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.

__________________________________________________________________________

All Too Human… And Then Some!

12.03.201807.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Well, after having been dazzled by Natalia Osipova, there was no doubt what next adventure my soul had to devour. I arrived at Pimlico Station and enjoyed the cool brisk walk to the red and white gorgeousness of the neighbourhood architecture. I arrived at 08:50, a good hour ahead of the opening. I took the time to place my palm on as many of the august sycamore trees in the neighbourhood as I could. There were some high-end cars waiting out front of the Tate Britain Museum to take in All Too Human as yet another jetliner roared towards London Heathrow. Definitely bulletproof, a stately Benz sat closest to the entrance with a smoky grey Bentley, SUV no less, parked furthest of the cars.

Eventually, persons began turning up and the engaging West African security agent who had the same strong, proud, full-lipped mouth as Leontyne Price’s closed one of the two heavy black doors to protect me as I waited outside the main glass sliding doors as a private event was underway — thus one couldn’t be allowed inside. Finally, persons began leaving, one of whom — in a beautifully vivid red coat — was Cherie Blair CBE, QC. She was proud-looking and had the kind of broad body that as I child was so familiar when growing up in the West Indies. She had that air about her that bespoke a life in the public eye; someone made a curt remark and she was quick on the rebuttal. I was much humoured and reminded of Saddam Hussein trading insults with the men who moments later gladly terminated his life.

Finally, it was on to the business in hand and what a beautifully stunning exhibition; one of the best contemporary art exhibitions that I have attended in years. The greatest discovery was the lush, richness of the Lucian Freud still-life, Two Plants. Thoroughly layered, engrossing and lyrical in its deft vividness. I was left teary eyed by its sublime beauty.

Of course, I was moments earlier moved to dewy-eyed focus when drinking in the rich tableau of the portrait of creative artist and true eccentric, Leigh Bowery whom many years earlier I had seen perform in New York City. I was reminded, of course, in Leigh’s passing of the countless many whom I have lost along the way to AIDS.

The poster for the show at Russell Square Tube Station in Bloomsbury. A wonderful tribute to Leigh who covered a fair bit of ground during his lifetime… sweet and blissful dreams be yours…

Naturally, I booked my flight based on two things: one, Giselle with Osipova and secondly, a joint exhibition featuring Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon. For that, I would gladly hop a Tesla to Iapetus. Of course, this exhibition was a pilgrimage of sorts for me and it was a way of paying homage to the artistic accomplishments of cadre mates.

As per the portrait of Lucian Freud above, these two artists are cadre mates of mine and Merlin’s. Lucian Freud is a mature priest in our entity (6). Along with Rudolf Nureyev and Grace Jones, Francis Bacon is next-door in entity 5 of our cadre. Francis is a mature artisan, Grace Jones a mature warrior and Rudolf Nureyev a mature sage… and how. I was thoroughly warmed to have drunk of their spirits.

This particular portrait, Isabel Rawsthrone, I especially loved. Raw, primal and emotionally intense there is something decidedly operatic about the focussed intensity of this portrait. After initially getting over the intensity of it, it proves rather warm and enveloping.

This was a thoroughly arresting and soul-stirring adage; it was a beautiful way to have begun the day’s adventures.

After walking past the noise of the construction/renovations taking place on the first floor — one of the workers was a real pulse-racer, looking as he did like no end of hot, rough sex and in work gear no less! Then it was downstairs to take in the Impressionists in London exhibition. I did not buy the catalogue. I always am a bit put-off by the association of the word “dream” when describing the works of impressionists. There is nothing unfocussed or diffused about dreams. Trust you me, as someone who recalls at least half a dozen dreams on average, oftentimes, dreams prove the most lucid part of any given day. Perhaps, it was all the wine the French impressionists consumed but the maudlin-feeling lighting just doesn’t do it for me… most times.

Having had my fill, off I went from Pimlico to Nothing Hill Gate in the wet snow and made the long trek to Kensington Palace where one of the most glorious flying dreams in this lifetime was set — also, in that dream was a then incarnate, Diana, Princess of Wales with her two beautiful-spirited sons, the future HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry of Wales and Duke of as-yet-known after he marries his beautiful bride, Ms. Meghan Markle — a mature artisan, to his mature warrior and an entity mate of his no less.

On the long trek along Broad Walk in Kensington Gardens from the high street, I enjoyed the look of snow everywhere. The odd flake fell from time to time as joggers braved the fierce wind off the park. One brave soul with a shock of close-cropped red hair, sported the greatest thighs as he jogged strictly in a pair of wrestler’s shorts. He proved warming for my blood, indeed.

As I got towards the edge of Kensington Palace the handsome raven above swooped in from off my rear right and towards the palace. He alighted, cocked the head at me and kept taking to the wind to come closer, all the while fixing me with a hard gaze. “Yes, of course, you can see my heart. Love is the password” I said aloud to the totemic creature as it kept on calling at me and edging ever closer, though, not being confrontational. Satisfied with my password, seemingly, it bobbed and took to the air never to alight again. I rather appreciated the warm welcome.

I loved the sparse beauty of the King’s Gallery at Kensington Palace, which — for me at least — was lauded over by the Equestrian Portrait of HM King Charles I by Sir Anthony van Dyck, who happens to be in entity 1 of my cadre; he, presently incarnate and one of my oldest friends, shortly is about to return from his winter stay at his Acapulco penthouse; I will be visiting him later this spring on the Canadian west coast.

A truly beautifully tailored, handsome suit, this one. I am not a big fashion person — I believe that one is best dressed when naked and preferably tumescent. I did, though, rather enjoyed the movement through the Diana, Princess of Wales exhibition.

A very beautiful second-level mature artisan, she was too.

Having been inspired by Diana, Princess of Wales’ portrait, I made my way to Charing Cross Station in Trafalgar Square and cut across the street where there was a broken water main flooding the street. As usual, Yoda was there doing his routine and, no doubt, earning a pretty quid. I took in the HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge-curated exhibition, which had opened two nights earlier on my arrival. Though, I had stood outside the National Portrait Gallery to catch a glimpse of her arrival, I soon dashed off in the increasing snowfall, if I were to make my Jazz at Lincoln Center performance across town at the Barbican Center. So, having missed seeing her in person, the next best thing was to go gaze at the portrait of HRH Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. I love it as it is so layered and complex; she is a late-mature warrior soul.

As I move very, very quickly, I was out of there and soon grabbing a take-away fish and chips at Ben’s on Shaftesbury. I then headed back to my hotel, ate, napped and got ready for a night at Royal Albert Hall to see OVO.

Never before had I taken in a Cirque du Soleil performance — I have my reasons… Nonetheless, I just wanted to enjoy anew the ambiance and acoustics of the marvellous auditorium.

The show was no more engaging or exciting than bad bathhouse sex, which if it weren’t so late, one would never have bothered engaging in. A perfectly forgettable tourist sort of thing to indulge when there was no other nighttime entertainment going that was worthwhile. I could have taken in 42nd Street in the West End but I had already seen it at least a dozen times when then living and dancing in New York City in the early 1980s. The idea of taking in 42nd Street was only slightly less irritating than the thought of messy bathhouse sex… options… choices, indeed!

After the show, on the long walk from Royal Albert Hall to South Kensington Station, a young mesomorph asked me for a fag — I don’t smoke — but it was obvious what he was after. He sat across the narrow aisle on the eastbound Piccadilly Line ride and the rest proved a rather memorable night.

The morning after the night before, it was off to Windsor Castle, of which I will next blog.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

As ever, sweet dreams and thank you for your ongoing support.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Two Albrechts But What A Giselle!

