Charles & Diana: La Deuxième Partie (Like Father, Like Son).

28.09.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

A few weeks back as I pored through IG (Instagram) that day, I kept noticing that the latest viral storm involved the worlds of dance and the royals. As the story unfolded, I became increasingly ticked off. Here was everyone, mostly dancers across the globe, whom I religiously follow, feigning indignation at Lara Spencer’s bullying of HRH Prince George of Cambridge because he studies ballet at the age of six.

I soon sought out the clip in question and quietly awaited how the usual defenders of the royals would react. Firstly, I do not believe for a second that Ms Spencer’s intended to bully as its been alleged that she did. She was presenting a light entertaining piece about the royals, about whom the American audience at large know precious little. Indeed, had an American, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex not married HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex in May 2018, it is highly improbable that Good Morning America would have run the story about Prince George also taking ballet classes at his school in Battersea.

There was no malicious intent on Ms. Spencer’s part; however, she was being sexist and classist in trying to make the royals somewhat relatable to an American audience. It was an entertainment news item, in an American breakfast show when there is no time for getting too deep into any given subject and certainly not an entertainment story. Nonetheless, there was she being tarred and feathered with dancers partout, calling for her to be fired and demanding that she issue an apology toute de suite.

There is a damn good reason why dancers do not speak when onstage and that damn well ought to apply more often when offstage. Not once did the optics of their outrage at Ms. Spencer, occur to any of these solipsistic bunheads. Honest to god, here are they up in arms in defence of a royal whilst having remained perfectly mute as when onstage about the racially predatory abuse and bullying of another royal, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Of course, in having chosen to not hold their tongues as previously and consistently they have as the Duchess of Sussex has been abused, more speaks volumes about them than not.

For never once having said anything in protest of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s bullying and abuse at the hands of Piers Morgan, Lady Colin Campbell, Amanda Plattel, Janet Street-Porter shows the entrenched apathy the world over at racism towards blacks. All of the aforementioned have all fallen silent and written not a single article in defence of Prince George being bullied by that uncivilised American, Lara Spencer. Naturally, so huge was the backlash that Lara Spencer had to swiftly issue an apology. Again, at no time did any of the DailyMail gang of racially predatory Meghan-hating, race-baiting, click-baiting detractors show their cowardly faces.

How could they have? By far, they are the biggest bullies. Unlike Ms. Spencer, her remarks were a one-off, I do not believe she intended to report on the Cambridge’s children on a weekly basis and in a disparaging manner. American six-year-olds do not take ballet classes as part of their curriculum; that is why Ms. Spencer was going for a light, easy laugh. She was showing to the American audience how removed from their reality, the royals are.

Each day with Jeffrey Epstein’s all too convenient death – that was definitely not a suicide, the racially predatory ghouls in English print media have remained conspicuously silent. Truly if Lady Colin Campbell, Piers Morgan et al cared about the monarchy, why are they not up in arms and castigating HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York of having been a dark and bothersome thorn for the crown? Where is their outrage? Where are the multiple daily articles wherein Prince Andrew is taken to task for proving himself not fit to be counted a royal?

Don’t these idiots realise that in remaining in hiding and mum through the tsunami of Epstein’s resurgence and death, they come off as having been purely racist and malicious in their attacks on the Duchess of Sussex. The longer they remain silent and cease their attack articles on Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, reveal how purely malicious, personal and racist their coverage has been. They have now got zero credibility.

Naturally, as the braying against Prince Andrew grew louder and there were more daring calls for him to face justice, the loyal defenders of the RF sat back and said nothing. When finally the Lara Spencer controversy blew over, Piers Morgan re-emerged and went right back to feeding on TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex. The new attack word is hypocrite; naturally, the Sussexes are hypocrites for flying by private jet. After the fact, it would emerge that the Sussexes likely travelled to be at Elton John’s French estate, following the suicide of an energetic, charismatic colleague of Prince Harry’s on August 5, 2019.

In this exquisite clip, we get a prime example of the true hypocrisy; here is Piers Morgan caterwauling as per usual, defending his right to bully and prey on Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and like every racist boor, he is shrill in denying that it has anything to do with race. As the future Countess of Sandwich, Julie Montagu, Viscountess Hinchingbrooke and fellow American alludes, the reason for the Sussexes travelling by private jets may be down to serious and valid threats that they may be subjected to, owing to Meghan being black. Naturally, straight away as he race-baits and gleefully so, Piers states that it has nothing to do race; he refuses to concede that much of the hatred towards the Sussexes could be rooted in racism and that there couldn’t possibly be death threats aplenty against the Sussexes.

Julie Montagu, Viscountess Hinchingbrooke.

Rather, the tone deaf racist boor counters by stating that Diana was infinitely more famous than Meghan is; granted but he fails to realise that Diana was white and would have receive not a single death threat for being white. The fact that Meghan is black and the first black to marry a senior royal are grounds enough for violent racists to be boldly making death threats against the Sussexes.

This is to what Julie Montagu was referring, instead, in a defence of his right to maintain his shrill racially predatory attack campaign, Piers Morgan shrilly states more nonsense. Piers even becomes incandescent with rage at Julie Montagu’s suggestion that Meghan will do things in an American way. Naturally, Piers protests and, in essence, says that Britons will not be overrun by Americans. The past month has revealed the real hypocrisy of the English print medium, just as with the Lara Spencer scandal, which they could not criticise as it reflected their own bullying, Piers Morgan et al fell silent with the avalanche of details that have surfaced with Jeffrey Epstein’s death; murder, suicide… you decide.

The glaring refusal of Piers Morgan and the rest of DM’s gaggle of shrill racists to so much as once mention Prince Andrew, has rather unwittingly cast a very harsh light on that other source of royal scandal, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Of course, this was never their intention – they aren’t that intellectually sophisticated. Rather than pounce on the Andrew angle, if they are so keen on hurling mud at royals, they remained mum. This has only given rise to questions of what exactly has been going on in the Cambridges’ marriage. There was William shaking arse with his bottom boy, Thomas van Straubenzee in Verbier whilst also playing the field and hooking up on the dance floor with a woman who definitely was not Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.

This is the same Prince William who earlier in 2019 met with the editorial board at the DailyMail, Like the scarf incident at Christmas 2018, more and more this is not about Wallis Simpson and King Edward VIII; however, it most definitely is matter of history repeating itself within the British royal family by way of HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ jealousy and the very real threat that he saw Diana, Princess of Wales posing early in their marriage. For Charles, Diana was a complete enigma. Not only did he not love her but how could the public be so obsessed with her? How is it that he who was born to be king, be eclipsed by someone who was not even a blood princess?

This dynamic is now repeating a generation later as desperate to rein Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge met with the DailyMail’s editorial board. For William, just like Charles, he is threatened by Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s star power. Meghan shines brighter than both Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge and himself, the future Prince of Wales. Naturally, all along, HRH Prince Henry was dismissed as being second fiddle; William was deferred to and it was expected by William that Harry would know his role and keep his place.

Yet, there she is, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex with more glamour and star power than both Cambridges combined. It is in the nature of scholar souls to engage in dirty pool and set about to ruin someone by doing so in the background. History repeats itself in that, like his father before him, William has been blindsided and thrown by the public’s reaction to someone not a blood royal. It isn’t just that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is black, rather, William has been groomed from birth to expect everyone to be less revered than himself in the dynastic hierarchy. That assumption, as are all assumptions, is untenable. For all kinds of reasons, Meghan is far more popular than either William or Catherine – to say nothing of both combined.

Misha Nonoo-Hess & Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

William for being a scholar soul and with his astrological, numerological and overleaves chosen would never choose a wife who could prove more popular than himself, Shrewdly persevering, Catherine a warrior’s warrior would never go in for being showy as is an artisan or sage’s wont. Artisans are simply far too complex for mere scholars to fathom. The fact that artisans input on five channels where kings, warrior and scholars merely input on a single channel, would lead to unease on the part of a scholar who has been groomed from birth to be deferred to and groomed to be most popular. That Meghan, has been one of the most shrewd and accomplished women in English history – she is the reincarnated Margaret Beaufort matriarch of the Tudor dynasty – is all the more reason why one cannot expect her to turn up playing wallflower here and now.

For Meghan, William is as interesting as a mastered rubric’s cube; he is flat, one-dimensional and bland. The fact that Meghan’s task companion is a warrior and that she, Meghan, is married to a warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, her father-in-law HRH Prince Charles Prince of Wales and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, her sister-in-law are also warrior souls, gives her an edge in understanding and knowing just what to expect from the Cambridges. It is no coincidence that Charles’ second wife would turn out to be a scholar, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall and as such, someone who would not prove the egotistical challenge that Diana, Princess of Wales proved for being an artisan with star power.

Indeed, like father like son as William a scholar would marry a warrior soul, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge who also happens to be his task companion. Meghan and her forthrightness and singleness of purpose, with her healthy star power has proven a threat for William. Meghan has also proven a jolt of energy for the Cambridges; they have finally had to get off their arses and stop playing house and do something that is more than simply turning up, grinning, shaking hands then bolting. This is what the revival of the King’s Cup Regatta as a means of fundraising for some of their charities represents. Meghan has shown with her ventures, the Together cookbook and Smart Works fashion collection that like the Prince Charles’ Prince’s Trust, she is all about raising money. She gets it – the monarchy is a business.

No amount of meetings with the DailyMail‘s editorial board is going to change the fact that Meghan’s star power is rooted in history. How this has manifested itself here, is her expert command of stagecraft. She is commanding of an audience in a manner that neither William nor Catherine is. All this recent rubbish on the part of the DailyMail talking about Catherine has found her voice… all of 8 years on; indeed, it is a voice that she has been forced to suddenly find with little mastery simply because the very real threat and presence of Meghan behoves the Cambridges to do more than breed. As compared to the Sussexes, the Cambridges are rather bone idle, truth be told. Just as Charles was threatened by Diana’s greater popularity, so too is William threatened by Meghan’s greater worldliness, star power and commanding stage presence.

This is precisely why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s stellar stage command at the 2018 British Fashion Awards has been scrubbed from the internet. At the end of the day, the very shrewd Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex – which artisan soul is not both shrewd and complex – is confident of one fact: intellect is the most powerful asset to possess when incarnate. Meghan is better educated than both Cambridges and she is vastly more worldly and articulate and displays greater intellect and emotional intelligence than Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge hands down. Charles does not call Meghan Tungsten for no reason…. besides just as Charles is rather shrewdly aware, William, though not inconsequential, is nonetheless stupid.

No matter how William colludes, conspires and sabotages from behind the scenes, it is as futile as trying to sabotage and undo the work that Margaret Beaufort did back there in time… impossible. For both Charles and William both Diana and Meghan would prove both enigmatic and difficult. Both men for being warrior and scholar souls respectively input solely on one channel. Both Diana and Meghan for being artisan souls input on five channels. We artisans are the most complex creatures, who are not readily understood and are usually dismissed as unstable, too wilful, undisciplined, crazy, lunatic, artsy-fartsy et al. Where artisans and sages are at home in the arts or looking like the contestants on Rupaul’s Drag Race, warrior and scholars are anything but, unless of course they are a scholar or warrior with sage or artisan task companion and with lots of sage or artisan influences in their casting.

Where Charles differs from William is that his task companion is a priest which means that he, like all priests, would be given to serving a higher ideal which in Charles’ case has to to do with stewardship of the environment and not just the realm to which he is destined to govern. Again, I cannot strongly enough state how much scholars are given to being shit-disturbers, fault-finding and given to being stubborn and categorising everyone and everything into its own neat little box/list as deemed by scholar arrogance to be correct. In William, this is even more pronounced as his being born to be king, has heightened this innate scholar arrogance; furthermore, his attitude of 9 in its negative manifestation leaves him being prejudicial to all that is other and not like oneself.

(HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex at the wedding of Michael Hess and Misha Nonoo. What I love about this photograph is the more than passing resemblance between Henry and Roman Abramovitch. About a dozen years ago, I had the most lucid dream of both men deep in conversation and I was struck then how much they looked alike; this is the first photo that captures this similitude in the look of their eyes. I think that they are, perhaps, connected at the level of soul either entity mates or cadre mates.)

The long and short of it all is that William met with the editorial board of the DailyMail in his campaign to demonise and eliminate the affront that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex represents to his prejudicial scholarly sensibilities. Still, he has yet to go tour a predominantly black Commonwealth Nation; unlike his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who through Sentebale has kept in touch with his black roots in his immediate past life. Regardless of how much he and Catherine, run around making speeches all of a sudden, they can never eclipse the cool sophistication of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s commanding stagecraft.

Apart from being task companions, William and Catherine are a formidable force to reckon with… and it is all in the numbers. Catherine is born 9.1.82 = 9.1.3 = 4. William is born 21.6.82 = 3.9.2 = 5. For any pairing to smoothly, harmoniously work, one must have at least two numbers in common. The Cambridges have 9 and 3 in common. I have spoken in the past of how debilitating William’s attitude of 9 leaves him hamstrung by prejudice, which clearly leaves him ill at ease or disfavouring blacks – hence the meeting with the DailyMail’s editorial board. In Catherine’s case, the 9 is in the energy body. 9s are perfectionists who readily dismiss and banish anyone and everyone who comes near them who by their personal standers do not measure up and are deemed imperfect in some way.

Again, Warriors (Catherine/Henry & Charles also Philip) are the dominant partner in any relationship. For that reason, Catherine is rather threatened by Meghan’s forthrightness, American boldness, most of all, she is grossly threatened by Meghan’s commanding stage presence and the fact that Meghan, like every performer before her who is an artisan soul sets the tone and captures one’s attention like no warrior ever can, would prove disquieting for Catherine; in Meghan, Catherine is made readily aware that she is imperfect in some way. Diana was the quintessential artisan soul with star power, she was also like another artisan of commanding star power in the 20th century, Marilyn Monroe. Diana’s body type was Lunar/Mercury – she was luminous, empathetic, fluid, changeable, unpredictable. With Marilyn Monroe, there was also Lunar energy; however, that artisan soul was Venus/Lunar… you could not get more bewitchingly famous than that. In other words, she was gorgeously voluptuous – as we well know – but could cast a spell on anyone… and did.

Also, an artisan, Meghan incidentally, is the same soul age as was Marilyn Monroe. Meghan, however, has a Venus/Solar body type. No surprise then that the very powerful Tudor matriarch, Margaret Beaufort would reincarnate with a body type that has the most spiritually senior royal, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales referring to her as Tungsten. Not only is she winningly appealing but Meghan’s body type of Venus/Solar suggests someone who is inordinately ambitious and also fully in control and is more shrewd than Diana ever was. Both William and Catherine are deeply intimidated by Meghan. Catherine’s body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus. That saturnine energy only accentuates that 9 energy in her makeup. She is steely, guarded and like every warrior who ever lived fiercely competitive. She is the dominant partner in that marriage – I should think that this does cause William a great deal of stress. William, of course, is a lot like his mum, he is Lunar/Mars/Saturn. At the end of the day, like Diana, he is not always ‘there’ and is not someone whom one would ever think of as an intellect… spacey is more to the point; this is why he cluelessly sat with his back to the horses on entering the 1902 state landau on his wedding day outside Westminster Abbey.

No matter how the Cambridges are threatened by Meghan and engage in a campaign to rein her in and sabotage her star power, as the Kingdom Choir sang so jubilantly, Meghan’s light will ever shine uneclipsed regardless of what prejudicial William and tightwad, faultfinding Catherine think or do. It is really risible watching them try and rebrand Catherine as a public speaker. Catherine can never walk onto any stage anywhere and have the audience be wowed and react so beautifully as the heavily artisan and sage-souled audience at the 2018 British Fashion Awards did to her surprise appearance. Meghan proved her mettle in giving the world the greatest bit of theatre as she walked up the west steps at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle on her wedding day, walking up the aisle like no royal bride ever had; she was declaring loudly and clearly, “I’m back!” as at the core of her being, the soul which previously had been Margaret Beaufort, entered the chapel alone beneath the stain glass windows at the west door with a tribute to her son in that past life, HM King Henry VII, then walked whilst escorted by HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, across the tomb of HM King Henry VIII whom she mentored and for whom, she Meghan, then Margaret Beaufort was his greatest mentor.

Meghan with every speech eclipses and exposes the flawed campaign of the Cambridges to try and make her a laughing stock, banished and inconsequential. For crying out loud, Meghan is an artisan, not a self-restraining warrior nor a dull blithering scholar who was openly dismissed whilst on the balcony on his wedding day by his new wife. Catherine for 8 years never once thought to start speaking publicly, yet, all of a sudden, there she is, comparably making an arse of herself. She has been a deeply self-absorbed controlling element in her husband’s life, given to smoking, dieting all in hopes of being praying mantis and boyishly androgynous, the way a good public school-groomed husbands like those cherished proclivities sustained.

Numerologically, the Cambridges are better suited elsewhere on the Timeline than here. They are both not remotely adept at living in a world where being media savvy is mandatory. Saturnine, smug and colonial in their sensibilities, it is hard to fathom how they have managed to do little to nothing until the arrival of Meghan on the scene to cause them to suddenly become eager to engage and undertake royal engagements as well as raising funds for charities. Since 2011, they went to Hollywood, wowed no one and have not been invited back since.

Truly, all that Catherine in her whimpering speeches can do is address childhood issues rather than commanding the respect and attention of adults as with Meghan at the 2018 British Fashion Awards which have been conveniently scrubbed from the internet as it is puts into relief the commanding force which Meghan represents. Artisans, like Meghan, Marilyn Monroe, Diana, Princess of Wales and countless others bring the magic by merely being, especially so when on stage… this is an innate gift that neither Catherine nor William possess in the slightest.

For sporty Catherine to be suddenly thrust out there to be making speeches only further highlights how desperately the Cambridges are threatened by the appearance of Meghan in their midst. Just listen to this god-awful boldfaced sophistry! She has not found any voice anywhere.

You cannot find what you never had to lose in the first place. She is a mousy little thing who looks like a chain-smoking, eating disorder mess which would be in keeping with the 9 numerology obsession with perfection. This You Magazine insert in the Mail on Sunday is the result of the Cambridges meeting with the editorial board of the DailyMail.

It changes nothing because as earlier in the week proved as TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex demonstrated when presenting four-month old Archie Mountbatten-Windsor to Archbishop emeritus, Desmond Tutu and the eagerly awaiting world, the Cambridges by comparison are like week-old lettuce… limp. Just look at that exquisitely shaped African skull on Archie… it readily conjures images of family gatherings where every black aunt, cousin and mother want to gently, lovingly massage the uniquely large skull with its rear extension, their long melanin-rich fingers massaging love and pride deep into the very DNA of yet another handsome son of Africa.

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Archie is such a beautiful, well-aware, engaged youngster. Indeed, in spades, he demonstrated at all of four months that he is indeed an older soul as his mum, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex stated whilst visiting with the Tutus. Truth be told, Archie is the oldest soul senior royal. He is the same age as HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales – both 7th level Mature souls; however, Archie is a priest soul and more cardinally cast than warrior soul, Charles.

One thing that the Sussexes tour of Africa has proven, is that though the campaign waged by the British media, especially so the DailyMail has been damning, it changes nothing. There hatred does not encompass how the world perceives the Sussexes; they are lovely couple, truly in love and parents to the most awesomely spiritually evolved child, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor.

*I should point out, however, that I have not done the overleaves for prince Louis of Cambridge or his sister princess Charlotte of Cambridge. Thus, of the senior royals channelled at this stage, Archie is the oldest soul, though, he may well not be based on the other senior royals whose overleaves I have not done. END.

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Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

27.08.201909.12.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

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*Since having posted this dream blog some years back, I was always fascinated why I was simply summoned to be with the actor, River Phoenix when he passed. I did mention that sense of feeling strong resonance at the time of cadre mates’ passing. This dream was a poignant example of being called into action, to be of service to someone with whom I have a strong and connected soul bond that spans multiple past lives.

This was something that I felt at Natalie Cole’s passing and, of course, she proved to be an entity mate. In the case of River Phoenix, whose overleaves I will include here and which can now be found in the revamped and tidied up Michael Overleaves Appendix page, not only is he also an artisan soul but he happens to be a greater cadence mate of mine. This dream would not have occurred if we did not share this very strong bond; as a result of my cardinal casting, I am often called into action in dreams such as this one when entity and cadre mates pass on.

Read these dreams anew and do enjoy!.

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Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, I would be transported to a cul de sac of the astral plane wherein I am not frequently focussed. It was Monday, November 1, 1993. At the time, as now, I did not own a television and hardly looked at it. Also, at the time, I hardly listened to radio or read newspapers et al. I was also much removed from most daily chatter as I had been off sick from work but did go in to participate in the annual Halloween costume competition which the year prior I had won when dressed in full drag and looking hotter than even Tina Turner herself in my high heels. The above photo of yours truly was taken at Halloween 1993, the day prior to this dream.

Thus it was that I would fall into sleep and immediately be summoned to be in service to the higher good. What is really interesting about the experience with the famous actor encountered in these dreams, I rather suspect that he may be a cadre mate from the tenor of the dream encounter. Too, there are a number of famous persons in my cadre and he seemed vibrationally not dissimilar to them.

That being the case, this likely explains why I was called on to be of service at the time. I am said to be rather cardinal in casting, which is clearly reflected in yours truly being inordinately gifted when it comes to fathoming the depth and breadth of the dream realms. Too, as these dreams were clearly focussed on the astral plane, naturally, there was dream flight. More than that, whilst focussed on the astral plane in the dreamtime, one did encounter at least two, possibly three, extra-human species.

As there is flight and levitation in these dreams, I pray that they will richly inspire you. Fly my darlings, fly, don’t even for a second doubt, just melt into a mischievous plié and start flying – cause you can… cause you are magic incarnate!

A woman and I were together, in this the second dream, above the Arctic Circle. This woman did remind me of the woman, who had earlier been in the previous dream encounter with Niles Ben-Daniel and seemingly his lover. I was not fully certain that this woman was one and the same as, the one posing as Niles Ben-Daniel’s lover, in the prior dream. She had a couple of siblings whom she had asked to find out what time it was.

Here, they kept time quite unusually because there was no tundra about. They, as a result, kept sundials. They grew their grass such that they were able to tell from Sol’s shadows what time of day it was. Their sundial was a natural phenomenon which used the rugged flat landscape for keeping time. Standing there, I faced due north. Sol was still in the sky, but low, and at the two o’clock position. Sol was red and potent; it was almost serene-looking.

Over time, they had planted a hedge of Chinese boxwood, which stood a foot tall. From it were a series of radial-like spokes radiating out from the centre. All told, there were twenty-four spokes; of course, the spokes lined up with each hour of the day. Even in the wintertime, the hedge though submerged maintained an imprint of itself above – in the snowed and iced over terrain. It was quite nude (barren) landscape here. Sol’s shadow was presently pointing directly at the ten o’clock position though it clearly wasn’t. Ten o’clock could also have been four hours past midnight.

I decided that it had to be around four, in the morning, which is why Sol appeared in the sky where it was. This was the time of year when Sol never sets which made it difficult for me, a novice in these parts, to readily get my bearings. Quite a strange phenomenon because my body felt nocturnally phased, yet, there in the sky was Sol as plain as the Moon. She wanted to know what time it was because she was getting ready to go down south to the ‘Southland’.

She also referred to it as, ‘the land of the setting summer Sun,’ which did make sense. She had said all that in her Inuit tongue, yet I had been able to follow perfectly well as though she had been speaking English. More than being with her, rather, I was there as an observer and took in the minutiae of this unique culture. Certainly, we were keenly aware of each other and that we were both gifted telepaths.

Next, in this the third dream, I was in a crowded interior. It was a waiting lounge in a large depot that was not unlike New York City’s Grand Central Station. A sandy marble, time-yellowed hue, the walls here were the same colour as at Grand Central Station. A high-ceilinged cavernous place it also was. The main hall had several wings that adjoined its considerable length. Here, there was natural light coming in from the bathysphere-like windows that sat way up the walls and close to the ceiling.

In that sense, this was not unlike the grand hall in which I walked with Merlin during which we encountered the exalted magus on September 4, 1988. I was seated on these large wooden benches that were old, comfortable and looked not unlike church pews. Semi-circular in shape, they gave a sense of inclusiveness to them. All around me exclusively were men. This place seemed, if you like, some sort of way station. One guy there was very slight-bodied, young and naïve-looking.

Looking at him, he wore a navy-blue track suit. He came over to sit next to me, eventually sitting on my right. Patting him on the back, I told him that it was really good to see him. I wished him a safe passage and asked that he go in peace, “Have a safe passage. Go in peace and do have a good journey…”

Of all people, it was the actor, River Phoenix – he recently overdosed on heroin, early on Sunday, October 31, yesterday. This was a very vivid dream. I was quite lucidly awakened. Feeling great compassion for his tragic departure, I thought to be of comfort to him and to uplift his spirit in whatever way possible. There and then, I realised that this was a place where persons who had recently died came whilst in transit to their final destination as returning astral plane habitués.

*This, of course, did not surprise me. Right away, I was reminded of the sense of mammoth dimensions that also exemplified the architecture of the train termini, where I had run into Merlin in that momentous dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. END.

Seated there, next to him, I exclusively turned my focus on him. I then began doing an enormous amount of energy transference, thereby healing his spirit, before he could move on. Who cares the attachments to this man, in the waking state? I have never followed his career but here, in his astral plane hour of need, we were souls and healing is the most generous gift of love. After having left his life in such a dissociate state, River Phoenix needed to be made more whole.

This is why he had seemed so naïve and as if in a daze. He saw me and purposefully began walking towards me. God only knows what he noticed in me that was different to the others. Until he was about two feet away from me, I for one had not realised that it was him. By that point, he had already been intent on coming to sit with me. He clearly needed my services.

Phoenix, River 23/8/197031/10/1993

This fragment was a second level mature artisan – third life thereat. River was in the observation mode with a goal of growth. A realist, he was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.

Body type was Lunar/Mercury.

River’s primary chief feature was self-destruction and the secondary stubbornness.

Casting for River is fifth-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three – greater cadence mate of Arvin’s. River’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

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

River’s primary needs were: exchange, expression and power.

There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin.

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At the level of soul, I could not have cared less who he was; his energy body’s vibration needed a good deal of realignment before he could move on. He chose me and I gladly obliged his wishes. When patting him on the back, I was keenly focussed on sending him a great deal of near-aqueous blue-white light. River Phoenix was saddened. Rather, he seemed to be in a state of shock, though, not horrified or enraged. There was just a degree of resignation as he came to terms with where he was at. When it was all over, in the brief moments that it took to lay my hand on his back, he got up to get going.

He was obliged to take his leave and move on. He seemed here truly dazed. Perhaps, these were residual effects of his having passed in a heightened soporific state. Seated there, I felt completely drained of my very breath itself. I was left feeling so overwhelmingly sad and strangely alone. Another guy had sat down, on the other side of me, whilst I energetically focussed on River Phoenix.

I can’t, for the life of me, say whether or not the guy had ambled up to join us seated there or if he had simply materialised – on the astral plane – for having just projected himself into our midst. Looking Hispanic, more than anything, this man had yellow-coloured eyes. Absolutely bewitching they were. He wore cream-coloured jeans with matching cream-coloured jacket. There was a lot of black in the clothing. This was in the style of Hip-Hop fashions.

He was a very sensitive man with a Hispanic accent and was slightly older than River Phoenix; he was about 24 or 25 years – at least he looked about that age. His hair was thick, black and curly. By way of conducting focussed energy transference, my function here was to provide counsel. I would simply tap into their vibration and, by way of their chakras, realign their energy. All of them seemed to have passed suddenly, completely unexpectedly. Thus they had a great need to become assimilated to what was clearly an unexpected turn of events.

They needed immediate supervision and companionship, until having become further acclimatised. Meanwhile, the persons around me were all being counselled by others – who were more solid-looking – whose role was like that of mine. I was, like all the others, a guide, companion and energetic facilitator to the arrivée habitués.

Architecturally, this place was so immensely massive. It was also more ancient by at least 30 millennia than the rise of the Roman Empire. Clearly, there is no way to get around the fact that this was an astral plane experience. There was also no way to get around the fact that the first man, with whom I worked, was the actor, River Phoenix. What was really impactful for me was that River Phoenix, like all the others, had absolutely no emotions. He was in a place of total detachment.

Though a sudden departure from the life being lived, his soul consciousness was totally matter-of-fact about the situation at hand. The past, his recently accidentally concluded incarnation, was concluded and behind him. Period.

Whilst we were all there, we were caught in some commotion when a Black guy appeared. He wore a blue jean jacket and wore on his face a flesh-toned fabric mask. He looked as though he had been in a burn unit at a hospital, I assumed, after having suffered massive burns to more than 95% of his body. It was the mask used for allowing skin grafts in such instances to take without becoming infected. My sense impression of his situation was that he had been in a violent car crash which turned into an explosive fireball. He had survived and was in hospital, for a while, undergoing massive skin grafting surgeries.

He also wore dark shades. The moment that he appeared, everyone instantaneously freaked out. All that one could see, was his mouth and nose; the image was upsetting, menacing. Right away, we all began fleeing that section of the grand hall. His arrival was simply instantaneous. He had simply manifested in plain view. When he came through, he brought with him a great explosive energy and immense suffering. This is what had upset the Chi in the place; it was quite an impactful energy wave that accompanied his manifestation. On closer inspection, I realised that he had not been a burn victim as he was still brandishing a large semi-automatic weapon.

Clearly, he had been holding up a business and got himself shot to death in the process. Thus, as is, he instantaneously appeared on the astral plane. The energy around his death was+ so immensely violent, as he went berserk, that it proved rather jarring for the rest of us. His body was violently sputtering away, as though, still echoing the massive volley of bullets that were being pumped into him. No doubt, a battery of over-armed police officers were only too happy to waste yet another ‘Black’ male.

We all immediately started bolting because here was he, suddenly arrived and carrying a weapon, on the astral plane to which all these arrivés were not yet fully acclimatised. There was a group of urbane Gays over to one side who kept to themselves. The Gays went truly berserk, fearful of him, as this man was clearly a zealous homophobe. That too was the other thing about this place; one was able to accurately ‘read’ a person on their arrival.

As I sat there on the pews doing my energy work with River Phoenix, most of the light flooding the hall came from off to the right and rear. From the inner hall, I went bolting along with everyone else and took cover. The armed Black man had manifested across the hall from me. Making my way from what I thought previously was the main hall, I ended up in a grand hall that was easily seven times larger than the atrium in which I had been counselling River Phoenix and then the yellow-eyed Hispanic.

As everyone else had been bolting in that direction, I made a left turn. From the main hall, I was now in another atrium; this one, however, was considerably darker. This one was several storeys high with the same colour schemata as at Grand Central Station. Though there were no discernible floors as such, at each storey there were landings. I would then bolt down to where all the other Gays were ahead of me. In a bid not to be captured by this guy, who had no awareness that he was now dead and on the astral plane, I leapt over the railing and down onto the escalator where the Gays were.

As they were all still clambering down the steps, this was not the greatest idea on my part; it was a truly chaotic scene. Deciding against pursuing the herd mentality, I willed myself from amongst them. With that I began levitating, above them and shot upwards, flying up into the nave of the towering complex. Goodness, this place was immensely massive. Soon enough, the man came to where we had been and made for the stairs from which I had just taken off. Being sufficiently distracted, I knew that he wouldn’t be able to either hear or see me way above him.

Too, he wouldn’t think to look up and see me. I flew in such a way that I progressed around a corner which took me into another wing of the massive complex. Here, there was a balcony whose wall was such that it had an indentation in the shape of an inverted top hat. Thus, the balcony was as if wrapped inside the hat. Hiding out in the cover of the balcony, I peered out – from time to time – where I saw others on lower balconies who peered up at me.

Others were off to the right in the inverted balcony. They discouraged me from coming because they thought that, somehow, my movement would attract the newcomer with semi-automatic weapon. They were of the impression that he was, in the first place, out to get me. All around, this whole episode was terribly unpleasant. It had all the chaotic madness that must surely exist, at present, in the streets of a war zone like Bosnia or Croatia.

Deciding against hiding out, I sought to be rid of this place altogether. With that, I began flying upwards towards the very ceiling of the grand hall. The ceiling was as if a force field and not a physical construct. Thus, without incident, I was able to will my way through its parameters. I was truly relieved to have made it out of there. One had the sense of leaving one dimension and moving on to another, whilst seemingly clearing the grand hall’s ceiling, and into the next dream experience.

Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside where I immediately encountered some young teenage females. All were sarcastic, bitchy solipsistic twits. They were on an empty city street. Racy-edged, in the extreme, were they. Especially for feeling the enervation that I did for the massive energy transference work that I had undertaken with River Phoenix, I really did not care to be around these people’s energy.

At the time, I was still in flight but had slowed down, hoping possibly to interact with them. Finally, I had no time for them and their bullshit. No need to be around their imploding energy. Without haste, I flew on and went onto a side street. There, I saw a really large building from which there were some persons presently exiting.

It was as if one were looking outdoors, due west towards Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan. A young couple came from the building and entered a car which looked like a Bentley limousine. A massive stately old car it was and looked every bit as though it had been made from lead. A large structure stood to my left as I watched them drive away towards what seemed to be Fifth Avenue.

Looking to the structure, I realised that the structure was in fact St. Patrick’s Cathedral which, of course, meant that I was at 51^st Street at Fifth Avenue. Naturally, the car made a left turn and went south down Fifth Avenue. Here it was nighttime with lots of snow in the street, the sidewalk, and covering just about everything. The car wanted, once on Fifth Avenue, to go westwards along 50^th Street, but couldn’t because that street runs easterly one-way.

There was also too much snow jammed there in the street. So, in the end, the car went down to the south end of Saks Fifth Avenue to try and get onto 49^th Street. Here in the dreamtime, contrary to the waking state arrangement, 49^th Street flowed easterly. This made me realise that its attempt to go along 50^th Street was not bizarre. I guess that they then intended to go easterly along 49^th Street, over to Park Avenue then up 57^th Street, make a left at that street, to try and get across town that way.

I figured that that major thoroughfare would not be impassable. I was keen to find out who was inside the car, which was a very regal, stately affair; they were a sophisticated well-bred couple. I was more intrigued by the car because it was mostly glass, with the rear windshield arching up to above their heads, as they sat there exuding their exalted classism. The side panelling on the outside, and where the rear windshield met the roof, was all solid gold. Atop the roof there was a beacon like on a taxi cab, however, it was made of solid gold.

Really, it was more a coat of arms than anything so crass as a taxi’s beacon; this was a truly luxurious-looking vehicle. As I inspected it, I had been in flight hovering a couple of floors above it. Rising in the air, I began speeding down on the east side of Fifth Avenue over St. Patrick’s Cathedral. When I got over the cathedral, I noticed that – unlike its waking state counterpart – this one had flying buttresses. Though it was very dark out, as though the dead of a Dark Moon night, I noticed that there was activity atop the cathedral. There were things there which I found immediately intriguing.

Abandoning my pursuit of the Bentley landau, I slowed down, coming closer to observe what was going on atop the cathedral’s roof. There, I saw wonderful fowl; there was a whole array of them which were quite large. One species was white with lots of black specs throughout its body. They were all on different ledges on the flying buttresses. All of them had nests that they were tending.

One of the nests had 8 large speckled eggs inside. There was, however, no fowl tending to this nest. Flying slowly, within ten feet of the buttresses, I inspected everything with a keen eye. This was so very astral plane in focus. Considering that I had previously been counselling River Phoenix, who had recently passed, it made sense that I should be on the astral plane. In any event, the rooftop was pitch-black and covered in tar. The masonry here was also much blackened with time’s passage. Too, there was a lot of moss covering every available nook and cranny.

I suppose that this replica of St. Patrick’s Cathedral needed to exist, here on the astral plane, to provide some sense of continuity to the dearly departed recent arrivés of the Catholic persuasion. Here on the astral plane, this St. Patrick’s Cathedral was considerably larger than its waking state counterpart. As well, it was millennia older than the Roman Coliseum. The older dead moss had left the structure blackened – along with the centuries of pollution and soot caked on in layers. Naturally, in order to get up to the roof of the nave, I had had to rise higher and beyond the buttresses.

Once higher in the air, I saw down between these two buttresses a group of Whites. They were dressed in animal skins and were, in the true sense of the word, barbaric-looking. They had not yet fully developed the ability to speak; thus, their speech consisted of a series of barks and grunts. Quite hirsute, they were obsessively fearful. Huddled on the top of the structure, they proved a smelly lot.

Everything was quite ancient and scorpionic-hued. As well, there was a tribe of black-furred monkeys with some red in them. The Barbarians also wore a skin that had a reddish hue to it which was seemingly a doeskin. Theirs was, as well, a tawny reddish complexion. On noticing me, the monkeys went wild, climbing up to the tops of the buttresses; frantically, they pounced and screamed up at me. Goodness, they had such large vicious-looking teeth; thank goodness they could not fly.

Mildly horrified, I simply levitated higher into the air and stayed clear of their none-too-evolved noise. Exceptionally tiny, they were also very intelligent-looking. Truth be told, they looked much more evolved intellectually than their simian cousins, the Barbarians. Goodness, they were feisty and noisy. Wanting to investigate everything about the queerness of the sight of me, they were truly inquisitive.

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Going higher, I reached to the top of the nave where I noticed a couple lying there. They were lying on their backs. Looking not unlike the sphinx’s, theirs were the most abnormal-looking skulls that were splayed and large. Their clothing was unusual-coloured; however, on closer inspection, it turned out to have been their skin. Basically, their skin was as if a floral-printed fabric. Very brightly coloured, their skin was an interesting sight… to say the least. They lay there, looking not the least bit surprised at the sight of me. They also seemed not inclined to do anything but enjoy themselves in repose.

They seemed so mysterious. Looking down, I alighted to investigate. I spent some time looking down at their feet where their skin was also uniformly distributed. I had wanted to leave but decided to head in the opposite direction; as they lay there, their feet were in my way. I didn’t want to have to upset or interact with them. They seemed alien, in the true sense of the word, but were not in fact to be disturbed. Silently, they lay there and directly looked at me. One had the sense that they could have turned deadly in a femtosecond and gone at me like a cobra on the attack. They had very cool eyes that were powerful, truly scorpionic. Theirs were the kind of eyes that were beguiling but utterly untrustworthy.

*Their eyes much reminded me of that dream encounter with Lars Gamst, set in the British Isles some centuries back, wherein we encountered a litter of oversized cats, which turned out to be not only psychic but also feral. This was back in the summer of 1988 – before recording the dreams on audio-cassettes. END.

Soon enough, I flew away from there because this was much too astrally focussed an experience. I might add, as dreams go, it was one that was very much so real and quite layered. It was simply much too intense; so, with that, I withdrew being energetically focussed therein.

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Hope you enjoyed having taken this groovy little trip with me… Go on, hop to it, start flying. I love you more.

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Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

21.08.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Game show host: Famous Quotes. “Bullocks! That is not a fucking clit!”

Game show host: Contestant, respond either A or B to which you think is the correct answer. Who was this said about when seen naked for the first time by her future husband, was it A. Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown or B. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex?

Contestant: A!

Game show host: Right, you are!

From Alanna Plattapuss, to Pierre-Karol Gorgon, all week long they and the OTT vicereen – she of none-too-dubious gender and the likely need for a surrogate’s services, carped on with their usual vitriol against, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Just imagine the temerity of the Trenchtown sketel, likkle jagabat rass, carping on about Meghan not being royal and a hustler who needs a new act and all that, commandingly boomed with the rolling vowels and vulgar cocksucker mouth to boot. Then by the end of that week, along rolls the weekend full of karmic retribution et voilà Lord Porchester’s sprog was back in the news for those proclivities of his that has him favouring veal and other minor fare.

Diana, Princess of Wales gave good face; she went in, shook hands, did the doe-eyed routine and sold millions of copies to say nothing of raising funds. I was in London’s Chelsea the night in June 2017, having just returned from Covent Garden where I discovered, Natalia Osipova, when what sounded like several fire trucks, raced through the streets of West London.

The next morning as Grenfell dominated news everywhere on the tube, I watched as first HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge followed after by HM The Queen, visited the site of the horrific towering inferno. Soon enough, having done their duty, they were gone.

Will someone please ask that blasted cross-dresser, masquerading as a woman, toff or god forbid royal, what is not admirable, to say nothing of royal about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex? First order of business, after having so handsomely given good theatre as she commandingly ascended the west steps of St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle to join her warrior-souled entity mate, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with whom she has enjoyed relations in 20 past lives, Meghan goes and meets with the victims of the Grenfell Tower tragedy.

Now, here is where she goes one better and is the true evolution of all that Diana, Princess of Wales represented, she not only meets with them, however, she devises a scheme whereby those victims can experience a continued sense of community and in the process, she created a cookbook which as part of her charitable endeavours, has greatly assisted these victims in need. Say what you want, but Diana, Princess of Wales never did any such thing. A copy of said cookbook has repeatedly sat on my kitchen counter as I have prepared meals from those recipes.

Yet, there is that blasted jagabat, Vicereen Bianca as pompous and full of shit as they come, hopping on the bandwagon in hopes of earning a few more pence so she can go shopping at Poundland to fill Castle Chav, for which she plays chatelaine whom no one on Avenue Foch to say nothing of Kensington Palace Gardens could care less about. With that cookbook, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex did something that Diana, Princess of Wales and no other royal before her had pulled off or could, she effectively greatly humanised and endeared the royals to not just the Muslims of the Commonwealth but to the 2.5 billion Muslims the world over. Too, it matters with her biracial ambiguity that Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is able to fluidly straddle ethnic, racial and religious lines where others in the royal family cannot.

Someone please remind Vicereen Bianca, Monsieur Gorgon et al who are so quick to racially foam at the mouth that after having been booed at Royal Albert Hall and Princess Michael of Kent, having sported the blackamoor brooch to The Queen’s Buckingham Palace Christmas lunch in 2017, all the more reason why Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex would require being sat alone with her two friends at Winbledon without having persons close to them so that she can enjoy a social situation without having the average garden variety bigot make cutting, racially predatory remarks about her for being within earshot. If you think that this is something which every black does not endure on a daily basis then you are free to go outside and see the Virgin Mother in the next cloud formations – funny how these delusional people never see comeback pussy when cloud-gazing,

Never once have Gorgon, Vicereen Bianca, Plattapuss et al made mention of that outright racist attack on the part of Princess Michael of Kent. First of all, for her deliberate racist action, she should not have been suffered at what also happened to have been a black wedding on May 19, 2018. Not only did she not represent, by her racist attack, HM The Queen, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, HRH Princess Anne, Princess Royal but she did not represent her husband, HRH Prince Michael of Kent and his mother, Princess Marina and her family the Greek and Yugoslav royals. For god sake, stop claiming to know what Diana, Princess of Wales would have thought or how she would have gotten on with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex when she, Vicereen Bianca cannot produce a single photograph of herself and the late Diana, whose son, Meghan’s loving husband, ought damn well to know more than the fabulist royal, to say nothing of arch-fantasist, or any other racially predatory, vile, obsessed arsehat.

With Jeffrey Epstein once again white hot in the media, far be it from Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Alanna Plattapuss and snivelling pompous racial predator par excellence, Pierre-Karol Gorgon who has conspicuously fallen catatonic with revelations of rather unseemly behaviour becoming of royals from the Earl Porchester’s minor proclivities and the minor royals’ being pimped out by crass parvenu fare from the Far East. Just imagine the field day these clowns would have if it were Harry & Meghan? Funny how they have all fallen silent. What a shame that Madame Safra did not expediently have Vicereen Bianca dispense with as so resoundingly Mr. Epstein has been. Alas, why should Madame Safra have when the Vicereen Bianca herself is fucking nobody…. let her live and suffer… indeed, a fate far worse than Epstein’s…. Poor, pompous miserable-arsed Vicereen Bianca über poseur (definitely not poseuse) having to drag arse through life in search of that can’t-come-soon-enough casket of hers.

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All their racially predatory braying, regardless how much they protest it having anything to do with race – the cowards never concede the obvious, this has all been seen before. The same mass hysteria Doria Ragland was familiar with in the 70s as the racial predators foamed and raged at bussing in Massachusetts. Earlier, too, in the 60s, just as now with Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Doria would remember the water canons and dogs in George Wallace’s gallant South.

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Just know this, no matter how much you vilify, demonise and slander Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, she is going nowhere. Social media and the amount of open racist animus that is directed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s way is not in the least surprising. Social media is merely an evolution of behaviour on the part of non-blacks when privately looking at television. One of the things I realised and it was something that Merlin actually pointed out to me when we were in the early days of our relationship in Manhattan: when whites are looking at television and someone black appears on the screen, their response will 9 of 10 times be negative. This can run from simply turning the channel, leaving the room or simply engaging in conversation and ignoring the television such that the black person on screen simply is not heard. There is nothing more infuriating than trying to look at a live television concert or event, like an awards show and the moment someone black walks out on stage, the negative noise pollution starts up. At one dinner party, on the Upper West Side, Merlin had invited Frederick Jones to come along as Merlin met with a set designer friend of his. Every time that someone black appeared on screen, the character assassination would kick off. Of course, it did not take too long before gifted milliner, Frederick Jones simply got up and walked out as more yapping ensued when Gladys Knight and the Pips began singing. At this point in life, I never look at television, when rarely I do, in the company of non-blacks; it is simply not worth the ghettoised racialised response, which manifests each time.

She, Meghan, and more importantly her soul when incarnate as Margaret Beaufort, not you Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown, Pierre-Karol Gorgon et al made possible Christ’s College Cambridge and St. John’s College Cambridge as a result of her soul’s effort in a past life. For being a fierce feminist in that illustrious past life as Tudor matriarch, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I, has a women’s college, Lady Margaret College, Oxford in her honour been established. Nothing you do here and now can invalidate that soul’s past accomplishments, no more than it can prevent her soul’s agendum in this lifetime.

Of course, it is understandable that with the discovery of King Richard III’s remains in 2012 with their reburial at Leicester Cathedral in 2015, we would discover that William Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard III as the hunchback monster was misguided. Indeed, it is not coincidental that Richard III would resurface within a couple of years of Meghan Markle’s ascendancy. Meghan’s soul, then Margaret Beaufort in her bid to secure the supremacy of the Tudor claim, had Richard III demonised. Now returned, and also mid-cycle mature-souled, Meghan finds herself beset with open animus. As much as this is in part due to rabid open racial animus, let’s not avoid facts, it is also because mid-cycle mature lives tend to come with a bit of self-karmic drama and some degree of infamy.

For having slandered Richard III, returned here Margaret Beaufort’s reincarnated soul, who is now now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, finds herself despite her considerable accomplishments when Margaret Beaufort, opposed and rejected. Nonetheless, she is possessed of a Venus/Solar body type, which means that she will, in time, transcend the current open animus and prove immensely popular and well-loved. Moreover, another mid-cycle mature-souled member of the House of Windsor happens to be Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. She too, owing to whatever went down in past lives, relative to this one, has seen her tried by fire, vilified and demonised; yet, she has handsomely weathered the storm of rabid gutter snipes being bitter bitches to emerge as one of the most loved, warm, august-souled royals. What’s not to love, she champions literacy, literature and hands out the Man Booker Prize each year!

All that aside, no matter how these race-baiting agitators vent, rant and instigate, they will change nothing. Their campaign has been so doggedly juvenile and at every turn, they fail. It all began with the Straight outta Compton missive and it has been one racially charged attack, assumption, innuendo-filled report after another. All have been transparently specious: There will never be an engagement; The Queen would never allow it. Then, indeed, when it happened, HM The Queen was dismissed as clearly demented. Meghan is not fit to be a royal. She has been married three times before. She is actually 41. Samantha is secretly raising her bastard child. She is just a z-list actress. She is a yacht girl, She was not properly vetted. She is a narcissist. She is vile; how could she not speak to her father? Doria is a felon and was imprisoned. She abandoned her dogs. She was living with Corey and seeing Prince Harry. I hate Prince Harry. Oh Harry what have you done? All that The Queen has worked for! That was not a royal wedding. All that gospel crap and all the celebrities; it made a mock of royal weddings. There was clearly tension in the marriage when Meghan brushed off Harry whilst sat in the quire at HRH Princess Eugenie’s marriage. Eugenie’s was a real royal wedding. Meghan’s dress was a disgrace and it did not fit.

Days after having decided that there was trouble in the Sussexes’ marriage, there was the announcement of the pregnancy; this was readily followed by Meghan being attacked: she is selfish and narcissistic, for having announced the pregnancy at Eugenie’s wedding; this of course when they had no idea when the rest of the Royal family was informed of the pregnancy. She bleaches her skin. None of those celebrities at her wedding know her. It was the worse wedding ever; definitely, it was not a royal wedding. All that money on clothes and she never looks good; they are all ill-fitting clothes. Thank god, she is such a terror that the queen has banished her to Frogmore Cottage, right next to Wallis Simpson’s grave. Prince William can see through her. She has caused nothing but trouble in the royal family. They need to be banished. She is Wallis Simpson reincarnated (never mind that you first have to die before reincarnating; Wallis died in 1986, five years after Meghan’s birth. Moreover, there is usually anywhere from 15 to 30 years, roughly twenty before most souls reincarnate). Harry doesn’t smile anymore. Harry is lost. Harry is pussy-whipped. She is not pregnant. Pillow gate. Stop clutching that bump. There is a pillow, see how it moves. She is not pregnant. She is definitely using a surrogate. Oh my god, she is writing notes on the bananas, who does that? Who does she think she is? Thank god William was born first. Kate is a real princess. Catherine is pure class; never puts a foot wrong.

This campaign of race-baiting and hatred is but a macrocosm of the microcosmic dynamic which is acted out in families all too often. A perfectly balanced child is projected onto and bullied into fitting into some ascribed persona within the family’s iconographic dictates. Bob the little devil or Miranda the little Lolita when in fact, these archetypes have nothing to do with the subject of the projection. Daily attack articles and specious speculative articles in the print medium to further incite the public to hatred changes nothing. Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex is phenomenally popular across the Commonwealth, in particular amongst blacks. This need to vilify Meghan is rooted in the collective psyche of white tribalism, which feels itself tasked with having to remain top baboon as it were as the white population in Western Europe contracts and is further stressed by the burgeoning Islamic population in its midst. This need to play soap opera with the royals is part and parcel of that dynamic need to be on top… and always winning, One must ever be in control and be first, better than and all that maya. This is why Simon Cowell has become phenomenally wealthy; he is simply tapping into the tribal zeitgeist. Cowell knows damn well that regardless how good a singer is, he can depend on the predominantly white audience be it in America or the UK to choose a white contestant over a non-white any and every time. This phenomenon precisely is why Jennifer Hudson did not win during the year that she appeared on American Idol. There is a grudging need to bar, hamper and eclipse the non-white other, in favour of one’s own. If this truly racialised paradigm existed in the 1960s, there would have been no Aretha Franklin, no Patti Labelle, Chaka Khan et al – simply too black. Indeed, in this racialised caste system, the global paradigm does exist just as much as the current environmental collapse such that were Henry to have chosen a Chinese, East Indian or Jewish bride, though, there would have been pockets of disapproval, it would have been comparably muted at best and nowhere near the lynch mob intensity that animus towards Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become, thanks in large part to the orchestrated propaganda produced by racially predatory boors like Pierre-Karl Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss and Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown.

Of course, in all of this, they keep focussing on Meghan as they are so perplexed by the rumbling tectonics in the Cambridges’ marriage. Recently at the revived King’s Cup Regatta 2019 at the Isle of Wight, there was Catherine being her steely warrior-spirited self. After receiving her wooden spoon for placing last, the female who placed second along with William her husband, took to the stage and on receiving her champagne tried to get next to William and in a move that was pure warrior canny, Catherine shimmied with lightning ease into place and thereby blocked the woman from getting close to ‘her’ man. Throughout their stay on the stage William made no mistake about telegraphing how utterly disinterested and fed up he is, having to be stuck with Catherine. Naturally, none of this will ever be reported by the likes of Pierre-Karol Gorgon, Alanna Plattapuss, nor will there be another shrill blast from the pompous ass, Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown herself (himself). Every warrior is the dominant partner in any relationship and Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge is no exception that is why I am fully confident that she will fare better than Diana, Princess of Wales did; moreover, Diana an artisan was doing battle with her warrior partner, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales.

William is immensely innately arrogant for being a scholar and his astrological stellium and his attitude number of 9 are precisely why in the above clip, he does not bow to HM The Queen. He sees himself as a Sovereign – as in all time is present; since he will be sovereign in the future, simultaneously he is sovereign in the past since birth and now. William with an attitude of 9 is incapable of not holding grudges and he very likely regards both his father and paternal grandmother as having been complicit in his mother’s demise.

William like every scholar incarnate will wander but he will always be miserable being with Catherine because she will suffer no Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall – herself a scholar soul. This is why though things got a little too chummy at Houghton Hall, it will only ever be whispered about; the chatelaine of Houghton Hall will never displace Catherine as future Princess of Wales. Try coming between task companions and good luck with trying to displace that task companion, who happens to be a warrior – not happening.

In the meantime, William will just have to merrily go roving along as is his scholarly and princely wont to find other prey. Just as Melissa Percy had no intention of sharing either her man or her bed, so, too, strong-willed, warrior Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge will never be dislodged by another. Thus Thomas van Straubenzee is on to marriage number two, which will no doubt leave William with continued full access to both his loyal public school special chum and Thomas’ blissfully unaware blonde walker.

Fascinatingly enough, as the days drift by after Jeffrey Epstein convenient expiration, there is a gnawing, burgeoning silence as that vile, toxic bigot remains conspicuously silent, News of the World vile snob and bigot, Gorgon. Please dear god, let his name appear just once somewhere in association with Jeffrey Epstein, The Trump-loving, nasty racist parasite… just one photograph; that is all it takes to have the tables turn on that fucking nez brun, snivelling twat, Pierre-Karol Gorgon. These racial predators who use the print medium to race-bait as they know law number one being, familiarity breeds contempt. Yes, indeed, every day multiple scathing articles against Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

What more proof does one need that these gutter snipes are purely racially focussed in their agendum of attacking Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex? Somehow, the very real spectre of paedophilia raises its can’t- shake head and not a peep out of these persons, who so claim to love their venerable institution, the Monarchy. How or when pray tell has Meghan been a paedophile or when did she take funds from crass, foreign parvenu fare? No indeed, not a single winded turn, grandstanding with faux indignation of Meghan being unsuitably common and a dark blemish on royalty that must not be suffered overlong.

Indeed, this is a civilisation where one does not have to think; you are simply groomed to form opinions on anything. Naturally, it is a culture that prides itself on being negative; one sees being negative as a good thing. After 60 years of television, the same negative, readily racially predatory animus towards blacks had a new outlet in being able to comment, anonymously no less, on the internet – just as one has done for 7 decades in the privacy of one’s home when looking at television. With Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, we have reached a new plateau in mob rule… Indeed, it is a new form of lynching wherein Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has become surrounded by a forest of burning crosses as these non-blacks in their lust for blood and addiction to hate have never been more ecstatic. And everyone of these people will let you know that it has nothing to do with race and they all, for one being black, have to mention out of the blue how, they can’t stand or they just hate that Meghan.

Who has time for anything but apathy when seeing Notre Dame Cathedral ablaze indeed. Enough of giving a damn; no more of this Pray for Paris fare on social media… just not worth it. The week following the Jeffrey Epstein suicide, homicide – you decide – old Gorgon goes into hiding and is conveniently on a break – goodness knows, unless he is in hibernation en route to Mars, there is no reason why News of the World potty-mouth should not be foaming at the mouth about unroyal-like conduct. Alas, there is more acrimony against the Sussexes, while the Cambridge’s privately jet to Mustique and they to Spain, though, the Sussex’s trip is less taxing on the environment, the Sussexes are labelled eco-hypocrites.

Then to top off the week, new polling numbers show that Catherine is now more popular than Meghan and even Harry, thanks to Meghan’s negative impact has slipped in popularity. Well guess what Einsteins, Diana Krall was more popular than Natalie Cole, Shirley Horn, Nancy Wilson and Betty Carter combined. Simply put, tribalism is more pronounced with Caucasians than any other group. They will ever hate, hiss and boo Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex in the United Kingdom; indeed, no predominantly non-black Commonwealth nation has yet extended the Sussexes an invitation, though, HM The Queen, appointed them Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors – a title which was largely due in part because HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge has yet to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation and with an attitude number of 9, numerologically, nothing would get him to budge on touring such countries. Naturally, with the marriage of Henry & Meghan, though, he has previously toured those countries, predominently non-white, non-black Commonwealth Singapore and Malaysia have invited the Cambridges to tour autumn 2019, in an obvious move to show their disfavour at Henry having married the black woman.

What would move Elton John to make this impassioned post to his Instagram account about the racially predatory abuse that TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex are being subjected to? Elton John like model, Lauren Hutton, James Middleton, Madonna and every gap-toothed adult Caucasian was in his immediate past life black. Not surprisingly, Elton was the only non-black on the AIDS charity anthem of 1985, That’s What Friends Are For. The abuse has gone way beyond the line and one can no longer idly stand by and say nothing.

There she is Madonna and if ever one needed validation that this is someone who is completely at ease and accepting of blacks’ humanity, you need no further proof. There are people the world over, not least Hollywood, who would find it extremely uncomfortable being in the same room as someone black. Madonna’s extended family and the love between her and David Banda as well as all her other children is all the validation one needs that in her immediate past life she was Bessie Smith and prior to that, a few lifetimes before, 17th century Italian composer, Claudio Monteverdi.

“Race is everything and yet it is nothing…” a phrase Merlin often repeated during our seven years together at the incidences of racism which he witnessed for being my lover. Naturally, Canada has yet to invite the Sussexes on a tour – though, one can hardly be surprised at that. 70 million Britons may hate Meghan’s guts but there are close to a billion blacks in the Commonwealth for whom the Sussexes will always matter. Meanwhile, there were no body language experts waxing overlong about William’s aloofness at the King’s Cup Regatta. The fact that Gorgon, Bianca et al are not writing about the obvious problems in the Cambridges’ marriage does not mean that it does not exist. Goodness, they have just spent a whole week in the 24/7 news cycle of 21st century online news media, making positively no mention of Jeff Epstein and the troubling connections that the Earl Porchester clearly had with the conveniently deceased paedophile whose autopsy showed from the broken neck vertebrae that he was a likely murder rather than suicide.

150 years hence, historians will look back at the Cambridge’s marriage and point to whatever drama unfolds between now and then and point to their rowing en route to Buckingham Palace from Westminster Abbey and Catherine’s rude dismissal of William whilst they stood on the balcony being celebrated and William’s fate was being sealed. Who cares how adored you are by outsiders, being trapped in a miserable marriage must be sheer hell. No need to gloat about how more popular Catherine is than Meghan, which would not be the case had Henry married blonde Chelsy Davy or Cressida Bonas. Indeed, if Henry had married a Chinese, East Indian or Jew, though, there would doubtless be resentment, it would by no means be so rabid and unrelentingly feral.

The fact remains, when and where it matters most, it is a public role and all the scathing, derogatory, race-baiting articles notwithstanding, Meghan’s commanding performance at the 2018 British Fashion Awards was a salvo which illustrated why she has more star power than Catherine and no amount of hatred is going to change that. It has been cruel to watch how Catherine is being jousted to get out there and suddenly make speeches.

God lord, the poor woman is not then and never will be in her element; she is glorious at being Catherine, future Queen Consort, sporty and ever steely but being speech-giver is no forte of hers – never has been, never will be. The sad thing about Meghan’s speech at the 2018 British Fashion Awards is that it has been heavily edited and only now carried by the Royal Family’s YouTube channel. It is almost as if, Meghan cannot to be seen to be outshining Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge; moreover, I think that palace mandarins may have deemed Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex’s speech too political.

One should never forget the song which the Kingdom Choir sung as the newly wedded TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel Windsor Castle, This Little Light of Mine. No amount of racial animus or hatred will ever be able to eclipse the light of the soul which, when previously incarnate, was the Tudor Matriarch, Queen Mother to Henry VII, grandmother and favourite adviser to Henry VIII and great-grandmother to HM Queen Elizabeth I.

Good god! Talk about true hypocrisy! Where in the hell are Vicereen Bianca of Trenchtown and that louche bigot whose unsavoury deeds precipitated News of the World’s demise, Pierre-Karol Gorgon? That’s right, not a peep out of them. This is the same royalty that they have been defending against the likes of the descendant of enslaved Africa and a hustler to boot, being deemed not fit to be royal. Imagine that, the black woman excoriated with coded language like hustler well at least she is not a blasted paedophile! There is damn value in Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex being welcome as she was by HM The Queen and her gracious father-in-law, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, she is articulate, intelligent, strong-willed and has commanding stage presence; she is indeed the beau idéal when one wants to address and engage the Commonwealth, which is predominantly brown and black.

Well at long last Pierre-Karol Gorgon has come out of hiding! What does the no-balled fucker do, he blithely goes back to excoriating TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and pretending as though the biggest story in the House of Windsor has not reared its ugly head yet again. Yes, clueless, dickless one, keep caterwauling like the true castrato that you are but ignoring the elephant in the room, does not make it go away. There you go, karma has served up Epstein’s corpse go on carrion, no need to be bashful, go ahead and start feasting on the real story to be writing about and growing incandescent with rage. Fucking no-balled racial predator, you try convincing the rest of us that Meghan is not royal enough and your animus is not in the least rooted in racial hatred.

Your racial animus towards HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex for having married the black woman notwithstanding, do be very careful what you wish for. All this talk about: I cannot support this royal family anymore, they are nothing but hypocrites, nothing but scroungers. as soon as HM The Queen dies we need a referendum on the monarchy; we need to become a republic. In case you have not noticed, your marvellous empire Britannia is no longer a realm of white tribal homogeneity. Within your midst are persons who will never assimilate and within a generation of having declared a republic, you will end up with a succession of presidents, who will not look like you and who will want their religious laws, and get their religious laws become the law of the land. These presidents will have been groomed from birth to perceive you as the enemy who must be vanquished… go on keep being blinded by hatred of the black woman and see where it gets you.

But enough about bothering with blasted racial predators, who as karma would have it, has backhanded them good and hard with Jeffrey Epstein’s convenient, though by no means ended, demise. Now the drama royal, truly gets underway in coming months. Go on, likkle jagabat, let’s see your cocksucker mouth gag with indignation, feigned or otherwise, about the bold audacity to have mere paedophiles in one’s regal realm. Go on, we know you can’t afford to go grouse-hunting, time to eat crow… blasted fraud.

In the meantime, I have pre-ordered my very own copy of Master Andrew Lownie’s deliciously indulgent exposé about one of my favourite rats, Earl Louis Mountbatten… Oh Louella darling, clutch your pearls, lick your lips, it’s going to prove a true bibliophilic gourmand’s wet dream… and infinitely better fare than that trifling garbage that ought rightly to have been pulped! I cannot wait to read this book! When Merlin was first hospitalised with full-blown AIDS, at Toronto’s St. Michael’s Hospital in January 1988, he began ferociously re-reading every book that had brought him the greatest pleasure; this is someone who concluded reading a book each day. One of the books he shared with me as he knew what books I most loved, was this wonderful book about Mahatma Gandhi’s life; of course, one of the first films we saw together was Gandhi at the Ziegfeld in Midtown Manhattan way after midnight, after we had been to dinner, fucked like rottweilers then headed off into the night, holding hands – a thing which back in 1982, you most definitely could not then have done in Toronto, and saw a film that moved us to tears. There within the covers of that biography, I discovered the most ravishingly fascinating couple, Louis & Edwina Mountbatten. Now, there was a true vicereen!

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Lesson In Older Soul Lovemaking.

14.08.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

So, on Friday, November 3, 1995, as the gibbous Moon waxed in Pisces – measurably drifting across my tenth house – I would dream this dream which concerned the dynamic between both Merlin and Oleg.

*For the record, Oleg in a previous incarnation was the English writer, Charlotte Bronte. END.

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A house that much reminded me of the one in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts proved the setting for this most potent dream. There were five of us here; although, one person’s identity now eludes me. There in the living room, seated on the blue sofa of our Crab Hill home, was Merlin with his back to the north. Directly behind him was the five-foot oblong mirror; it was hung against the living room’s wall. On the other side of that wall, in the waking sate, was Harella’s bedroom.

Here in the dreamtime, which was definitely astral plane in focus, the living room was elongated; it was more oblong-shaped, along a north-south axis. Merlin’s right side was closer to the veranda and the main road with the McHughs across the road. Across the room from me, with her back to the street and facing due east, was Gita Gurucharan – Oberon Samuelson’s lovely wife and mother to miracle worker extraordinaire, Vijayalakshmi Gurucharan. Oleg de Brontë was seated directly opposite Merlin. There was a man, to my immediate left, who sat directly opposite Gita. Whilst I was closer to Merlin than anyone in the room, I was not however sharing the sofa with him.

Abruptly, Merlin got up and took his leave of us. He went into Harella’s bedroom. The others had dropped by to visit. It was clear, early on, that Merlin simply wasn’t into it. There was strain to the social dynamic which Merlin put an end to – he rudely took his leave of us. This was so unlike his former self during his recently-concluded incarnation. Yet, I fully understood where he was coming from. Whilst being in the soul state, he was now more so his true self. This gathering of persons represented the past to him, which at this point, clearly served no interest for him.

I then got up and stood next to Gita who was on my right. After Merlin rudely took his leave of us, we had all silently gotten up. To say the least, it was awkward. As we faced towards the dining room, our backs were now to the veranda. Filling the void that Merlin’s departure had created, Gita and I began making conversation. To say the least, it was a strained, canned affair. Here, I was keenly aware of how much I am dismissed as a social misfit. I was aware that these were persons who had long ago decided that I was not the swiftest of souls – I don’t indulge in clever repartee and such plastic aggressiveness when socialising.

The Black man then came over; he was tall and handsome with a gorgeously mesomorphic body. He stood to my left, directly facing Gita, and began talking. There were a lot of pauses here; they were trying to get me to shove off by firmly excluding me. Finally, I dryly said, “Well, I’m going to go and see how my man is doing.”

I then walked between the chairs, on which Oleg and the Black man sat, as though heading for the boys’ bedroom rather than Harella’s to which Merlin had retreated. I then, however, made an abrupt turn left going instead through the door from the living room to Harella’s bedroom. On entering the bedroom, I saw that Merlin was lying in the girls’ bedroom next-door. Merlin seemed as though asleep. He did look as though ill with full-blown AIDS. It was not, however, distressing to have seen him thus; I was lucidly awakened here.

Initially, when out in the living room, Merlin looked robust and even leaned towards a robust, mesomorphic body type. It was clear though that having to visit with these persons, from the past, had very much so enervated his spirits. Rather than sit there interminably, enduring what was an unpleasant situation for him, he thankfully had taken refuge when he had. On drawing closer to him, I gently caressed his face – all the while thinking of how difficult this was for him. I wanted to share some of my energies with him; I wanted to restore his. The vibrations from the living room, however, were distracting.

After excusing myself from Merlin, I returned to the living room. Immediately, I dramatically shifted personae and became rude. I told them to sit down, at which point, we all did. Oleg then got up after awhile; he was holding a long-necked, brown beer bottle. There were three empty identical ones on the floor and next to his chair. There was no mistaking the fact that he was drunk.

‘Who the hell gets drunk on the astral plane anyway?’

Oleg wore a woollen jacket that was dark and nondescript. Incidentally, on my return, the Black man was no longer present. In his place was a White man with the same physical description; he came over trying to save face. The unfamiliar man charmingly suggested that it was time that they pushed off. Oleg had gotten very drunk indeed; he was not at all being belligerent. It turned out that Oleg had gotten emotionally distraught – about Merlin’s condition; he was upset at the way that things had turned out between them. The fact that things were unresolved between them, at the end of Merlin’s last life, caused Oleg a great deal of distress.

He did not know how else to deal with it; thus, Oleg got miserably drunk. I wanted to be of solace to Oleg, however, since my energies were already committed to being with Merlin that option proved a nonstarter. Clearly, Gita and the other man had been there to try and broker some sort of peace between Oleg and Merlin. Obviously, Merlin was not up to it. At one point, I had actually headed to the dining room and called back to Oleg. My voice rang out as I asked Oleg if he wanted another beer.

This was the point at which the unfamiliar White man had interrupted and declined the offer; instead, he suggested that they take their leave of Merlin and me. Oleg, of course, was inclined to take another drink. I did not like my role here – that of keeping Oleg grounded by drink. Certainly, it did give the impression that I was trying to block any resolution or any communion between both him and Merlin. Although, to be honest, Oleg had begun drinking after Merlin had left the room. It was quite embarrassing really. Oleg could hardly get up – let alone stand on his own.

The man had had to rush to Oleg’s aid. Like Merlin in the bedroom, Oleg was completely enervated though he had used alcohol to drown his pain. Oleg was devastated that Merlin was not going to return. More importantly, Oleg knew that Merlin had positively no intentions of suffering him for a minute. The man threw his arms about Oleg and braced him up. More than that, he was fortifying his very spirit.

Again, I took my leave of them in the living room and headed back for Merlin. However, I did not spend time visiting with Merlin. On returning to the bedroom, I got a long, black, woollen evening coat. It was rather expensive and cut close to the body. Bearing the coat, I returned to the living room where I insisted that Oleg take it to stay warm. For not realising that he had been drinking to excess, I had felt badly. He was truly distraught; nothing pained me more than seeing this truly beautiful man’s spirit in disrepair.

Whilst his White friend got him into the coat, I stood in back of a disjointed Oleg and held the evening coat open. Interestingly enough, Oleg’s handsome, Black friend earlier was the same handsome Black man, with the striking resemblance to Maxwell Bowleson – he had appeared with him in that august-energied dream, on Friday, July 21, 1995. Eventually, they all took their leave of the house; they were rather low-key when doing so. When I had returned to the living room, after having visited with Merlin in the girls’ bedroom, Gita had not said anything further.

No sooner than had they all left the house that Merlin came out to the living room to join me. I was surprised to see that he was again looking so healthy. Directly opposite Merlin, I now sat alone. Merlin silently sat there. Whilst consciously sending him loving energies, I held my back erect. Much to my surprise and amusement, Merlin carried a large, clear plastic bag with about 1.5 pounds, likely more, of marijuana. Merlin meticulously rolled a large thick joint with all the Zen focus as he had when incarnate.

I sat there being truly blown away at the sight. I had completely forgotten the sublime, almost Zen, sight of Merlin rolling a joint. Moments like this were when Merlin really turned up the hues of his magus nature. It was a groove into which he slipped, in order to conceptualise – to non-linearly think. These ganja joints were so thick that they looked like short white cigars; they certainly smoked profusely like a cigar does. I was mildly humoured by Merlin’s realness. It was grounding.

On looking up, Merlin paused before lighting up and turned up the sensual hues in his large brown – which they were not when incarnate – eyes. Coolly, Merlin intoned, “I have no intentions of seeing these people…”

He then pursed the fat joint in his rosy lips and lit up. Casually, Merlin blew on a long even breath that readily perfumed the air with its pungent aroma. Up to that point, the room was sillaged by that most glorious of scents patchouli – it was Merlin’s favourite fragrance. As an afterthought, Merlin added that Oleg had intended to come back tomorrow and join him for lunch. There was supposed to be some woman or other present then.

Apparently, it was not going to be either Morag O’Hoare or Gita Gurucharan. I don’t know who she was supposed to be but it was also definitely not Elektra Skanczchowicz – and definitely not Hélène Plotte-Visage. Merlin took his time and drew on another breath. He then announced that the luncheon had been arranged by none other than Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny. Merlin, however, was not into it. “Are you sure that you’re going to be up to it?” I asked obviously concerned.

As I looked across the room at Merlin, I spent a great deal of time being spiritually focussed and sent him energy. What was really interesting in this process was that with his long even breaths, when dragging on the ganja joint, I used his breathing rhythm to become harmonised with his vibration. The focussed process of sharing my energy with him was very potent – real. The energy flowed with great ease. For being intensely lucid, I thought of elevating my vibration’s frequency. I had hoped to thus cycle off a ton of my energy into Merlin. I accomplished this by envisioning us both encircled by spheres of intense blue-white light. Soon, I saw my energy body cycling off a coil of white light.

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This light originated both from the top and bottom of the sphere of light which completely enveloped my seated body. The light travelled the distance between us, across the room, some seven feet away at most. It made contact with both poles of his energy body’s identical sphere’s integrity. Together, we were truly in communion soul-to-soul. The interesting thing here was that we both continued casually visiting though I knew that Merlin was keenly aware of the energy work that was being accomplished between us. As he continued his detached Zen-like smoking, I knew that it served as a backdrop to his being receptive of the energy work that I was doing on his behalf. Our breathing was completely synchronised.

I used each inhalation to draw off the negative vibrations. It was this energy that had caused him to become completely enervated when seated opposite Oleg whom he clearly had no desire to have encountered. Merlin then chose to abruptly retire, whilst the others visited, to the girls’ bedroom to crash. With each exhalation, I sent him intense, white-light energy that was being liquidly drunk by his energy body. The marvellous thing about this entire experience was how utterly feminine Merlin’s modalities were. This was in marked contrast to my very masculine, martial, warrior-energied focus.

It was truly a validation of the creative principle, Merlin being yin to my yang. Together we were becoming whole. Together our energies were perfectly harmonised. As a result, