Gallery, to Holyrood House and Windsor Castle. All that exposure garners more revenue as persons would come from across the globe to take in these exhibitions presented by the future Queen Consort, Catherine. Instead, she has supposedly been playing femme au foyer with a large staff of nannies and servants as though anyone is being fooled by the fact that their invisibility could be for no other reason than the couple being heavily engaged in their extramarital affairs.

This has never transpired because Catherine is too damn lazy and more importantly, William is far too snobbish to want to afford the little people access because such initiatives by Catherine would afford the social lepers, as his 9 mindset would see the little people, access to art to which they are not entitled. This same snobbery and bigotry is precisely why Meghan did not stand a chance. Working in tandem, of course, Meghan could have hosted similar telecasts which featured actors in rehearsal before the premier of a theatrical production. All this would usher in a time of great artistic activity, which would have its full manifestation during William’s reign and prove a hallmark of that era. That snobbery is why after the Grenfell Tower fire in June 2017, not far from where I was staying in Chelsea when visiting London that Summer, Meghan for 9 months worked with the ‘little people’ and produced the Together cookbook, for which she would have been resented by William and Catherine as it would be deemed to be showing them up.

Windsor, HM Camilla, Queen Consort 17/7/1947.

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

Body type is Lunar/Venus.

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

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

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

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

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin . (July, 2017)

*Camilla is an early mature soul, much as Diana and Meghan were/are. The mature soul cycle is where one makes/incurs a great deal of karma for fucking with others’ lives. This is what Camilla, the Courtesan Queen did in spades and what she has resumed doing with Meghan as she had with Diana, Princess of Wales. There is no greater conceitedly stubborn and interfering soul than a scholar soul. Camilla had a direct hand in Diana’s emotional distress and her eventual divorce which led in time to her being murdered. This has left the Courtesan Queen a very nasty piece of work and this you have seen acted out in her openly rude behaviour towards Blacks and taking lunch with known racists and attackers of Meghan at Mayfair’s Murano.

_________________________________________

Never mind Catherine, the real dynamic in all of this has been, all along both William and the Courtesan Queen. Both Camilla and William are mature Scholar souls. Scholar souls are the only souls which do not pair with another soul on a particular axis as for example: Slaves/Priests on the inspiration axis, Artisans/Sages on the expression axis and lastly Warriors/Kings on the action axis. For this reason, Scholars are very insular and do suffer from delusions and folie de grandeur; more often than not, they are archly prejudiced and like to put everyone and everything in its little box. Everything is anal retentively categorised into their rigid little boxes and they do not waiver on this purely arbitrary prejudicial perspective of theirs – each and every one of them. Also, as a rule, Scholar souls do not favour being Black and do not like Blacks – on the surface they prefer being in milieu and in societies where rather than the arts and creativity, knowledge is favoured.

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

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

Body type is Lunar/Mars/Saturn.

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

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

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

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

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

*Like Diana, Princess of Wales, his mother, and Meghan, William a scholar soul also has a goal of acceptance. However, unlike both women, he is moving centred; this means that he shoots his mouth off before thinking through things. He takes action without realising that he has not got a truly objective, clear overview of the issues in hand. Moreover, William was born with a stellium in his astrological chart which means that he can never clearly see the forest for the trees. His scholarly conceit means that he will act as though for being destined to be sovereign, he has a right to openly discriminate without a care in the world; this is what he engaged in at his brother’s wedding. William has become so corrupted that he is almost exclusively focussed in his opposite goal of rejection, which is what his campaign of opposing Meghan’s very existence is all about.

__________________________________________

HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales & HM Queen Camilla, Queen Consort

As is obvious, Prince William is a sixth mature scholar soul. This is the most difficult level of any cycle, be it young, mature or old soul cycle. There is no peace for such persons and they can and often do create more karma than had been part of the life plan. In the case of William for being a scholar soul, he just had to be a shit-disturbing, conceited bigot and interfere in both his brother’s and his brother’s wife’s lives without a care in the world. I cannot express enough how very dangerous William is. More hired hands, more assassins and bullies are scholar souls than any other soul. There is positively no way that life within the institution was going to be smooth sailing for Meghan. She was too good to be true and most White scholar souls when they are prejudice will favour Whites, of course, and then Jews and Asians but almost never or very rarely Blacks – if the job requires they will go through the motion but they truly do consider Blacks not to be fully equal, fully human. Full stop.

William & With HM King Juan Carlos of Spain – That Bourbon Nose Though

There are two other very important parts of the puzzle to factor here. Not only are William and the Courtesan Queen on their third life at their respective soul ages; however, both scholar souls have the exact casting in cadence, cadence and greater cadence. They are both in the third (warrior/combative/interfering) position in the sixth (priest/megalomaniacal/Napoleonic/god-complex delusionality) cadence. As if all that were not enough, both though not pod mates (Camilla 129 and William 208) are also in greater cadence seven (king/dictatorial/bossy/abusive/vindictive). Of course, this would have left the Courtesan readily obsessed with fucking with Diana, Princess of Wales just as much as it has left William obsessed with fucking with Meghan, using his obediently pegged and bothered sex slave, Jason Knauf. Camilla and William are as though one and the same personality as they are singularly focussed on fucking with a more popular royal. Scholars are readily threatened by sages and artisans because both soul types are on the expression axis and have a ready wit, appeal and theatricality that scholars almost always find threatening as it highlights their own sense of dullness and lack of mass appeal and sexiness. Obviously, there are exceptions to all such basic personality types with regards to the roles; however, when you look at both Diana, Princess of Wales (Lunar/Mercury) and Meghan (Venus/Solar) body types both Camilla and William would respectively be threatened by each hugely more popular royal. Venus/Solar body type means that no matter how the collective consciousness tries to invalidate and demonise Meghan, more than all the current senior royals, she will transcend time and be the most powerful and popular royal from this age. People well into the future will be astonished that anyone had to endure so much bullshit merely for being Black and marrying into the royal family.

William and Catherine socialising whilst on duty. As a rule, Scholars souls are not touchy-feely types; this is why at times, Catherine has to be the one to initiate tenderness between them. Of course, this is totally opposite to the Sussexes who are warrior (Henry) and artisan (Meghan) souls which are very simpatico and when it works is a very dynamic, sizzling relationship with lots of touching and empathetic communion of souls. Whilst Catherine and William are task companions, unbreakable bond, Henry and Meghan are entity mates and would be deeply bonded and simpatico.

HM Queen Camilla, Queen Consort & HRH Prince William, Prince of Wales

The second oldest soul of the senior royals, William is at the difficult six level of the mature cycle. What makes William singularly problematic for the Windsor dynasty, is his chief feature of Stubbornness. The chief feature is the fatal flaw which causes one not to achieve one’s goal and leaves the life in disarray; it is also the most difficult chief feature to overcome. William’s stubbornness means that though he can be as charming as are all persons with a goal of acceptance, he does though almost exclusively come from a place of rejection the opposite of his goal. People in stubbornness are difficult, bullying and under no circumstances do they tolerate change or anything that is different – this cannot be emphatically stated enough! Under no circumstances did Meghan stand a chance with this difficult individual. There is never a single instance where William is photographed being warm and inclusive of Meghan, not whilst on the balcony at trooping the colour or at any other time. There is the infamous Christmas at Sandringham where when Meghan looked back to speak to William, he stopped turned away and began fidgeting with his scarf. It was a snub and was deliberate. Of course, for the White tribe the most powerful word when dealing with Blacks, to whom one owes enormous karma, is NO! Scholar souls are devoid emotionality and as they do not pair with any other soul type, they are loners and innately reticent snobs.

Simply Beautiful Jennifer Hudson Kennedy Center Honors Al Green 2014

Yes, you are Diana! Yes, you are Meghan! Simply beautiful, you are Diana and Meghan, and those who know nothing of beauty, fear you most!