10.03.201807.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Second night in London and there was still lots of snow — at least, by London standards; after Montréal where three feet of snow is no horror, 1.5 inches seemed to have arrested London in its tracks — I was all excited to see David Hallberg whose recent memoir I read on the flight over and carried in my custom Ruben Mack messenger bag, to have it signed after the performance. Enjoyed my glass of champagne and being in the balcony at Royal Opera house was magical. My seat was smack in the middle of three Japanese young ladies who were being chaperoned by their lovely teacher. I negotiated and they excitedly expressed their appreciation at being able to switch with me being on the end so that that they could all sit together. The closest two sat on their coats and I even offered the tinier future Giselle my coat to sit on.

Naturally, I was returned to London as last June, I had pleasantly discovered Natalia Osipova dancing in Marguerite and Armand and was instantly a fan. There was no way that I was going to miss her Giselle. Midway through Act I of Giselle, David whom I had never previously seen perform, failed to have impressed. He seemed not to be dancing full out and the partnership seemed strained; it was as though they had not had enough rehearsals. Then after intermission and really good champagne, the company’s artistic director came to the stage to announce that Mr. Hallberg had been injured during Act I and would not be proceeding; he then announced that the youngster, Matthew Ball would dance the role of Prince Albrecht in Act II — the house went wild as he had days earlier made his debut in the ballet.

What then unfolded was the most glorious of evenings in the theatre. Ms. Osipova, who has the most phenomenal ballon ever witnessed on any ballerina — to say nothing of her turns — danced as if truly overjoyed. Mr. Ball was also fantastic and I howled for joy at their curtain calls. Heck, I, who never go backstage, went in hopes of having Mr. Hallberg sign my copy of his book; however, he was a no-show. Ms. Osipova, inordinately gracious and an ecstatic Mr. Ball, who had had to dash back to the theatre that evening, was only too happy to sign my copy of the program as a steady drizzle fell beyond the double, glass stage doors.

Of course, the night prior, I had trekked in even more snow out to Barbican Centre to catch yet another performance of the Jazz at Lincoln Centre Orchestra led by the unparallelled genius, Wynton Marsalis. The programme was exclusively Leonard Bernstein in a celebration of his centenary… and what a phenomenal show it was. London’s Jews were out in force to be sure. I sat next to a princely 93-year-old Jew whose energies were rather like those of Yehudi Menuhin and boy was this man gracious of spirit. To say the least, I had a ball.

Naturally, one goes to a Wynton Marsalis performance for the encores! And boy, he did not disappoint. As always, I unashamedly howled like mad at the end of all that. This musical genius’s fabulousness is out of this world. This truly was a marvellous way to celebrate a homecoming of sorts; London truly does feel like another West Indian isle. As Merlin and I shared a rather accomplished life as court musicians in late 18th century London, it is always great to be in London.

Though I had downloaded the app and had planned on biking whilst in London, the snow everywhere precluded any such adventure. So there was I next morning — the night of which I attended Giselle, leaving my hotel in Bloomsbury and making it from Russell Square to Piccadilly Circus to, of course, look at art.

Naturally, I had arrived at the Royal Academy at Burlington House to see what for me was the most eagerly anticipated art exhibition in years: Charles I, King and Collector. I was the first to have arrived for the show, slipped inside from the snow before being asked to wait outside by security. Whilst waiting at the head of the queue, there were three gentlemen who arrived, all on the other side of 70 years of age and they were the most urbane aristocrats whom I had ever encountered. The way they spoke; there was no denying that they were posh. Moreover, it was more than their accents; their use of language made it sound as though they were speaking a form of English which was mannered, musical and as though another language entirely.

Finally, once inside the exhibition, I was truly enthralled, moving from salon to salon as though in the most lucidly captivating dream. Here were all my favourite Sir Anthony van Dyck paintings in one place — plus, there were some which previously I had not seen… at least, in this lifetime. Naturally, there were also some rather intimate Sir Peter Paul Rubens in the exhibition, which featured the art from the impressive collection of HM King Charles I… that ode to swaggerliciousness and a young sage to boot.

I had managed to snap four paintings whilst moving through the first of ten salons when a kindly security agent asked that I obey the rules and refrain from taking photographs. This truly was as though caught in a flying dream as I moved intoxicated of spirit from salon to salon, I managed whilst looking at murals in one of the larger salons, to make my way to the inner sanctum where the most glorious Sir Anthony van Dycks were hung — the two equestrian portraits one from the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square the other, which previously was hung at Buckingham Palace; there was also that most striking portrait Charles at the hunt which normally is hung at Musée du Louvre. A lovely henna-braided African security agent informed me that I had progressed improperly and ought to retrace my steps and view the art in the salons on the periphery of the three large internal salons where murals, tapestries and the prized, aforementioned van Dycks of the Royal Collection collected by HM King Charles I were hung.

At the point at which I was about to leave one salon for the next, I suddenly and distinctly thought of Kritika Bhatt the Michael channeller who had been trained by Sarah J. Chambers one of the original channellers in the Michael group. I thought it odd at the time as I only ever would think of her when a request for overleaves are outstanding and my impatience is having her surface to mind as I wonder if I would be receiving the requested overleaves that day. Since this was not the case, I thought per chance, that I was thinking of her as she is known to have King Charles spaniels. Yes, that must be the out-of-nowhere association, I concluded.

On entering the next salon, I immediately moved towards the largest masterpiece and was struck by its depth and impressive use of strong bold colours. What’s more, I had never seen the painting before. Fascinating, I whispered before heading to the title to see the title and artist. I was struck dead in my tracks when reading, Esther before Ahaseuras by Jacopo Tintoretto. Wow! I exclaimed. Years earlier, in an email regarding the overleaves for other artists, Kritika had made mention that her current son had previously been the 16th century Italian artist, Jacopo Tintoretto! I was floored and for me that out-of-nowhere associative thought of Kritika was validation of the overleaves and information shared years earlier.

Earlier, whilst moving through the first salon, I had never come so close to Sir Anthony van Dyck’s Self-Portrait with Sunflower before. Taking the time to really study the painting, I was struck by my response; suddenly, at my solar plexus, I began experiencing a — not though rare — thumping which was independent of my cardio rhythm. Never before had I been able to so closely inspect the eyes in the self-portrait. What was really interesting was the look of the artist’s left eye in the painting; it really was a darker version of my Dutch born and oldest friend, Joop who previously had been Sir Anthony van Dyck. Though Joop’s eyes are a strong, soulful blue in this lifetime, they truly are the same eyes as Sir Anthony van Dyck’s in the self portrait. Different colour, same vibration… same intensity. I had not been expecting that and just as later whilst moving from one salon to the next, I was not expecting to have the Michael Teachings and overleaves validated. Nonetheless, there is was, two instances of overleaves validated and that was the kind of bonus that one could not have anticipated whilst planning this trip.

After purchasing my lovely catalogue of the exhibition, I moved across the street and did some shopping at the grand old dame, Fortnum & Mason. Let’s face it, I was there to slip into the eatery and score myself the best free lunch in London… and as ever, the bites on offer did not disappoint. I bought marvellous teas as only can be found at Fortnum & Mason then hopped onto a double decker, driving westerly along Piccadilly. Making my way up the stairs, I soon had to double back on myself when realising that the upper deck was packed with a sprinkling of London’s homeless, who obviously had been afforded refuge out of the cold and what for London was unheard of snows. God it smelt atrocious. As the bus made a right onto Buckingham Palace Road, I hopped off and made my way past the Royal Mews which were closed owing to snow and made it for the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace.

I was there to be wowed, though, sadly was not by the Restoration exhibition. Naturally, how could it have been a show to rival that at the Royal Academy when most of that art had been sold off by the time of HM King Charles II’s coronation. I would have been rather underwhelmed, had I gone to London just to take in this show. As it was, it served as ample reason to have appreciated the Royal Academy show even more.

Really got off on the vibration exuded by HM King James II as he held court in all his glory in the portrait in the same show at the Queen’s Gallery Buckingham Palace (following painting).

Well having had my fill of the Restoration art or the paucity thereof, I enjoyed trekking in the snows along Buckingham Palace Road to Victoria Station and descended into the depths of London’s Underground for yet another adventure.

Emerging from the bowels of London, I made it to the soul of the nation to pay homage, yet again, at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

I wanted to go and light a candle, I lit two actually, in homage to the ennobled lives that both Merlin and I enjoyed in this glorious city three centuries earlier — the memories of which readily surface in the dreamtime.

Before one gets too old to be able to make the trek, I managed my way to the whispering gallery, sat down and caught my wind back whilst reflecting on my life.

This place so rich in history, is also the sacred shrine where entity mates have left their mark. Henry Moore is an old artisan in my entity.

Of course, no visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral would be complete without paying a visit to the soul of the nation at its crypt and paying homage to ennobled souls who’ve made an indelible mark on London… on history. There is great and fittingly so, grandeur in the tomb of Arthur, Duke of Wellington’s resting place.

Of course, the other tomb which dominates the crypt at St. Paul’s Cathedral is that of Admiral Nelson, whom both Merlin and I knew during that incarnation. Doubtless, it was his passion and tales for and about Nevis, which planted that seed that sparked three lifetimes later with my soul’s choice to reincarnate into Nevis; indeed, it has proven an isle no less magical than his captivating anecdotes then must have been. Days later, of course, I would see the bullet which felled this great man whilst visiting Windsor Castle; that is for another post. For now, I rushed home, took a dream-filled nap before heading to Covent Garden and being wowed by two not one Albrechts and the most exciting prima ballerina on the planet… at least, as far as I am concerned.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and look forward in coming months to book three of my dream-filled memoirs, mandated by Merlin and which prove human civilisation’s first dream memoirs.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Barkley L. Hendricks 1945_2017

19.04.201707.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Photo Bloke

Oil and Acrylic on Linen

72 x 48 inches

Love it!

___________________________________________

Sir Charles aka Willie Harris

Oil and Acrylic on Linen

84.1 x 72 inches

Sweet and blissful dreams dear Sir.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Grey Lines with Black, Blue and Yellow.

01.03.201707.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oil on Canvas

48 x 30in

c. 1923 Georgia O’Keeffe.

Guess who’s coming to town @agotoronto and I cannot wait to be richly inspired.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Storeys

28.01.201707.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Storey Series

Acrylic on Canvas

180 x 235cm

A truly moving humbling work of art. The pain and despair is etched into each deft stroke.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

In Memoriam: George F. Hawken

26.12.201607.12.2024 Arvin da Brgha2 Comments

George F. Hawken – February 5, 1999, Montréal, Québec

______________________________

This past Friday, December 23, 2016, I went to my doctor’s to get my test results for HIV. The doctor whom I had not seen in long ages was unusually engaging. When he finally cut to the chase, never had he announced that my test result was HIV negative with so much pleasure; I thought it odd at the time. Brushing past all that, I then inquired of him how George Hawken was doing; after all, George years earlier on my return to Toronto had insisted that I have the handsome Sino-Canadian for a GP as well.

Marta. Intaglio on Paper. 1974 George Hawken

As he paused, I told him that I could appreciate his patient-client confidentiality considerations; however, forging ahead, I told him that I had sent George an email more than a week earlier and had not heard back from him. Pressing on, I inquired if George was doing well of late as I had last been in touch a couple of months earlier. In that way that the good doctor had mastered, he haltingly stammered back that yes, George was doing well… We then left it at that as clearly he did not want to pursue the matter further – he had actually stood up to conclude our visit.

Pink Chair 1992 George Hawken (Arvin)

About a week earlier, I was feeling especially uneasy about not having had a reply from George to my last email; he would always answer within 36 hours at the latest. By then, it had been about a week; we hardly ever spoke by phone on my return from Montréal. Previously, when we spoke by phone our conversations back in the late 80s and through to mid 90s resulted in an invitation from George to immediately get together where our passionate physicality was intense beyond the norm.

Gordon and Janet in their Garden. Lithograph 2009 George Hawken

To still my worrisome mind, I began playing Joseph Haydn’s Paris symphonies; George favoured the Paris symphonies where I favoured the London Symphonies. George had actually introduced me to Haydn’s music; he insisted that I become better acquainted with the 18^th century composer’s works. When first I sat for George in 1986, at his Brock Avenue loft in the Queen Street West neighbourhood, he always played Haydn… I would always love the way, he would play imaginary keyboard whilst enjoying a cigarette break as I privately sat for him.

Franz Kafka – Kafka Suite. Intaglio 1982 George Hawken

One of the funniest memories of George is lying in bed with him after passionate play at the Brock Avenue loft and laughing hysterically whilst we listened to CBCFM and a Florence Foster-Jenkins performance. Afterwards, we indulged another round of Rottweiler style passion that was part Greco-Roman brawn. On my return to Toronto, George and I never resumed our physical relationship; though, I had at least hoped that I could serve as muse to him again. Alas, it was not to be.

Book Cover Illustration. 1980 George Hawken

One morning after work, with Haydn symphonies swirling about my mind as my apartment was sodden heavy with the Paris symphonies, I suddenly made a right whilst coming up Yonge Street and headed along Adelaide Street East. Then, I went one better and hung a left up Sherbourne Street for the morning ride home; never had I done this. Riding up Sherbourne, the familiar strains of Haydn’s Symphony No. 85 B flat major ‘La Reine’ spirited me along as I leisurely rode up the moderately icy, dedicated bike lane.

Fly. Etching. 1976 George Hawken

Just above Shuter Street, George suddenly fell into my mind and I crouched forward towards the handlebar to best face into the cold winds barrelling down the avenue. Whilst coasting up the bike lane opposite Allan Gardens Park, my mind as I whistled Haydn’s symphony began recalling moments of passion with George long years earlier. I thought of those glorious nights of noisy, sweaty passionate play at his McCaul Street loft; I crouched forward even more as my face warmed into a smile at pleasurable memories.

Beethoven Asleep. Etching. 1975 George Hawken

If only, I still had George’s numbers, I would call him on getting home; it was so unlike him not to have responded to the email that I had sent him on December 13, 2016. Peddling harder up the tough stretch of bike lane between Carlton and Wellesley Street East, I suddenly began slowing down as a large black hearse slowly negotiated its way from the Rosar-Morrison Funeral Home & Chapel property at 467 Sherbourne Street; it waited in the middle of the bike lane for northerly flowing traffic to ease up.

Pink Chair I/III AP. Lithograph. 1990 George Hawken (Arvin)

I rolled up and paused looking squarely into the hearse where a cardboard coffin was bound and en route to the St. James Cemetery and Crematorium over on Parliament Street. This was the same route that my father’s cadaver had taken after his funeral in August 2008 which George had attended. I was so appreciative of the fact that he had asked if he could attend my father’s funeral. After the lovely service, I had approached George and we hugged and he seemed really pleased to have made the outing.

Woman. Lithograph. 1980 George Hawken

Moments afterwards another of my lovers, Owen Hawksmoor came by to start lecturing me about the importance of having many friends; after all, said he, look at all the people who had turned out to my father’s funeral. Then said, Owen, as can ever be expected of him, “you should at least have six people who would be prepared to pall bear for you.” Brushing him and his big sex cockiness aside, I rebutted, “trust you to always make for a bitter after taste. What’s it to me, I’d be dead; it really wouldn’t matter anymore than it does now.”

Yonge Street Mask. AP Etching. 1971 George Hawken

I broke and hopped off the bike and intently looked inside at the brown cardboard coffin; it seemed an eternity waiting for the hearse to finally make it off the bike lane and into traffic. In those moments, I again thought of George and that was when it suddenly dawned on me that I was never going to hear from George again. Further, I had the distinct impression that what had prompted me to route-change for the first time, to be humming and whistling one of Haydn’s Paris symphonies: symphony No. 84 in B float major is because George’s corpse lay in the hearse before me en route to St. James Cemetery and Crematorium.

Myself (Self-portrait) AP Etching. 2008 George Hawken

Without doubt, this was why I was in this place in this moment before an austere black hearse straddling the northbound bike lane on Sherbourne which I had never used before en route home from work. With that, as the hearse slowly pulled out onto Sherbourne and then made a right turn onto Wellesley Street East, the traffic in the icy snowy street was sufficiently slow that I rode alongside the hearse along the side of the cardboard coffin and accompanied all the way to the black wrought iron gates of the cemetery on Parliament Street.

Baudelaire II. Etchin. 1975 George Hawken

After I got in, had a shower and had my lovely home infused with Hoju incense, Haydn’s symphony No. 104 in D major ‘London’ played on repeat as I grounded anew. Though it was not especially windy out, there was a loud noise on my balcony and wrapping up in my lovely woollen pea coat, I took to the balcony to investigate. The first sight that greeted me was a heavy plume of sooty black smoke from the crematorium’s chimneys as they were being swept southerly in the cold wintry morning air. I lost a tear and on returning indoors, though my Google search on coming home produced nothing for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ I still felt firmly that there was no coincidence to the sequence of events and synchronicity of the past several days which culminated in the black hearse across the bike lane.

Colin Campbell. Etching. George Hawken

As it is always tough to close shut, I gave the door to the balcony a bit of encouragement by heaving my right shoulder into it. On turning away from the door, I noticed one of George’s gifts to me “Woman” was titled off its hook on the cement wall where moments before taking to the balcony it had sat perfectly aligned. Yet another sign indeed. Finally, today at work, as I kept checking the folder which bore all George’s email correspondences, then did a Google search for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ alas there was confirmation. George had died the day before I had sent him my final email; it was one in which I offered to buy a copy of an illustration which he had done for an anthology of emerging Canadian authors.

George Hawken, 1970s.

Again, today after work, I rode up the Sherbourne Street bike lane and it all fell into place. Almost always when I went to our shared doctor, there would George be. Finally, when I saw him after a long spell of not having been in touch, he sat birdlike in the doctor’s office and he was just as stunned to have seen me walk in as I was to have seem him looking so gravely ill. George had said that it was cancer; we there and then made arrangements to get together and did. I was so pleased that he had finally met my lovely sister, Pandora and it was lovely going to George’s Camden Street penthouse suite for dinner with my lovely sister when she was in town from Ottawa.

Self Portrait 5. Etching. 1984 George Hawken
Today, whilst riding up the bike lane on Sherbourne Street, the doctor’s excitable congratulations to my testing HIV negative made so much sense. Too, his response to my query how George was doing of late and his response that he was doing well, indeed, made perfect sense. By Friday, December 23, 2016, George was doing well and in a better place no longer suffering from the wear and tear of his end-of-life monadal illness. Ours was a very private relationship and there were only two persons in George’s life with whom I enjoyed cordial relations: his son and his lover, Colin Campbell. I rather suspect that Colin is George’s task companion.

Grete. Etching. George Hawken

I will ever be proud of having been an inspiring muse to George and for having facilitated the energetic work that he did in the late ‘80s to mid ‘90s. Our passion fuelled his creativity; what’s more, our passion kept me focussed and grounded in this life as Merlin and his ravaging illness and the hideous ghouls who betrayed him in his illness made life at times more harrowing than already the illness made it. George and his compassion and support were invaluable for me and Merlin was aware of it and openly and unselfishly encouraged it; he knew that I needed that support as with his passing the vipers in his circle would readily dispense with me. Alas, all things being mutual, dispense with the ill-evolved lot I gladly did.

Hearts and Flowers. Intaglio. 1976 George Hawken

Sweet and blissful dreams my darling ennobled George; I am honoured to have fostered and enabled your creativity to have lotussed into greater flower. Yours was a most rare and beautiful spirit and yet again our love shall dance and soar to higher octaves. My heart centre is wide open to facilitate your journey in whatever capacity of our choosing in the dreamtime. Ever, will I love you more.

Hawken, George 9/2/46<O>12/12/2016, Owen Sound

This was a first level old artisan in the observation mode, with a goal of dominance, a spiritualist in the emotional part of intellectual centre.

George had a Mercury/Venus body type.

George had a primary chief feature of arrogance and a secondary of stubbornness.

He was sixth-cast in his cadence and his cadence is second in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity two, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

He has a discarnate artisan essence twin and a scholar task companion who is alive and they do know each other but have not worked together in this life.

This fragment is an artisan with priest casting, so his art will always manifest a spiritual component no matter what the medium. This fragment was a well-known painter of placid rural landscapes in the latter part of the eighteenth century in England, and several of his works hang in noble houses.

You were once a student of this fragment’s, in a life in Amsterdam in the seventeenth century and you were lovers for a short time in that life also.

Twice this fragment has illustrated books written by his task companion and he was also an illuminator of manuscripts in the twelfth century of the Common Era.

He was an architect during the reign of Augustus Caesar and several buildings he designed still stand, although one was rather badly damaged by the volcanic eruption that buried the city of Pompeii in the first century of the Common Era.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

In Celebration of Merlin!

19.11.201607.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Earlier this week, in celebration of the anniversary today of Merlin’s passing, I attended two performances of the Berliner Philharmoniker at Toronto’s Roy Thomson Hall. On Tuesday evening, the mixed programme concluded with Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 7, E Minor – a truly glorious experience. Moreover, it was good to have experienced Sir Simon Rattle at the helm of an orchestral performance.

__________

The following night, this past Wednesday, November 16, 2016, I returned to Roy Thomson Hall for night two of the Berliner Philharmoniker’s tour of performances. Always a favourite, the mixed programme concluded with Johannes Brahms’ Symphony No. 2. D Major, Op 73. In no way was Brahms’ symphony comparable to Mahler’s symphony of the night before, nonetheless, it was a rousing way to have finished off the week of celebration which began at the weekend prior with a quick trip to Montréal.

I went there for two reasons, firstly to fortify my body, spirit and mind at the glorious Spa Ovarium: www.ovariumspa.com – as ever the experience was transcendent. Previously, I had spent the morning into afternoon at the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal on rue Sherbrooke to take in the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition. The show was spectacular.

Back in early 1983 whilst Merlin was in Toronto working with Jim Henson on Fraggle Rock, I was staying at the Trocadero Loft which Merlin had sublet whilst the dynamic duo who headed Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo were on tour. Most evenings, Attila Isaksen would drop by and we would hang out, have great sex, watch TV or crawl about Chelsea and get up to no end of trouble. Merlin had sublet the loft which sat across the street from the block long grand building at 684 Sixth Avenue between 20^th and 21^st Streets West. The floor above was owned by a Gay professional couple who were heavily into S&M. One evening after we had been out crawling the clubs – Attila who had transitioned from a life as a dancer was now painting and showing in galleries in Soho and elsewhere – we came home with someone that he had picked up.

That someone turned out to have been Robert Mapplethorpe who proved a very intense bottom and a very memorable fuck. He was intense and as equally ravenous a bottom as was Attila. Attila was acquainted with him through the art world and picked him up at the bar we were hanging out in a couple of blocks south of my place at the Trockadero loft late one Thursday evening. We came back to the loft and they smoked ganja, a cigar, did a ton of poppers which I never found remotely appealing, then cigarettes after our wild fuck. I do though recall Robert’s arse being a rather loose affair. I might also add as both he and Attila took turns bottoming for me that he was an especially good kisser.

I quite enjoyed the show and Montréal was a great blast. Wonderful it was to have been there and seen so many Blacks as here in Toronto Blacks seem to have been eradicated, marginalised, replaced by the White tribe’s buffer races – those who did so nicely for themselves and saw nothing remotely wrong with Apartheid whilst it profited them – who in this town are now the darlings of obsessive Canadians with Black culture as their latest agendum is pushing that most absurd notion, Indo-Jazz. You know if you are never going to respect Blacks, you certainly can’t be hogging the culture as you so hideously do.

This brings me to the matter of the recent American elections; I am so glad that Donald Trump was elected because he will be the shot of adrenalin that Black Americans have so sorely needed. I would not be the least bit surprised if President Trump does not turn around and have President Obama arrested and imprisoned for being an alien, not an American but of foreign birth and a Muslim to boot.

Regardless what happens, the election of President Barack H. Obama has deftly illustrated that we Blacks are not paranoid, not sensitive; racism is real and the White tribal obsession with hating Blacks is at feverish mass extinction levels. Truly phenomenal it has been to watch these past 8 years evolve. Amazingly, it is uncanny how some Whites can fabricate lies and for hatefully perpetuating lies as they did with President Obama, these lies soon become accepted as gospel truth.

Alas, people always get what they deserve and Trump with his wall, I rather suspect, will prove more of a monster than far too many Whites and non-Blacks perceived President Obama to have been. Racially predatory grudge of Blacks is truly the biggest cancer on human civilisation as it is not exclusively the obsession of Whites. The entire election boiled down to the perpetuation of the five deadly isms being allow to riotously flower: lookism, ageism, classism, racism and sexism.

Speaking of racially predatory behaviour, one of the dreams herein involved Damita Soud with whom I worked in the early 90s. She was the most vile and hideous displacement of the human spirit; frankly, I knew her then because coming off my relationship with Merlin many were the persons like Damita whom I had encountered in the showbiz crowd.

I do believe that Damita served to have reminded me and to have prompted me to have put persons like this well behind me where they damn well belong. Also, as it is the anniversary of Merlin’s passing, there was a beautiful dream with a delightful Eurasian boy in London, England whom I assumed was my task companion Merlin reincarnated. Of course, since this dream which was dreamt in early-August, 1991, Merlin has reincarnated in December, 2006 and is female in Holland.

Also since that dream, my essence twin, whom I never met during this lifetime, was reborn in the mid-to-late 1990s into Germany is of Japanese/German ethnicity and will likely be a writer in this lifetime. The Eurasian in the dream was likely an astral plane encounter with my essence twin as my reincarnated essence twin is not only Eurasian but is also male in this lifetime.

Thanks so much for your continued patronage and ever, I implore you, always remember to push off and start flying because you’ve earned it. Sweet dreams as ever.

________________________________

Whilst focussed in this the first dream, I got aboard a bus and intuitively knew that I was in London, England. I headed somewhere of which I am not certain. Racily, I had jumped onto the bus whilst it was travelling and it was quite fun. The double-decker London bus was painted violet. I went to one of the circuses. Getting there, I got off and began walking behind a teenaged punk rocker. She had her hairdo done with it sticking out in clumps that were pointy. She was blonde but it had spots on it like a leopard’s and it was definitely not a wig.

Her hair stuck out like a porcupine’s quills and was very long like about eight inches each. The spikes of hair conically came in to a fine point. She wore a black mini, black stockings and black Bull Dog boots. She had fat, flat non-extant calves. She wore a cream-coloured merino which had no sleeves. She was quite long-limbed; both her legs and arms were beautifully proportioned. I admiringly walked after her as she had a very strong forceful stride. People were conservatively looking at her; they were being judgmental of her.

I quite enjoyed her energies as I walked after her. She was a true Demolition Man. The bus that I was on was getting ready to take off again. There was one girl who had come out of a building with some long pieces of wood and steel rods. The building from whence she came clearly was being repaired. I thought to hustle back to get aboard the bus; as I did so, other people were doing the same thing but through the rear doors. We were soon enough travelling again. As we went past, I noticed an Oriental man outside the bus who was asking me how to get somewhere.

He was tall, very handsome and very erudite. He had two children one on either side of him. The boy on his left was Oriental but he was mixed; he was Eurasian with freckles and had natural brown hues to his hair. I assumed that his White parent was the mother from the fairness of his complexion. Goodness, was this boy incredibly handsome? I never did see his eyes because I was on the bus as it was passing them on the street. Afterwards, when I had gotten off the bus, I had seen them again. However, once again, he had never made eye contact with me.

His lids were deliberately inclined downwards because he knew that I knew who he was and wanted to verify it by seeing his eyes. I can bet you anything that these would have been Merlin’s, if he had once looked up at mine. Regardless, his little shy act, I knew those energies; they were more familiar than any energies that I had ever reincarnationally encountered. The other boy to the man’s right was purely Oriental and older than the reincarnated Merlin. Goodness, it was so very wonderful to have encountered their energies. As they walked on a female Londoner had given them directions and had long black hair. She was a very, very handsome woman with a very spiritually noble quality to her; this woman could even have been the Eurasian son’s mother. She had directed them to this museum to which they were trying to get.

_________________________________

Antinous Brilman and I were alone, in what proved the third dream, intimate and talking. We were talking about all these trees that were around us. For some strange reason, there were all these London Plane trees which were diseased. They were all dying out as a genus. I was stunned really and could not think of any disease that they could possibly have. “They were quite healthy and alive in both Paris and London, when I visited,” that had been a comment that I made. I could not quite conceive of them going extinct; this, though, certainly seemed to have been the case here in this dream. At the time, it was quite sunny out and the trees that were healthy were quite nice; those trees zinged with great vitality.

They beautifully reflected the light off their leaves. Being in their presence was rather nice and uplifting.

___________________________________

Here, in the sixth dream, there was a Black woman singing and boy she had a voice on her. She had a beautiful, beautiful voice; hers was a very soulful voice. She was an up and coming singer, like Oleta Adams^†, but it was not Oleta. She came and stood by a microphone that was from the 1930s; the mic was very Deco. In particular, the mic is that one that is called a zephyr or a zeppelin – zephyr is correct. She sang away with her beautiful African head tied up in a turban. When she sang, she was in a medium that was bluish and slow-moving; in point of fact, the medium was not unlike water. When she swayed her arms about her, the aqueous medium visibly also swirled about her.

This woman opened her mouth and hit some high notes that were electrifyingly astral. I shouted, “You go girl. Go ‘head! Sing it!” I truly was ecstatic. What she could do with this otherworldly music quite simply was incredible. In that sense, it was not unlike a music video; except, it was as if holographic to the extent that one was inside the experience. In the true sense, it was a virtual reality that I was experienced.

How she appeared was interesting because it was as though simultaneously otherworldly. I had been singing and there had been these Whites about; naturally, they began throwing shade, “Yeah, yeah, great voice but not the look.” “Oh shut up and sit down,” these were the sorts of crass remarks that they were making.

*It is always amazing to me how, for being so racially obsessed with Blacks, Whites will feel themselves possessed of some absurd right – which certainly does not exist – to go opening their fucking hideous-spirited mouths and spewing their venomous hatefulness in Blacks’ direction. END.

I was totally impervious of their bullshit because it was nothing more than small-minded jealousy. I saw these people who were coming and going. As well, there were these young Whites who were as if models or model wannabes. There was a very young-souled approach to their energies. In any event, there was a party going on across the street and goodness, it was jumping. There were a ton of people queued to get in. I was there singing whilst playing a piano when my voice started carrying to the party across the street. I was technically soaring very high.

Then everyone began clapping in unison. Antinous was with me and getting ready to go across the street to check out the party. Though, he had no invitation that did not deter him. We were going to go crash it but it seemed very much so to be a wedding party. The party was quite nice and the energies were riotously on. Here, the atmosphere was great; it was wonderful. This was the point that the young Black singer had appeared. She was short and stouter than Oleta Adams.

She was very dark-skinned with very rich teeth. She had very large teeth that were compacted just like Oleta Adams’. Perhaps, it was Ms. Adams. I do not, though, suspect that it was her. When she sang, she could hold a note whilst adding cadence and timbre to it that was not humanly possible; at least this was only possible on this side of the waking state. She quite moved me because as she sang, the water appeared and as if created and exuded by her. Pretty much, it was as though one were seeing her aura as it gushed outwards. One was being tuned into her vibration; except, this was an aura that was clearly aqueous and simultaneously filled with light.

Her unusual aura was heavy gelatinous water. As she made the notes go higher, the water kept on changing. Initially, the aqueous aura started out being light blue but it then shifted to a Kelly green. Also, as the notes got higher, it became a yellowish-orange whilst transforming into red. Below her at her feet, the water was still swirling with rich bubbles of varying sizes that rose up and above her head. She slowly turned around on herself; this was so that she could have affected even greater acoustic depth. My goodness, it is hard to relate here how incredibly elevated this music was. I was greatly inspired by it.

________________________________

I was upstairs in the kitchen, in what proved the eight dream, of an apartment with Damita Soud. We were preparing a meal and washing some dishes. In any event, she was talking and I just did not like her energies and did not want to be with her at all. I then heard Whoopi cry out and I went running to look out the second floor window. She was on her back and being gnawed in her neck area by another cat that reminded of Damita’s cat Spooky; Spooky, of course, is a little black cat which for being Damita’s would have a name like that. This so mirrored the kind of unhealthy relationship that knowing this woman has developed into. This dream interlude so reflected the constant non-too-veiled negativity from Damita towards me; it is an approach that I do not in any way appreciate. I shrieked out the window at them whilst calling out to Whoopi truly horrified, “Whoopi use your hind legs and beat her up… beat her off you.

“Fight back, fight back!” I could not get down because, somehow, I had this tether which was an orange-coloured coil. The coil was wrapped around my waist. More to the point, this coil was coming away from my umbilical area. Furthermore, it was so hard to break the bonds to and from this thing. Such an incredible graphic metaphor this dream’s every symbol. I was most upset really. I decided that this just could not go on for very much longer.

Somehow, Whoopi had gotten up and ran away towards an opening in the backyard’s fence; nonetheless, the cat was still on her. I kept on yelling at Whoopi to fight back. If only there was something that I could pick up at hand and throw out the window to strike Spooky. Needless to say, throughout all this Damita remained perfectly mute. Clearly, the animals, our animas, were engaged thanks to Damita’s decidedly negative focussed will.

*Damita is the perfect White female racial predator. She is a so hideously perpetually racist; she is perpetually uttering some sotto voce racist remark. These White racial predators forever live their every day consumed with racially predatory thoughts on which they do not fail to act, truth be told, towards and on Blacks. END.

I got this heavy thing but did not want to use it. Obviously, it was quite likely to end up striking Whoopi in the process. As it was, she was in enough shock. Then and there, I decided that the time had long passed for me to put an end to knowing Damita. Moreover, it personally was too callous a reminder of knowing Elektra Munk-Ejoohoè’s dysfunctional pernicious energies. This was just not a healthy relationship and I did not want to know this person at all. Indeed, it was high time that I put an end to knowing her.

_______________________________________

I was in this place, whilst focussed in the ninth dream, where there was an airplane on an airfield. I reminded me of the Recreations Grounds in Sandy Point, St. Kitts for being focussed in this dream. The plane was parked in front of the pavilion. These planes could come in and land on a field as small as the Recreation Grounds without having to do much taxiing. Much like a Harrier jet, they had the ability to vertically land and take off. However, this was a passenger jetliner. Its colour schemata were like that presently of Canadian Airlines international: silver and blue. However, it could just as easily have been a British airways jetliner.

The bodies of the jets were sleek and black and this airplane was one of the new Boeing 737-300 series. Then again, it may not have been because I was looking at the single engine on the tail like a DC-10 or a Boeing 727. Much like a Concorde, the jet was also unusually elevated off the ground. Unusually, it had large windows like a Greyhound coach bus does; its windows were not the standard singular oval-shaped ones. So, on looking inside each window, you would see three, sometimes four window seats at a time. This jet had only two such windows and then you got to the tail of the craft. There was a door by the tail and one just back of the cockpit. So, it was a very small plane which had six to eight rows of seats.

There was a small window that did cover two seats in between the two larger windows. A much wider-bodied plane than a Boeing 757, it also was elevated off the ground much like the Boeing 757. I could not, though, quite figure out what was going down. I wondered what exactly could this all mean? Soon enough, I saw airplanes passing in the sky whilst coming into land. They descended very slowly, away from the terminal, then on landing slowly taxied up to their designated gate. There were persons on the plane waiting who had not gotten off because this stop was not their destination. Some had, of course, gotten off.

I then noticed that there was a large road; this road was close to where the sea is in Sandy Point, St. Kitts. There were all these beautiful Mercedes-Benzes which were coming into the airport. One of them was very large, heavy-looking and black and in it rode a woman. There was so much window space to the car that it seemed more like a rather stately Bentley. She was East Indian and wore shades and much reminded me of Benazir Bhutto^†. She was very proud, sitting very straight-backed and had a strong, prominent nose. Her head was covered in a fine scarf which, of course, was part of her saree. A white saree it had horizontal blue stripes.

She was immensely regal-looking. As she got from the car, I kept looking at her from the area in which I waited; I was being very observant of her actions. There were tons of East Indians about. This locale was close to a shoreline. The persons here were as if the untouchables – the lower caste people. They were just lying there and many were coupled off. There was a lone man lying there who was wrapped in his sleeping gear which presently covered his head. He was close to the plane on the tarmac.

Up approached the woman to the man and bent down to him. She was very animated greeting him, “Oh I’m so happy to see you.” They were kissing and she was very genuinely affectionate towards him. He was a wise old creature. I could not, though, figure out why she was with such a lower caste person; it just did not make sense. She was, definitely, the cardinal member of their relationship. He was very soft-spoken. The couple next to them began making love because this was their life; they had no home and privacy was not a luxury they even fantasised about.

They were kissing very deeply then he took out his cock and pushed it inside her wet and hungry pussy. Quite rapidly they made love; it was a very hungry, rushed affair. They were on their sides and quite tightly embraced. Then when it was his turn to enter this woman, who was a great deal like Benazir Bhutto and still wore her shades throughout their tryst, he kept on masturbating before entering her. She was quite hungry for his cock which was very unusually long and soft-looking though hard. Interestingly enough, his cock had tapered to a pencil-like head. There were about six or eight couples and all these men had the same classical Dravidian long slender schlong. All of them on awakening got right down to the business of making love.

He entered her but was not going in all the way. She was getting impatient with him because of his delaying tactics. This then triggered what was an obvious recurrent argument between them. Seems that he had studied to be a doctor but was not practicing. He did not want to; he wanted only to live next to nature. He was quite disenfranchised with civilisation. He said that he had no desire to get caught up in Maya… with materialism. She fervently argued nonetheless, saying, “But you have to be strong.

“If you are going to be my partner and be in my life, you’ll just have to do better than this.” They were having this sort of argument. Basically, he could not participate in the game because he was frankly too old a soul; he just did not find the rat race remotely interesting. Materialism had no appeal for him. Though it was clear that the ardent sensualist and lover did so love her, and passionately too, he had no desire to play at the game. So, at that, I decided to move along and leave them there on the shore. Here in this place, it was very futuristic. Even though it seemed in parts the Indian Subcontinent and there was still the abject poverty of the caste system, it was as if set in the late 22^nd to early 23^rd centuries.

_________________________________________

In early-August, 1991, I awoke from these dreams at my Queen Street East, Beaches apartment and was rather inspired. After having audiocassette-recorded the dreams with a loudly purring Whoopi next to me in bed, I got about the task of letting her outside to play. I then got about the business of flowering my life with music to begin in earnest the waking state part of my life. Thus it was that I began playing Oleta Adams’ 1990 studio album, Circle of One. Naturally, the choice song that day was her hit single, Get Here, which was an especial favourite of Penina da Braga’s. Standing in the middle of my living room, I kept my lids shut and swirled my arms about reminiscent of Ms. Adams’ shamanic turn as she weaved her beautiful magic in the dreams just had.

___________________________________________

Photo Credit: Merlin 1970s in Montréal

Programmes Nov 15 & 16 2016 Berliner Philharmoniker at Roy Thomson Hall

Spa Ovarium at Beaubien & St. Denis in Montréal

Musée des Beaux-Arts de Montréal

Paloma Picasso Gelatin Silver Print 1980 Robert Mapplethorpe

Ken Moody & Robert Sherman 1984 Robert Mapplethorpe

Louise Nevelson Gelatin Silver Print 1990 Robert Mapplethorpe

Gong 96 Acrylic on Canvas 1966 Claude Tousignant

Piccadilly Circus, London, England

London Plane Trees in Paris, France

Oleta Adams – singer

Black cat domesticated short hair

Headscarf and sareed Indian beauty.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Prosecuting the Past whilst at the Deathscape.

14.08.201607.12.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Since having shared these dreams two years ago, I have been corrected by an authentic Michael Channeller as to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’ true role in essence; she is a young soul sage rather than young soul king – her first husband, John F. Kennedy was a young soul king and he was reborn to an aristocratic family in France and I do believe reborn male. Contrary to the word on the faux-Michael ether, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis – whom I encountered one glorious summer afternoon in 1983 after ballet class at Harkness House with David Peregrine and his lovely sweetheart and former classmate, Jackie Sloane – who both perished in the Canadian Rockies when he piloted some years later in 1989, Ms. Kennedy Onassis vibrationally seemed every bit the king soul. Alas, that may well have been her well-fortified social persona and false personality then experienced. Of course, it was at Harkness House where Rebekah Harkness’ cremains perpetually rotated in a golden urn designed by master surrealist himself, Salvador Dali.

Since these dreams were shared, I have elected to have channelled the overleaves of the following persons: Salvador Dali and Maria Callas. Too, I am adding here, Frederick Hinneault’s overleaves, though, they have been previously shared in this blog. Frederick was a the most glorious Cree feather dancer who introduced me to the world of powwows in June 1994. I met Frederick after having had the most lucidly awakened flying dream to a past-life whereat I witnessed a young shaman coming of age during initiation ceremonies. Well, you can just bet that after so high a spiritual dream experience, I chose to do no such thing as time-waste in the presence of dense-energied, somnambulant and decidedly spiritually unsophisticated coworkers. So off I went to Club Vancouver bathhouse on West Pender Street where there I met the genuine article, Frederick. After having made a sweat lodge of his tiny room, we spent the rest of the summer holding hands and travelling about B.C. Alberta and Washington. Firstly, though, he took me to a lookout point high above the Cypress Bowl lookout where in a bath of cloud-untrammelled sunlight, we laid naked side by side in the long grass, holding hands and he got out his whistle that called a majestic eagle; this was one of the most magical experiences of this incarnation.

Frederick, at the time, was full blown with AIDS. What was most revolutionary was being in the company of two-spirits. This was the first time being in the company of Gays who were not possessed of racially predatory animus. That first weekend, just past 1994’s summer solstice was my true arrival and connection with Canada and what she represents. I finally felt no longer as an outsider. I will always have the greatest respect for all First Nations peoples from Baffin Island to Patagonia.

These were truly operatic dreams, drink anew of my chalice and may you, satiated and inspired, slip into lucidly awakened dreamquests of your own. You’ve a wealth of knowledge and beauty which passively lie awaiting your inner focus deep within the aqueous folds of self.

Sweet dreams you… ever, we will be kindred spirits – you and me – sharing this magical quest of self-discovery, self-actualisation and self-empowerment. I am honoured by your continued support and for that, I love you more! (August 2016)

______________________________________________

These next dreams occurred two days apart and dealt with the same individual. I have recently written of her and shared a dream of her, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. At the time of these dreams, which are currently being chronologically transcribed, Mrs. Kennedy Onassis was a recent astral plane habituée.

As such, these dreams – and the last in particular – vicariously gave insights to her deathscape on becoming an arrivée astral plane habituée. I dream it, I share it and pass no judgment on either self or the subject(s) of any dream ever had.

As with all astral plane-focussed dreams, these were rather intense experiences. Especially so was the fourth and final dream of the second day of dreams shared herein.

The first dream was the only dream that day and it sets the mood for the nature of the second dream to come of Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis. That dream occurred two days later and was more thorough and insightful. At the time of the first dream, it was Saturday, July 9, 1994 and the Moon then transited both Cancer and my second house.

Two days later, Monday, July 11, 1994, there were four dreams and as on the July 9, 1994, the fourth and final dream that day focussed on the deathscape for the arrivée astral plane habituée, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. As is her wont, Luna had beguilingly slipped from Cancer to Leo and correspondingly from my second to third houses.

The final was an intensely volatile dream that was all about emotionality and karmic dross. Having passed near two months earlier, though I was not much-focussed on her life in the waking state, it is not surprising that one would vicariously tune in to the deathscape goings-on of one the century’s most iconic figures, Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis.

Sweet dreams as ever. Rather than the standard one photograph per dream entry to this blog, the break between both days’ dreams will be a second photograph.

______________________

I was, in this the first dream, in a park like New York City’s Central Park with Pandora da Braga on my right. From across the vast plain came a large steed from a low, heavy mist atop a knoll.

Here the light was rather diffused and potent. The horse was a possessed powerful creature. Rapt in focussed canter, it barrelled across the green grass towards us.

Atop it rode a large-boned woman who was a fierce warrior-spirited individual. She turned out, no less, to have been Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

She rode in traditional riding gear: black cap, white riding breeches and black riding boots, all of which was topped off by a red riding jacket. Her gloves were short and made of thick black leather.

This woman was arrestingly powerful.

Pandora and I were stunned into silence. All the shrubs wore various-sized beautiful white blooms that simply zinged with life.

All was ordered and serene here and it clearly was a reflection of this woman’s afterlife passage – the deathscape. The Earth simply quaked beneath the power and grandeur of both she and the steed.

I mentioned to Pandora, after she had ridden past, that I had seen her, back in the early 1980s, on two occasions in the Manhattan. She was, to be sure, a very robust, dominance-goaled kind of person.

Hers was a very powerful warrior-energied complex.

________________________

Whilst speaking with a man, in this the first dream, I assured him that I could never bed Aaron Wookay because of his pheromones – body odour.

I do believe that it was, in fact, Aaron Wookay with whom I had been speaking at the time and made the slip of saying what I had. There was certainly a glaringly pregnant pause at the end of it all.

As we spoke, in the middle of the late-afternoon street, a very tall warrior-spirited Karl Weller walked past with a guy on his left. He was dressed all in black clothes and as I sped up after him, I said aloud to my companion,

“Now there is a man that I could bed…”

I intimated that I had already had an encounter with him in the waking state. This was in fact true. I then got him into a black limousine and together we headed for my place.

En route there, at night time, we stopped outside a Dairy Queen. The store was tiny and right at the corner of one of the city’s intersections. Getting out, on the left side of the car, I went inside where I ordered large slices of a white cheesecake with soft ice cream.

When I returned to the limousine, he was immediately in bed lying on his back on some blankets. He took a bite of the food and, at that point, I began groaning.

His entire body then lapsed into an adrenalin quake as he had his first all-out experience. He was full of nerves and caution. Wanting to leave, Karl Weller then hurriedly got up; I was quite disappointed.

_______________________

In this the second dream, Isha da Braga insisted that I deposit some cash – 10$ or 12$ – into her account because I had owed her as much. I was really pissed off because I knew that I had already paid her whatever monies that I had owed her.

En route to the bank, I stopped off at her condo to which I had a pair of keys. Slowly, I stirred the pot of stew that she had started before heading to work. The stew simmered on a low fire.

Soon, I encountered Pandora da Braga who also needed cash. I then became an issue of how to move around cash, via cheques, from one or more of my little-funded accounts to get to float until the next payday.

With that, I headed off to the bank to begin my unscrupulous activity.

*This is something that I have never attempted and would never think to attempt in the waking state. Why? END.

_______________________

Soon, in this the third dream, I got sidetracked. I went off and had a hot encounter with a guy whom I now think was Frederick Hinneault. We were, in an old building, writhing away on a table.

Splayed and utterly contorted, we were going at each other like there was no tomorrow. Too, it was also hard to tell just who was fucking whom.

A tall Black security guard, whilst on duty, happened on us. Pretty soon, he interrupted us and joined in when he oughtn’t to have done so. He took off his thick, brown leather belt and began beating me with it.

I was truly incensed and let him know that I could damn well file suit against him for having struck me. After all, it was not a part of his duties to have done so.

He was surprised at my response. Seemingly, he was a novice in his crisp, brand new khaki uniform and hat. He was rather handsome a fellow. Nonetheless, I was still upset with him.

_______________________

I would, whilst focussed in this the fourth dream, have an encounter with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. At the time, I was going along a corridor in a palatial residence. Seemingly, this was an eighteenth century château.

Whilst she was dressed in clothing that was late 1950s-60s, A-line conservative and nothing flashy, I walked after Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis. There were several other persons about. Impatient, she was not at all in a very good mood.

Rushing back, I went to the off-white blue hallways to the other wing. We were two to three storeys aboveground. There, I saw a dark-haired, strong-featured woman and intuitively knew her to be Maria Callas.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Maria Callas were in the midst of a nasty feud. Conversely, it turned out that to get her attention I would have to quickly act.

Pulling out a shotgun, I shot into the ceiling in order to wrestle her attention. The gunfire stunned Maria Callas; at that point, I then bolted and went back to be with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Coming to her aid, I held Mrs. Kennedy-Onassis by the forearms as she was slumped in a chair. She had been truly traumatised by the gunshot going off so close to her.

In light of what she had endured on November 22, 1963, in Dallas, Texas, her reaction was not surprising. This soon served as a glimpse into who had really killed whom.

From what I learnt here, it turned out that not only did Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis get rid of Christina Onassis and Marilyn Monroe, she also used occult means to get rid of Maria Callas by way of literally bewitching Aristotle Onassis.

I was being told this by a voice which I heard speaking to me. Interestingly enough, the voice sounded like a gruffer version of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s famous breathy register.

This insight was all being telepathically shared with me. However, this house was definitely on the astral plane in which Maria Callas was confronting Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. As it were, both astral plane habitués were prosecuting their relations in their respective immediate past lives.

There was no getting around the fact that Maria Callas had the upper hand here. There was a sense that, try as she might, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis simply could not get out of this confrontational drama; it was, as it were, fated based on who owed whom karma.

Maria Callas was truly operatic. Not the kind of person that one would want to have as a foe was she. For having predeceased Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis as well as Aristotle Onassis, there seemingly was much that she knew of what really happened whilst she was alive.

This woman, Maria Callas, was truly operatic. Her rage was such that she seemed to create an emotional tornado. Even when she spoke, her voice operatically boomed.

This was drama that was supra-Wagnerian. The palatial, soothing blue-interiored dwelling’s walls violently quaked as Maria Callas fumed and berated Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis from her wing of the château.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis looked extremely spent, haggard and aged; she had been completely vanquished by Maria Callas’ rage. If these karmic debts had really been incurred by Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, it then stands to reason that on reflecting on her just-concluded life, there would be some degree of remorse and inner pain as part of her deathscape on becoming an arrivée astral plane habituée.

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was deeply troubled here. Though she was every bit the lady in her own right, for having been wronged, there was a great impactful power that Maria Callas exhibited for having been wronged.

The whole affair had karmically left her completely in a funk. All of these done-in women were strong-willed individuals who had, in some way, posed a threat to her sense of self.

Not only did she not suffer fools gladly but from the evidence here, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis did not suffer threats to her power in any way. Once so threatened, her only response was shrewd and calculating.

They were simply removed from the environment – struck down. For Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, with a Scorpio rising, it was all too possible that this sort of tactic would have been deemed a viable and appropriate response to such a threat.

Here in the dreamtime, for being alone with her, I came to understand what would have motivated her to have taken such actions. This was the only way to stake her claim on history and not just near history but millennial history.

At all costs, a statuesque stalwart of power and regal dignity, she had to survive to the end. To have been respectively displaced or denied by Marilyn Monroe or Maria Callas would have eclipsed her and made her but a footnote in history.

This is how she saw it. Christina Onassis did nothing but try to have her displaced and dishonoured by way of a divorce; this, too, could not be suffered. She won. In all things, she won.

As that dream on July 9, 1994 attested, she was the born warrior-spirited leader who was never felled in battle. Victorious to the end was ever her approach.

Indeed, coming through the mist of time, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis will transcend Time for several millennial as one of the most pre-eminent leaders of the 20^th century and not merely just an iconic woman.

Into the future and legend she will forever ride a valiant steed, though a dark one, a figure of power, strength and dignity. Indeed, a bloody-talonned warrior this one.

Leaving her, I went running back through the halls saying that I had to get to the ministerial offices. I wanted to get there at once, in order that the records may historically be set straight.

_______________________

Photo credits: Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis fox hunting in Virginia.

Opera diva, Maria Callas.

______________________________________________________________________________