Just as the Courtesan Queen scholar, Camilla made Diana’s life miserable and triggered her emotional and mental abuse, so too has the Pegged Bourbon lovechild caused Meghan emotional and mental anguish by having the Fleet Street abattoirs and the palace leakers, especially that nez brun queer, Jason Knauf, REJECT, demonise and racially lynch Meghan, leaving her the most hated Black woman in history. This notion that Catherine and William have played no role in the Sussexes’ departure is sheer bullshit. They are guilty as sin. Catherine would have hated and been rude and dismissive of Chelsy Davy and Cressida Bonas, especially like Meghan, Chelsy and Cressida are better looking than Catherine. Catherine is ridiculously insecure and her 9 energy body would have her bullying and treating any wife of Henry’s like a dog. Catherine is a displaced commoner, which is all the more reason why she would be power mad; she does too have a primary need for Power which is a mark of megalomania.

You Bring Me Joy, Yolanda Adams Tribute to Anita Baker, BET Awards 2018

Let’s send some love for both Diana, Princess of Wales’s beloved son, Henry and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex for the abuse they have endured at the hands of grudging, interfering, racist scholars. Sing it Yolanda Adams!

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

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

Body type is Mars/Saturn.

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

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

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

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

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

___________________________________________

Where Camilla saw Diana as too ‘showy’ and a threat that had to be eliminated – remember, more guns for hire, assassins and saboteurs are scholar souls than not, William also saw his mother and her emotionality as a bit of an embarrassment. Had Diana survived, he would have been just as cool towards her on becoming a parent as he was towards his father, HM King Charles III. Though HM King Charles III is the oldest soul senior royal, seventh mature warrior soul, like all such souls, yours truly included, they do not do drama and have no patience for confusion. Where it all gets interesting, is the other warrior soul in this mix, Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who as a fifth mature warrior is going to be drama on an operatic scale which is precisely what is unfolding. Do not for a nanosecond think of Henry as a mental case, he is a source of deep fear for the senior royals as he has the shrewdest most Machiavellian overleaves; no matter what, Henry will triumph… know that. As he was Black in his immediate past life, Henry will fight to the last man standing in defence of his wife and children, persons of Black African heritage. Henry’s having been Black in his immediate past life is validated by his connection to Africa, Black Africa and his work with Prince Seeiso of Lesotho, his AIDS charity, Sentebale and deep connection to Botswana and the ease with which he has always been in his skin when in the company of Blacks, unlike William and Catherine who clearly cannot or choose never to mask their racial animus towards Blacks.

Fifth mature lives are all about being expansive and such persons do accomplish a great deal; coupled with that, Henry has a goal of growth. Such people do not stand still, they will be born of humble means and end up living on New York City’s billionaires row in a penthouse. They will be the first to sign up to go into space, the Moon or Mars; they are daring and will always take that leap of faith that others would think horrifying. Furthermore, Henry has an attitude of sceptic, this is the most complex and most powerful manner in which to be focussed intellectually. It is the attitude of the master strategist and as rigorously shrewd as a chest master. Regardless of how Henry is portrayed by the media, he is the most intelligent royal and infinitely more complex and smarter than both his father and brother; HLM Queen Elizabeth II knew this as hers was a goal of dominance and a realist, she saw everything and everyone as they truly were. This is why during the Netflix documentary Henry’s description of what happened at the Sandringham Summit, is precisely what would have happened, William would have been a yelling bully, Charles dithering and lying all over the map and the Queen relishing watching Henry come into his own in a most tense power struggle. Topping it all off, Henry is in power mode, these people are operatic in the scope of the lives they lead and they do accomplish much. They are able to attract into their lives only that which they desire. There is no way that Henry could remain a part of a dynasty, wherein his brother he knows to be both stupid and clueless. Most of all, William is an anti-Black racist and there is no way Henry would be able to either tolerate or support any such Sovereign. This was never about stepping away and abandoning The Queen, it was about telling his brother to go fuck himself – for a sceptic, Henry knows that his brother is an idiot and neither holding his tongue nor kowtowing proved an acceptable proposition to Henry. Also, Catherine and William are in the 200s pod series whilst HLM The Queen, Henry, Meghan, Prince George and Prince Archie are all cadre mates in the 400s pod series. The current Waleses do not get it and Henry was not prepared to stick around and tolerate the abuse or participate in his brother and his wife’s clown show: pegging, love children, philandering, perpetually rowing night and day. Thus far, the Waleses have been adulterous which has likely resulted in a lovechild between them, Damian with Ben Ainslie and a daughter with Rose, Countess Rocksavage. Mature souls prefer mating for life and running stable households, unless of course that mature soul couple are miserable with their partner as is abundantly clear with William and Catherine.

A House Is Not A Home Luther Vandross 19th NAACP Image Awards 1987

And above all else, we own the music, we bring the music. My eldest sister who now permanently lives in Nevis came to town in recent months, for having been in lockdown for way too long; she just wanted to get away. I was last in Nevis in 2000 to introduce my wife to the place who thought it was the most far out trip imaginable; personally, it is way too bright in the Tropics. I who have collected art since my teen years, have preferred working at night time and living with windows heavily draped at all times. With a collection that is more than 90 percent works on paper, I can ill afford to have my art being subjected to sunlight. All windows boarded up, affording me more space to hang art; besides, Sol is too damn bright and furthermore, it belongs the fuck outside. In any event, my sister began talking about family and who had gotten married, died and had babies; she is the encyclopaedic font of the family’s history. So then she began sharing all the chatter about Covid lockdown funeral etiquette, when she mentioned that she attended the funeral at which scary spice, Mel B. (Brown) of the Spice Girl gave the eulogy. That was news because I knew that only few persons were allowed to attend funerals. So Mel B. gave the eulogy for her beloved grandmother who happened to have been a cousin of my mum’s; my sister was invited to represent our family. So who aren’t you related to, my wife asked and off my sister went.

Meghan is Black so naturally out of the woodwork comes all this hate and animus from persons who have no business being in this lane.

Like seriously. Look METHenny what the fuck has this got to do with you and why are you being so goddamn ape batshit crazy? When were Black people jumping up and down and acting like the sky was falling when Al Gore announced his running mate, Joe Lieberman? Go educate your 20 million zombie followers all about the Falasha genocide in Israel. No, you don’t know about that? Why don’t you go back and stay the fuck in your lane, shut the fuck up and stay fucking lost? Honest to fucking g_d!

Then along comes this racist freak, Joanna Weiss. Hey Donkey, what gives? Hate Meghan all you want, it will never change the fact that Catherine is a blasted inarticulate dud. She is lazy and the only thing she is capable of doing, is working with toddlers because she is not expected to make speeches to persons sucking on pacifiers and wearing diapers. This need to make inroads into America, pushing this negative narrative about the Sussexes is transparent. Most of the persons engaging in this hate campaign are disproportionately Jewish. This woman’s article made positively no sense whatsoever; however, it is a known fact that once ‘one’ is being shrill about Blacks, one must be right. If no one can so much as look sideways in your direction why must you persist with always demonising, vilifying, racially preying on Blacks?

Jon Sopel BBC Presenter

Reporter throws back to Sopel in BBC studio on the day that the Sussexes’ firstborn was named; he smugly stated, I’ve a friend whose dog’s name is Archie. Smug born and bred little bigoted boor. Of course, there were no consequences for his vile remarks. What gives?

Constantly yammering away with the shrill hatred, inciting anti-Black racism and does so in the smug conceit that they will never be challenged for being Jewish. Yeah Tom, why don’t you, since you do not exclusively write royal biographies, turn your unbiased eye and tell the story of the Falasha genocide in Israel. That’s right, the forced sterilisation of Black Israeli Jews from Ethiopia who had their numbers reduced by 50% because they were Black and for no other reason. As for Angela Levin, she has seriously insulted the Sussexes in print time and again, whilst claiming to respect the House of Windsor. She has repeatedly referred to Henry & Meghan’s daughter Lilibet Diana as Lilibut. You fucking crass anti-Black racist Jew. Having grown up in the Caribbean with three maids with a very proud mother who fiercely instilled pride and inner fortitude in her six children; looking and sounding every bit my mum when displeased, I have been known to flatly shoot someone a look and brutally demand, Since when the fuck does being Jewish not make you White?

Adrien Brody Winning Best Acting Oscar 2003 Academy Awards

In 2002 Halle Berry became the first Black actress to win the Oscar for best actress. Chances are had 9/11 not occurred six months prior, she likely would not have won. Certainly, she had not been favoured to win. She grudgingly won and broke a Hollywood taboo; Black women are not good enough, beautiful enough, too beautiful to be threatening White actresses by winning a best actress award. To date more than a fifth of the best actress awards have been won by White British actresses; that’s right, an American award being afforded Britons instead of Black American women, or for that matter Latina American actresses to say nothing of other non-White actresses, Asian and Native American among them.

There she was dumbstruck with disbelief, gave a great speech but though that night the doors had been opened, up onto the stage walked Adrien Brody, grabbed her, stuck his tongue down her throat and sexually assaulted a Black woman before a global audience and thereby putting her back in her place and slamming the door, which ought never to have been opened, shut again. Adrien is, of course, Jewish and had any Black actor gone to the stage and done what he did to a White actress, to say nothing of a Jewish actress, their career would have been summarily lynched. Black men were lynched, murdered for looking at White women, accused of sexually assaulting White women, at times when in a different state at the time of the alleged assault, yet the ultimate double standard was being demonstrated. Adrien for being Jewish could do no wrong. At the time, as I watched the show live in Montréal where I then lived, the Jewish men at the party I attended were wildly celebratory and thought that it was a stroke of genius when Adrien did what he did. It was code, Adrien was telling Halle that all she is a damn cheap cinematic whore and should not have risen above her station. The clapping of the three Jewish males at that viewing party was hostile, degrading and lethally racist. There is positively no way that Adrien Brody would have taken to that stage, grabbed and shoved his tongue down Nicole Kidman’s throat thereby sexually assaulting her. That’s what you get for deferring to, fearing and never challenging persons who do not think your humanity of any worth.

Swing Low Sweet Chariot, Judy Garland Everybody Sing, 1938

Never let it be forgotten that this is how, you, perceive Blacks. End of discussion. How many biopics of Blacks displaying their creative genius in Jazz has Hollywood bankrolled? Precisely.

Tree I Planted At Age Seven In Back Garden in St. Kitts

When I was about six years old, at a time when I had multiple boy and girl friends in the neighbourhood, I had a rather rude awakening whose lessons have ever impacted on me. My then boyfriend was months older with the most beautiful smiling eyes and dimpled. We would always kiss when playing hide and seek and engage in intercrural sex, making passionate noises and kissing on the lips whist I’d breathlessly declare, “I love you, I love you, I love you, my darling.” One day, my childhood lover who passed last March, came by with a friend whom I had ever dismissed as an absolute oaf. He was dull, shy and frankly stupid. Could never be part of my little racy theatrical events and sexual romps. Then, my darlings, my dimpled lover had the shy oaf unsheathe the goods. In that moment my baptism as size queen was thorough. At once I fell to my knees and as though calling on past-life memories, the poilued and über thick beast was in my mouth. I was ravenous like a sexually ravaged nun. Before, I knew what next, life’s elixir shot warmly into my mouth. I got up, trembling and wanted this to not end. Oaf that he was, he quickly tidied himself. Imperiously, I dismissed my dimpled lover and callously told him that it was over between us; I had after all found love! I simply refused to speak to the dimpled scorned lover. He courted me, giving me a toy plane which I took but still demanded that he return with my throbbing bit of ecstasy. Days later, the little dimpled charlatan showed up at my house accompanied by his aunt with her embarrassing my mother when she demanded that her damn thieving son, return the toy plane that she had gifted her nephew. I was aghast. Naturally, I could not have blurted out that he was jealous because I had dropped her nephew for newfound, real, big loving.

View Northwest to Sandy Point from Brimstone Hill

Days later, as I made my way across the bridge to the grocers, I had been tormented with vile looks by my abandoned lover’s grandmother who sat on the stoop, smoking her pipe as West Indian women enjoying their senectitude are wont. Fearful of her, I managed to call out as one is expected to of elders, ‘Good afternoon…’ Faster than a bat at sundown, she shot back, “What? Fire your wayward lil arse. You blasted catamite!” I was so stunned and ashamed that I hurried to the grocers which by the time I arrived, I was crying my eyes out. The matriarch, whose granddaughter was a classmate and in time would become high commissioner in London, sternly told me that I was not to fear anyone. “Listen to me, you go back and let her know if she ever talks to you that way again, you’ll tell your mother!” Indeed. On my return instead of walking on the opposite side of the street, I paused and hissed at her, “You ever talk to me like that again, and I will tell me muddah!” She trembled and fell silent and that was that. I never thereafter lost sense of who I am and whose son I was. Fear no one could best describe my mum than anything else. Most of all, I learnt that day that shame merely gets in the way and is an utter waste of time.

And now, we eagerly await voraciously devouring its 400 plus pages and in the next blog, I shall give a most thrilling review of SPARE, Prince Henry’s ennobled defence of his and family’s honour. Go on Henry, justly tell them to fire their wayward arses, you are Diana’s son and wife of the very indomitable Meghan who previously was Margaret Beaufort.

Henry & Meghan, Duke & Duchess of Sussex, June 2022 St. Paul’s Cathedral

Dizzy Gillespie Quintet, Massey Hall May 1953, Toronto Seminal Live Jazz Recording

Dizzy Gillespie – Trumpet

Charles Mingus – Bass

Bud Powell – Piano

Max Roach – Drums

Charlie Parker – Saxophone

__________________________

Fuck you, Jazz is Black culture, the hell with you!

______________________________________________________________________________

As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

_______________________________________________________________________________

Utterly Beautiful… Frame.

04.07.202209.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Simply stunning; the hue of the wood suggests an agedness as though it were centuries old; rather than the expectant lustre of bright gold, the subdued golden hue alludes to the agedness of the British monarchy which is in its second millennium. So then, the beauty of this portrait, the frame; now to everything else.

**Princes Harry & William at Unveiling of Diana, Princess of Wales Statue, July, 2021**

This photograph deftly betrays both princes’ true posture. Harry a fifth level mature warrior – same soul age and soul type as Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge – is always going to be proud in stature and not given to slouching. William a sixth mature scholar soul and task companion of his wife, Catherine, slouches, partly for towering over most persons at 6.3 feet tall. However, William has hyper-extended knees and as such, his body naturally counterbalances that stance by bearing his head and chest forward and in a concave manner rather than not. Though evocative of regal portraits from times past, in Jamie Coreth’s painting, that posture simply is not innate to HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge.

Admiral Viscount Horatio Nelson, Alexander Hamilton, 1st Duke of Wellington, HM King Charles I, HM King George III, HM King George IV, Napoleon Bonaparte & SM Roi Louis XIV.

All these portraits depict the historic figures standing, weight on one leg with the other leg’s foot forward and turned out. It is a commanding position. Of all historical portraits HM King Charles I’s is my favourite, partly because his death was so comically tragic. More than that, Charles I’s swagger and pride remains unparalleled. I am also partial simply because those magical eyes and goatee of HM King Charles I’s are not dissimilar to Merlin, my task companion’s, look during his most recent past life.

Prince William is made to affect this posture; however, it is obviously foreign to his persona. He has a goal of acceptance which is the great goal and such people are always warm and open; however, with a second number of 9, mindset, he is anything but warm. He has unequivocally demonstrated that he is archly bigoted and a rude dismissive snob. To make matters worse, his wife, who happens to be his task companion, also has 9 but in the first/energy body position. Both persons have primary chief features of stubbornness and secondary of arrogance. Stubbornness would most definitely mitigate his being open to anyone when he was born and groomed to be the ultimate snob. Furthermore, persons with a primary chief feature of stubbornness are persistently shit-disturbing, obstreperous and infuriatingly difficult.

Britain’s Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, (L) speaks with his wife, Britain’s Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge during the wedding ceremony of Britain’s Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex and US actress Meghan Markle in St George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, in Windsor, on May 19, 2018. (Photo by Jonathan Brady / POOL / AFP) (Photo credit should read JONATHAN BRADY/AFP/Getty Images)

Catherine’s resting face as ever is no oil painting. Catherine is possessed of an energy body of 9 and such persons, especially so when born female, are toxic in the extreme. They are also bitingly sarcastic, difficult and unrelentingly unpleasant socially. As a mature warrior soul in perseverance mode with a chief feature of stubbornness, you could not find a bigger shit-disturber and conceited bully. Couple all that with having to be wedded to an equally difficult mature soul and both equally insecure, Meghan, self-made and vastly more intelligent and articulate plus unacceptably of Black blood, did not stand a chance with these two.

This masterful oil on canvas, Paul Emsley, which permanently hangs at the National Portrait Gallery, perfectly captures the essence of who Catherine is; it is full of nuance and dark undercurrents, which readily betray the complexity of spirit that she and every mature soul know during the course of each lifetime. One of the lessons of the mature soul cycle, is having to learn pretty tough life lessons for being spiritually stagnant. The accompanying photograph, taken whilst on royal tour in the Bahamas, March 2022, captures the woman’s true nature. In the case of Catherine, and William, they have been gifted with Prince Louis. As everything is choice; they could have chosen not to have a third child and a third child could have been born to them without obvious mental/emotional issues if during gestation, Catherine was not engaged in such racially toxic behaviour towards the Sussexes. It does the Cambridges no favours that everyone in the kingdom has painted the drama surrounding the Sussexes as though it were completely one-sided and that the Cambridges were not at the very heart of the rift; regardless, how this is all made to seem a one-sided affair, it does still take two hands to clap. Not only is the Cambridges’ conceit encouraged but their glaring stupidity has been exposed, regardless how the British media and society blindly choose to act as though the Cambridges are in no way culpable for or play any part in the affair, at its heart centre this whole mess is all about racism. Since it is too damaging for the Cambridges, just let the Sussexes fuck off and stay gone as this is the only only way to save, in due course, the Cambridges’ reign.

No matter how much these two row in public, which is increasingly ubiquitous, British media simply pretend as though it does not exist. In point of fact, the Sussexes have largely been used as a smokescreen to deflect attention off the Cambridges’ very turbulent marriage. No matter what, at least for now, the Cambridges cannot be seen as anything other than a loving couple, adored throughout the kingdom.

This whole affair has brought to sharp focus how the White tribe simply fabricate reality as they would have it. These past few weeks of watching CNN’s coverage of the January 6th commission hearings on Capitol Hill, the Trumpian perspective is a poignant exposé into the White tribe’s collective psyche. One boldly tells a lie and for repeating it loudly and long enough, it becomes fact. Thriving almost exclusively on negativity, that vile liar, President Trump, was been able to incite an insurrection and for merely being a moneyed White male, he has not only been believed but he has commanded fierce, blindly unwavering loyalty. Though he is as guilty as sin, the Democrats are utterly paralysed with fear to arrest, charge, prosecute and imprison a President who for the first time in over 250 years attempted a coup d’état. Trump epitomises the White tribe’s zeitgeist: at all costs, we win, we are always right and no one gets to be perceived as being better than us; more importantly, we can never be perceived as either being wrong or having failed.

HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, Nicky Philipps.

What I love about this masterful portrait, is how cleverly the artist makes a reference to King Juan Carlos, the Bourbon King of Spain, as the nose is decidedly neither the Spencer nor the Windsor nose. As the saying goes, when you know, you know.

**HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge by Dan Llywelyn Hall**

This succinct painting is of a gormless-looking Prince William by Welsh artist, Dan Llywelyn Hall, in which the painter masterfully captures the essence of William’s persona. William is neither the swiftest of souls nor the most emotionally august. From his open ridicule of Black culture at the Sussexes’ wedding to sanctioning the recent seating arrangement at St. Paul’s Cathedral during HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee, neither he nor his wife can claim ignorance of racism within the royal family. They are at the very heart of the racist campaign against the Sussexes; nevertheless, within the kingdom and beyond its shores, the golden royal couple are universally deemed a paragon of superior, racially pure virtuousness in a land where the royal propaganda is not dissimilar to the blinding sycophancy afforded North Korean leaders.

In the couple’s 40th birthday portrait, they are seen to be closing ranks, as well they have. More importantly, they are neither looking at each other nor are they smiling as they are deeds done between them and against the Sussexes, for which they would rather remain mum. The Cambridges or for that matter their propagandists do not have the ability to whitewash the truth neither indefinitely nor beyond their kingdom’s shores. True love as alluded in the recent photographic portrait of the Cambridges does not bear tarnished fruit as is obvious with their third-born, Prince Damien. There is a direct result between the Sussexes’ treatment as a consequence of the Cambridges’ machinations and Prince Louis being the damaged goods that he is.

Charles Mingus Sextet Concert Rehearsal Stockholm, 1964

Charles Mingus / Bass

Eric Dolphy / Alto Saxophone, Bass Clarinet

Dannie Richmond / Drums

Jaki Byard / Piano

Johnny Coles / Trumpet

Clifford Jordan / Tenor Saxophone

________________________________________________________________________________________

As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

________________________________________________________________________________________

The Best-Laid Plans of 9s!

05.06.202209.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

**Thomas Markle Sr. 18.7.1944 Monkey 9.7.7 = 5**

Plus ça change… Oopsie, can’t make it to the wedding. Look whatta want, I’m just a wuss and afraid of flying. Let’s pull a health scare.

Along come these two racially obsessed jackasses, fully convinced that they are right in treating Meghan, Duchess of Sussex as though she were a fugitive from Justice for which they intend to get the ransom. Oh wow, look at that, on the eve of travelling to be hosted by these two blasted cretins, big wussmeister pulls another health scare and goes and hides in his corner. Meanwhile, to save face, Lord George Nonesuch talks grandly of all the things that they had in store for wussmeister numero un on his arrival for HM The Queen’s platinum jubilee celebrations. Really, Lady Rotherqueer, like somehow you were going to get that blasted fat coward to be sat next to the Duke and Duchess of Sussex at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

**St. Paul’s Cathedral, London England**

Equally, Lord George of Nonesuch was blithering on, horrid acting and all, about all the places little Tommy fat-arsed was going to be wined, dined and entertained. One of the topmost ducal families… And so fucking what? And is that ducal host a grandson of Sovereign as well as son of the future Sovereign and brother of another future Sovereign? No, well see here ducky, who gives a fuck?

Let’s make this perfectly clear, never in all your scheming, will you ever get either the Duke or Duchess of Sussex to meet with that man or have their children exposed to such an obviously compromised, sorry excuse for a man. Family my ass. As Tommy fat ass has illustrated, sooner or later we all shed skin and move on. Trust you me, two hundred years hence, when you and that pompous Jackass of trifling import, are long gone, historians will be callous with the truth.

**HRH Princess Michael of Kent, Blackamoor brooch December, 2017**

Contemporaneously, all the Sussexes detractors bleat on ad nauseam about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex having played the race card. None of these persons ever comment on the blackamoor brooch. In writing alleged royal biographies they dance around the issue and never mention it. Somehow, it is of no import. The reason for HRH Princess Michael of Kent having worn the blackamoor brooch is because her son, Lord Frederick Windsor, one of HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge’s closest familial bonds, is married to a British Jew who works in Hollywood as an actor. It is that connection to Jews in Hollywood that resulted in the blackamoor brooch having been worn to HM The Queen’s Christmas Lunch in 2017, weeks after Harry & Meghan officially announced their engagement and at which Meghan clearly was present. That was to let the American negro know that the Cambridges did not approve of the union and clearly had given their consent to attack the Black American fiancée of the Duke’s younger brother, HRH Prince Henry of Wales as princess flat-arsed, rhino stumps viciously masqueraded before the world’s media and those in Hollywood that she was doing as was directed.

**TRH Prince & Princess Michael of Kent, Sophie Winkleman (Lady Frederick Windsor) & Lord Windsor**

Always, connect the damn dots. So close are the Cambridges to the (Kents) Windsors that William elected to have his two children, HRH Prince George of Cambridge and HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge enrol at the same school in Battersea at Lord Frederick and his Jewish wife’s. That speaks to the racism in Hollywood – again, if 9-1-1 had no happened, Halley Berry would not have won a best actress Oscar in 2002, which has yet to be repeated – especially so when Viola Davis absurdly won best-supporting actress Oscar for Fences, a role which was a lead actress award-winning role on Broadway.

**Duke & Duchess of Sussex, Archie & Lilibet (in utero)**

Why indeed should Meghan have stuck around and been racially abused within the vipers nest of the royal households? Instead of addressing the blackamoor brooch and the obvious ongoing racially predatory harassment to which Meghan had clearly been subjected, before and after her marriage to Prince Harry, Tina Brown spends her time sourcing her throwaway biography, speaking to of all persons, Thomas Markle Sr. Why not interview HRH Princess Michael of Kent and ask what possessed her to have done such a racially hostile thing as choose to wear the blackamoor brooch and who exactly had put her up to it? That maudlin yenta, Angela Levin who can’t ever seem to keep her yap shut denigrating the Sussexes, has never seen fit to challenge the obvious racism to which Meghan was subjected. Lord only knows coming on strong, like Orly Taitz sans lipstick is herr Bower, skewering the schwarze without, quelle frig-all surprise, touching the blackamoor incident and the obvious racism to which Meghan was subjected within the royal households and the British tabloids before and most especially after her marriage to Prince Harry.

Ragtime Scott Joplin

Incidentally, the soul which was incarnate as Scott Joplin was recently incarnate and again Black American and was the musical genius, Prince.

______________________________________________________________________________

As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

_______________________________________________________________________________

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

11.05.202109.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Last February as I made my way by subway to the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing arts, the season’s latest opera was on that night – of course, what I then did not know, was that the rest of the opera season would eventually be cancelled – the most jarring thing occurred. A young Amerindian male with the glossiest black mane, took two steps back on the TTC train platform and dropped his black gym bag. “Are you fucking talking to me? No bitch, I’m talking to you! Did I invite you into my country?” The rage and the booming power of his voice was arresting. The tall effete Caucasian male tried brushing him off as though he were so much raped and abandoned non-whitedom. Before I knew what next, The five-foot-nothing, proud Amerindian punched his adversary square in his girly man face. Crying out like a right candy-arsed sissy, the Caucasian weakly protested, all whilst rushing backwards. My proud Amerindian brother was just getting started. Of course, I, who have grown soft for making peace with being a black male in this racially suffocating society, cried out when the first punch landed. Bam, another punch to the face as the much shorter warrior defended his land, his people, pride and history. “Yeah you, did I fucking invite you to my country?” and another blow. Bloodied and cowering, the all-mouth, cowardly closet cocksucker was resoundingly handed his arse and put in his rightful place.

The opera, Hansel & Gretel, was beautifully staged – set in the stark isolation of Toronto condo living. I was, though, never fully engaged as I spent the next several days readjusting to having had that young warrior shaman heal my spirit by his very proud actions and the conviction of his words. The next several days, I kept returning to the incident with the proud Amerindian. My reaction at the time had stunned me and in hindsight, I kept revisiting why I chose to be so upset at the attack on the arrogant male, who was being pummelled. He had taunted and dismissed the Amerindian male – a socially aggressive behaviour from whites with which one was long familiar. I realised that so many times in situations as then, we as blacks are programmed to sublimate and ‘take it’ rather than defending oneself from the hideous ugliness of the spiritually stunted.

Then something quite remarkable happened, the murderous lynching of George Floyd in callously stark veracity that cell phone ubiquity has afforded in the modern age. The event was seismic; the raw brutality of the racial predator on the hunt was so glaring, so jarring that it set ablaze protests across the planet. Indeed, the cell phone, like the beating of Rodney King, has been able to capture the ugliness that is whiteness which prior to, meant that one could lie away and grin away with exquisite triumphant glee, fucking with the enemy – an enemy on whom one preys never having been preyed on by that enemy. Slowly, the exoskeleton with which one straitjackets oneself in order to make peace and to be a black man peacefully making it through one day to the next, began losing its grip.

Scenes like in the early days of lockdown 2020, I was in line at Pusateri’s at Yorkville Avenue and Bay Street to pick up a couple of bottles of VOSS water. Old, ugly as fuck, the woman in line ahead of me turned around and began screaming at the top of her hateful lungs in a scene that could easily have been played by her in South Africa. She demanded that I get the hell away from her because I was clearly not practising proper social distancing and remaining more than two metres apart. Of course, this had nothing to do with the coronavirus pandemic but everything to do with her seizing an opportunity to be a hate-filled racist boor. As much as I wanted to readily turn rapaciously vituperative and tell her to try 2 metres below ground; instead, I took two operatic steps back and coolly and eloquently boomed with scathing condescension, “Look at you! On your hind legs and everything! Seriously though…” With that, after having laughed a vulgar dismissive breath, I impatiently strode to the back of the line to be rid of the fugly parvenu boor. Everyone, staff and clients, froze. She, of course, squawked and grumbled as I focussed my discriminating attention to a conversation via Whatsapp video about dinner with my transitioning spouse at our art-filled home, who on the eve of Bob Marley’s birthday, two decades earlier, I wedded at Montréal’s Palais de Justice both decked in gold-threaded, crisp white linen Yoruba agbada with her a matching gele. As can be expected of cowardly fare, the anaemic-looking young couple now two metres in front of me, simply ignored the social dustup by hungrily face-fucking in their best escapist Bonobo turn. Naturally, the old harpy got from the line to kvetch to whomsofuckingever and when the cashier asked if I wanted a bag, I declined, telling her that I would rather be kind on the environment. Turning to leave the tightly spaced store, I paused and shot down her evil glare by raising both VOSS waters, one in each hand, and shouted, L’Chaim! That ought to have left her pissy knickers smelling louder on leaving the store.

Soon enough, the acts of racially predatory social aggression became more frequent and pronounced. There was the incident one cool morning where a hirsute covering of blond furred redhead stopped jogging in front of me, grabbed a hold of my bike’s handlebar and began screaming as though I were both blind and deaf as he demanded that I keep the hell off the sidewalk. It wasn’t enough that cell phones had exposed their murderous ugliness but as though to protest, whites have grown more emboldened with the affront of blacks and Black Lives Matter movement to demonstrate and demand change.

By early June last year, 2020, I had had enough, each morning on the ride to work through tony Rosedale, I was being accosted by various burghers of the beautifully tree-lined streets – then again, which Toronto residential neighbourhood street is not beautifully tree-lined. There was one Jew in particular, who caused me to go out and get the above bodycam. Each morning, as I am a creature of habit, he was in the habit of leaving the sidewalk to come into the middle of the street, approach as I bike-ride to pepper me with hideous racial slurs and demand that I keep the hell out of the neighbourhood. Good morning, Shithead! Good morning you black piece of shit. Get out of here! Finally, one morning, having quite had enough of him and his special brand of ugliness of spirit, I told him to go fuck himself to which he incredulously demanded at the top of his lungs, unlike his usually sotto voce delivered insults as he approached the bike, “Get back here! Get back here now! I’m talking to you. Come back here now!” The nerve of some people. That last incident occurred on a Friday and thank god for Jeff Bezos, by Monday, I had me a bodycam. So as my special kind of fugly, hairy back and arsed nuisance came bopping off the sidewalk, ready to be racial predatory white male asshole number 1 billion, 500 million and 99, he caught sight of my bodycam, lights on and all, and like the bipedal, über poilu Rottweiler-hybrid that he is, he readily retreated for the cover of the sidewalk. I have never seen him since and, of course, I had ignored everyone’s advice to take another route to work. What the fuck for? As I am born in the year of the Rat, I am no different to any other rat; we live firmly self-aware that rats fear no one.

A few months back in between spells of too much snow, I abandoned my bike and elected to take a ride. On the way home, as I go from job A to job B, I told the unibrowed, wild-eyed driver that I was in a bit of a hurry and would show him a shortcut to my place. He again said nothing, just as he hadn’t as I got into his ride and said hello. Though, I wore a colourful silk mask over the daily disposable N-95 mask, his shitty ride I swear, smelt like what no doubt just-fucked camel pussy does. Told to take a left off Yonge onto Roxborough, finally not surprised was I when he proved a short-tempered fuck whose pointy fingers on that wheel had me dismissing him as so much forgettable small-cocked fare. He barked rather than spoke that he followed the GPS, which had called out to make a left onto Crescent so many metres ahead south down Yonge Street. Thus, we ventured, clearly grudgingly for him, along Roxborough and as we approached, I announced that I wanted him to make a right turn onto Wrentham to Crescent. Immediately, the über-poilu beast, which made me think Ursa hybrid, stepped on the gas drove east past Wrentham, down the hill and pulled onto Mount Pleasant without so much as having looked left in the process. As it was rush hour, there would be no left turns south of Bloor along Jarvis which Mount Pleasant becomes before Gerrard Street East or possibly Shuter Street East. To be sure, I was more than a little bit pissed off when telling the inbred, short-fused jackass to turn off of Mount Pleasant, onto Elm and turn right at Sherbourne North as had been intended. “You fucking idiots, who the hell are you people to talk to anybody like you own something?” Then he violently broke the car, just north of South Drive and demanded that I get out of his car. Coolly, I got out and left the door open and when he swore at me and demanded I shut his fucking door now, I told him I thought I would do him a favour and air it out, seeing as how it stunk of camel… the camel-fucker did not, of course, get the insult. Readily, I pulled out my camera and told him, ‘yeah come out here and get some of this.’ He got out of his shitty little car, cut the beady eyes at me, slammed the door shut, told me and my people to go fuck ourselves to which I replied, “happy black history month to you, too…” By the time I got onto Sherbourne North, my Samsung S20 had died. Naturally, thanks to coronavirus, I had no cash and there was no way to call a cab or Uber. In this neck of the woods, a random taxi was a nonstarter.

Foreground Bloor & Parliament in St. James Town, to right distance, Yorkville, Centre distance, One Bloor East currently tallest condo at 76 storeys, at Yonge & Bloor, Centre mid-distance Sherbourne to Church (east to west) Upper Gay Village or more pretentiously south Yorkville (ha!).

Doggedly, I decided to simply walk it home, just as I got unto the Sherbourne Street bridge, I began experiencing an anxiety attack. Years earlier, I had witnessed someone leap from the Jacques Cartier bridge that spans the St. Lawrence in Montréal. Suddenly, out of nowhere as anxiety attacks tend to function, I was in the grips of crippling fear. I knew that there was no way that I could cross the bridge, even to try and make it back seemed a feat, there was a sudden desire to start running, which I knew that I could not do. A young Amerindian couple in the city, for the first time it turned out, crossed the bridged, going south on the west side – same as me. I explained my dilemma and asked if they would call me a cab. The proud warrior-looking man, barely into his 20s insisted that I simply conquer my fear by walking beside him and his beautiful girlfriend. I tried…. I wanted to. I could not, though, as I began shaking… just the sheer weight of why I was there in the first place simply for being black and asking the driver to take a preferred route – it all seemed so absurd, yet it is an indignity that one endures at every turn in a million ways every frigging day in this society. The warmest eyes winked at me as he smiled and the Beck taxi came up the bridge made a U-turn and the young warrior closed the door on me, wishing me well. Eventually, I got home late and when I was done job B where I fundraise in the arts and remain unrivalled, I wrote a detailed account of my ride with the bigot who kicked me from his car and was summarily refunded. As if Jazz the blasted motherfuck were invented by unibrowed, camel-fucking, hairy back-and-arsed dreck.

Days later, and still black history month, I was riding my bike through the wet streets of Rosedale where the snow melted fast after the latest snowfall. As I emerged onto Crescent Road from the footpath which Scrath becomes, to cross the bridge that spans Mount Pleasant Road, a white female in a black, skin-tight, jogging suit was way in back of a group of jogging white males whom I had seen with fair regularity. She was clearly not part of their group. Jogging in the street as she was, she moved to the side as I approached and then with the arrogance of the truly somnambulant, aggressively called after me in a tone that was both accusatory and possessive as I moved past, “Excuse me, where are you going?” That morning, I happened not to be wearing my bodycam as when I got downstairs, realised that the snow had sufficiently melted such that I could actually ride my bike rather than take a cab. Without so much as missing a beat, I broke hard and stood straddling my bike when reaching into the shallow depths of her sphinctered psyche, “I’m going to your house to fuck your man!” She stood there arrested, catatonic as my use of language was both vulgar, rapacious. “That’s right, I’m gonna hog-tie that fucking cocksucker of yours and fuck him good… Yeah, you wanna come watch? Come on!” Arrested in place, her eyes welled up as mine remained unflinchingly enraged, her lizard-thin upper lip actually trembling. With that, I resumed riding my bike to job A to which I was already running late. In this the age of Trump, some whites at every chance, turn racially predatory at the drop of a hat.

Then there are the casket fugitives; these blasted tiresome, overstayed boomers, who simply will not stop showing off and just crawl the fuck in their caskets. What other generation but boomers would find a new way to show-off in their smelly diapers and drug-wasted dotage? They, these lost souls forever hurrying about way off-piste, are ever bitching and at times raising their silly poles at me, demanding that I not ride on pathways but dismount and walk. Once confronted by a turkey-necked mannish boor, I leaned in and asked near-inaudibly, “Don’t you tire of breathing? Go on, go chill the fuck out in your casket”

And then November 3, 2020 turned into January 6, 2021 as that porcine pathological compulsive liar – America’s biggest loser and racist swine, finally left the stage with crooked tail between his fat thighs with the Eurotrash escort cum parvenu snob in tow. The cold-blooded murder of George Floyd, staged or simply instinctual racially predatory behaviour, like the big fat coward that he is, having miserably failed at leading and taking command of the pandemic, Trump latched on to the murder of George Floyd to win the vote. That’s right, it was all about not haemorrhaging the white vote; thus it became all about cops and law and order – all code language for white privilege and racist white supremacy. Well, it did not fucking work! Fuck you!

Not only did Trump fail to steal the vote by declaring Marshall law and leading an insurrection on the Capitol, he and his racist ilk’s poster boy for racially predatory murderous scum was convicted on all three counts. George Floyd’s murder occurred at the Pluto opposition in Capricorn and thus the past four hundred years of murderous racially predatory blood sport of blacks finally led to George being anointed as the One. That’s right, for the first time in 400 years, a cop has been found guilty of the murder of a black male. For blacks, America the past 400 years has been nothing but a giant game reserve where they are hunted with the arrogant impunity of police getting off time and again when murdering blacks. Let that sink in for a moment. America the land where whites can murder whilst dressed up in the hunting gear of the police uniform – all the while, other whites the world over perpetually on holiday having predatory sex with minors whilst everyone looks the other way. Thanks to his murder, and trophy-hunting racial predator Chauvin having been found guilty of murder, George Floyd became a martyr who has broken the long 400 year tradition of the justice system in America condoning the racially predatory murder of blacks at the hands of police. Pluto in Capricorn indeed. The hijacked American justice system where blacks are corralled to spike the profit margins for BlackRock shareholders… talk about genius, indeed.

Always… with every breath… it is quintessentially Jazz!

Recent ride through Rosedale because of whose venal classist/racist aggression, I have taken to wearing the bodycam. As ever, Jazz permeates my every breath; how could it not when my father’s first cousin, the recently deceased actor Cicely Tyson was wife of Jazz genius Miles Davis? A new friend with lots of past-life history, asked why I am always singing the same Jazz tune when cycling; it is a form of meditation, I shared, as I move from job A to job B. By vocalesing and singing a favourite Jazz tune, I am getting refocussed to the task next in hand – fundraising in the arts… at which I am damn good. In the above clip, at the 06:24 mark, one can clearly see the septuagenarian white female with bags in hand, walking north in the southbound bike lane. Likely she chose to do so to avoid being too close to persons on the kerb. Either way, her choice and no business of mine. Minutes as I got further down Sherbourne Street, at which point, I had stopped recording, as I was now going south in the northbound bike lane a total of 3 white female passing, violently yelled and called me every kind of asshole imaginable. White females are ten times more likely than white males to be verbally abusive in such situations; however, non-white, non-black males and females almost never engage in such predatory social aggression. The idea that I am going to time-waste by yelling at someone for simply going in the opposite direction of the usual flow of bike traffic in a given lane is beyond absurd. So fucking what? Last winter before getting the bodycam, there was a white male in early forties with about 4% body fat running north in the northbound bike lane along the Sherbourne Street bridge. As I approached at a leisurely pace, I could tell that he was wearing air buds and not wanting to surprise him simply rode pass saying and doing nothing. Shocked, though not surprised, was I when he upped his jogging pace and began running alongside on my right. Yelling as though a drill sergeant, he began calling me an asshole and demanded to know why I had not used my fucking bell when passing him. Not jogging on the kerb was he, nor was he jogging towards oncoming bike and vehicular traffic; yet, he and his perceptions had perceived me as being at fault for riding alongside and passing him without having given him warning of my approach. This world is overrun by truly blind assholes, very well-armed, truly blind assholes.

A few days ago as I hopped off my bike with time to kill between jobs A & B, I slipped into the reconstituted shrine to Canadian ice hockey which became the flagship store of Loblaws, another of the Weston family’s retail gems. On entering, there was a police officer just inside – a new pandemic feature. Tall, handsome and of South Pacific heritage, the male officer engagingly greeted me, willingly, I ambled over and he commended me on the bodycam. Said he, every person of colour ought to be wearing one; indeed, I agreed, it amazingly affords one peace of mind and a harassment free ride about town. He laughed when told of how hostile the burghers of Rosedale can be, adding that he was not surprised in the least at the account of in-your-face open bigotry.

With nimble vivacity me and my paniers whisked through the place, emerging minutes later with organic ginger, beautifully pungent organic turmeric, Ocean Spray’s Cran-Grape drink – this drink screams sugar is the drug y’all – and of course, the most exquisite cheddar cheese. Whether at tea, with pâté or dark chocolate, the President’s Choice (Loblaws house brand) aged 5 years crumbly cheddar cheese is as musky and satisfying as a full Moon night spent indulging rugged mansex in the moss-saturated bois of Vancouver’s Stanley Park. Slipping outside, as I loaded up my paniers on my trusty brown Schwinn Gateway, the four bottles of VOSS water made the paniers hard to close shut – larger than the VOSS available in Yorkville, who needs Pusateri’s and Yorkville’s parvenu pretentious bullshit anyway?

As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Otello: Race and the Arts.

07.05.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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.

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, 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.

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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 rainy 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.

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.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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.

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.

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.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

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!

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Oxford Circus. Pimlico. Barbican.

03.12.201809.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Bright and early Tuesday morning and it was off to Oxford Circus in search of more art.

No faking this; the hustle is fucking real.

As I poured through this joint, I recalled my advice to the London cab driver whilst crawling along Pall Mall two days earlier.

Well if Daddy Warbucks’ little girl ain’t toothless, what is one to do but vacuously laugh with every breath.

As though I had just walked in on the most malodorous dump, I was out of this dive in a New York minute.

As I came up out of the Underground, I felt as though I had just endured a room whose stench was dirty ashtrays, liquor and coffee. Once at Hyde Park Corner, I made it to Apsley House, only to discover that it was not open during the week. Took the time to breathe the crisp – though not cold like Canadian – air with Hyde Park’s trees’ transitioning foliage predominantly apricot-coloured.

Vauxhall Tower (St. George Wharf Tower.)

Arrived at Pimlico and the air was comfortably cool; so nice to have a brilliant sunny day for a change. Nonetheless, you can bet your bottom dollar that I was protected by my extra thick-lensed black shades.

After working almost exclusively at nighttime and since before that when in the theatre, I have developed a genuine sensitivity to sunlight. You cannot convince me that we are not much too close to Sol for comfort. So to Tate Britain I was returned. After the scam that was the Klimt / Schiele, I was not rolling the die on Turner Prize 2018.

I went into this exhibition with zero expectations. Like the British Museum, I love the gift shop at Tate Britain as opposed to Tate Modern’s. I was on the hunt for unique gifts to purchase; this ticketed event was a gamble.

You cannot begin to fathom the degree to which I was wowed by the breath of this artist’s genius.

Remarkably, there was no end to this genius’ vision.

There is, throughout his art, movement and fluidity with the greatest grace and attack.

This is a colossal retrospective and his talent was unmatched.

The sensuality is breathtaking.

Every painting was a newly discovered masterpiece.

The breath of his work is astounding.

What a truly marvellous discovery.

His work left everyone moving through the exhibit in a state of harmony. There was such peace and serenity in each salon and every salon had some wow moment masterpiece.

One key element of his art was that each work was hung in the spot-on perfect frame.

Masterful!

For me, Edward’s genius epitomises where dreams and genius merge and produce the most uplifting art.

Quite simply, there are no words.

Besotted.

The moment that I laid eyes on this tableau, I immediately thought of Francis Bacon.

Breathtaking…

Now, this is Art, Next-level tapestry. The fluid sensuality is overwhelming.

This is everything.

I would gladly have paid thrice as much to view this exhibition.

This was like nothing I had seen before and it far exceeded anything that I had expected. Truly beautiful. After dining on a late lunch in Pimlico, it was back to Bloomsbury for a nap before heading out into the evening.

Though I was rather looking forward to hanging out at Ronnie Scott’s, the idea of listening to Charlie Parker and John Coltrane (an entity mate) being butchered by some Israeli appropriationist was not exactly high on my must-do list.

Happy was I to be in the comfy seats at Barbican Centre Cinemas to watch a LIVE relay from Covent Garden of that evening’s performance of La Bayadère, which at week’s end I would be attending. By far, this was the most glorious of cinematic experiences. I could not believe the sight of Natalia Makarova when she appeared on screen.

She was now full-bodied as we mostly get on ageing. Last time that I had seen her was during a class we took together at NYC’s Harkness House ballet school during summer 1983. That late spring was the last time that I had also seen the ballet live; it was May 19, 1983 and my favourite dancer, the dimpled, shy and oh so sweet, Fernando Bujones was dancing the role of Solor.

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and dream as lucidly as you want to…

__________________________________________________________________________________________

The Remains of Armistice Day.

28.11.201809.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Strangely, though the major part of Armistice Day celebrations were long concluded, there were still more persons moving westward towards the Cenotaph than easterly towards Trafalgar Square. My companion, a spectacled, freckled guy in his early 30s, was keen on having me come back to his flat in South Bank – We were headed towards Charing Cross Station to take the Bakerloo Line towards his place.

Stalling for time, as I really was not feeling him, I firmly suggested that we go tour Banqueting House as I had never been, which was the truth. Of course, it did not help that the only thing at Banqueting House was the great ceiling art and the throne; the rest of it was just as empty as clearly, James, my “Mate” was dense. Long years ago, a channeller of dubious skills stated rather imperiously that I would meet someone named James, who would prove rather loyal and a long-term affair.

Somehow, this nebulous bit of arcana seemed to be the only sane reason why I was suffering this oaf overlong. His constant bitching about “Nutmeg,” as he referred to the Duchess of Sussex, was not winning him any favours in my books. I had hoped to have found much more archival fare associated with the spot where HM King Charles I was executed. Alas, there was nothing save a throne and an impressive ceiling.

With the toilets at Banqueting House fully occupied and alarmingly foul-smelling, back outside we dashed in hopes of finding a toilet. A pub, whose name I did not even catch a few door towards Trafalgar Square, proved the right spot. He ordered a couple of lagers – I never drink beer, and off I went to the toilet to relieve myself. I waited overlong, waiting for him to possibly come in then use the stalls so that I could make a mad dash for it. No such luck. However, on rejoining him, he lustily talked about what he wanted me to do to him. Never one to miss an opportunity, I suggested he go unclog his plumbing so that I could give it to him good, long and hard when we got back his place.

Naively quick to take the bait, out I dashed into the larger-than-usual crowds when he eagerly bolted to the toilet; once outside, I then caught the tail end of the latest regiment to go moving from the roundabout as they made their way from the Strand and onto Whitehall. With that, I swiftly made it across Pall Mall, crossed Canada House and made my way to the new entrances to the National Gallery – this James clearly was not the one.

Taking the time to avail myself of the museum’s free wi-fi, I sipped on a boost of Pret A Manger’s little magic, yellow potion, Hot Shot. I then decided against the Bellini show – Italian art is way too religious for my liking and it strangely enough has never once addressed the fact that the Church of Rome has, in its role as civiliser, proven the most disruptive terror group this planet has thus far known. For me, there is something alarmingly dangerous about a culture, which would completely and utterly eclipse this rather crucial aspect that has decided their place in the world – but enough about that for now.

Having dodged James, I decided to do the Courtauld exhibition as it would beat having to attend the museum on this trip. Whilst standing in one of two long queues, along came Ms. Thang, who simply looked at us and grandly walked up to the next sales rep as though she had exited St. George’s Chapel on Ginger’s arm on the gloriously sunny early afternoon of May 19, 2018.

As I was next in line, I just as imperiously declared to her and the rep, “Take you, the weave and that blasted fake channel handbag to the back of the line; there are not two lines of invisible persons waiting to buy tickets.” Before she could turn nasty with me, the lovely Dravidian lady informed her that I was next in line and, more importantly, she intended to serve me next. Fake boobs that looked like flotation devices and feet that were too big to fit any glass slippers and, of course, there was a bulky turtleneck to hide the Adam’s apple.

Though “she” was prepared to do drama, I came to do me and look at art and that I did. I was really wowed by some of these works, which I previously had not seen.

Naturally, this Degas masterpiece only warmed my soul. Straight away, I was left humming the music from the grand pas de deux in Act II of La Bayadère, which I could not wait to see at week’s end.

Shades of Canada’s Group of Seven, to be sure. I like the fact that the artist did not include the entire tree in the portrait.

Ah yes, and who doesn’t love the sublime soulfulness of a Gauguin tableau.

Trees, trees and even more trees. What’s not to love!

After having been greatly inspired by the Courtauld Impressionist show – well worth the price – I bailed outside; there were too many parents using the free admission to the museum as a place to come in out of the elements and babysit their way too young children. Once outside, I hailed a cab, though, not the above – wrong day and time of day. This cab proved one of the most memorable journeys. As The Mall was closed, we took the roundabout from in front of Trafalgar Square and headed along Pall Mall. I wanted just then to get to The Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace but did not want to use the underground; it was way too glorious a day out.

Finally, I laid down the law to the driver, who was a burly soul and looked like the quintessential slave soul. Soon enough, we got into a conversation when we began chatting about Canada, which I shared that I would give anything to flee in hopes of living in London. Soon, the topic turned to sex and whatever one would have to do to get by. Ha! Said he, he would give up this gig of 22 years and counting by marrying a fat, ugly rich broad to which, without so much as missing beat, I chimed in, “Don’t stop there, if you can find rich, fat, ugly and toothless, now you’ve got it made. To paraphrase Frank Sinatra from The Best Is Yet To Come, you ain’t been blown until you’ve had a gum job!” Never in long ages had I heard a grown man laugh so hard and for so long – a fellow cab driver going in the opposite direction even honked at him and asked what was so funny.

After having sat in traffic for far too long, though the metre read 12£, he asked for a 10£ note and thank me, saying he ought to have paid me for the company and humour. With that, I dashed past St. James Palace en route for The Mall which, of course, was closed. Finally, I made it up to the Queen’s Gallery and took in the Russia: Royalty & the Romanovs exhibition, which did offer some truly inspired gems from the Royal Collection.

Well, of course, he ruled something.

I was reminded in this portrait of Tsar Nicholas I of the 1970s when the goods were readily on display; however, along came AIDS and all that display and ogling readily evaporated. Instead, men were morphed into true peacocks with long blow-dry locks, which really did become tiresome after a season or two. Now, of course, it is the great and truly civilised age of the Internet, which lest you forget, is saturated with more than 80% pornography.

The Vladimir Tiara which is not dissimilar to the Cambridge Lover’s Knot Tiara, which always looked truly handsome when worn by the ravishing, Diana, Princess of Wales.

Set in the green drawing room at Windsor Castle, where on May 19, 2018, Alexi Lubomirski took the official photographs of the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, you cannot possibly begin to imagine the overwhelming scope and grandeur of this tableau. Truly, one is left in awe of the fact that HM Queen Victoria was a tiny acorn who matured into a mighty oak who, through her womb, extended her empire far and wide across the continent. This was a ravishing exhibition and one of the most stunning paintings that I have ever seen from the Royal Collection.

After all that inspiring art, I needed to ground anew; thus, I opted to take a brisk walk, cutting through Green Park where the light fast shifted and danced below the horizon… never to be experienced again. With that, I hopped onto the Piccadilly Line at Green Park Station and made my way back to Russell Square Station; there, I resorted to my hotel room and took a lucidly awakened, dream-sodden nap before getting on with the final celebrations of this poignant Armistice Day.

Before making it to Barbican Station on the Circle Line, I had had the most awakened flying dream, which had me spirited across the spiral arms of Time to a past life in London.

To reflect, celebrate and give thanks, how could I not indulge in an evening of music and song with the London Symphony Orchestra.

Nice, plush comfortable seats with a troika of gay Jewish dancer/actors seated ahead of me. The evening was beautiful, the singing stellar.

As there was an empty seat on either side of me, I offered to move to the left and afforded the lovely young couple from Paris to sit together – she had been sat a row ahead and away from her spectacled, fey lover – he had more than a passing resemblance to Merlin. Leaning in, I whispered to him, “The universe always conspires to accommodate lovers…” he blushed, they both blushed sweetly and were pleasant company that added a certain magic to the evening. Here’s to lovers… indeed.

En route back to the hotel… a little late night smoothie snack was in order.

As ever, sweet dreams, don’t forget to push off and start flying and as always, thanks for your ongoing support.

__________________________________________________________________________

Snow Storm: Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps.

15.03.201505.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oil on Canvas

146 x 237.5 cm

C. 1812 J. M. W. Turner.

Provenance: Tate Museum, London, England.

http://www.tate.org.uk/

Today, thanks to Mike Leigh’s deft and masterful vision, as if in a lucid astral plane dream spanning the spiral arms of time, I vicariously drank of William Turner’s very soul. What a gloriously fitting work of cinematic art is Mr. Turner. And what a rich artistic era, too, working with a cadre of giants like, John Constable et al. More than that, thanks to his creative genius, Timothy Spall thoroughly ensouled his role; his truly was a masterful turn. Joshua McGuire’s performance was riveting.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: 19th Century Artists

Hello, My Darling!

A Skilled Artisan Weaves Her Tapestry…

Oh To Be Black & Jew

Utterly Beautiful… Frame.

The Best-Laid Plans of 9s!

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

Otello: Race and the Arts.

Oxford Circus. Pimlico. Barbican.

Snow Storm: Hannibal and His Army Crossing the Alps.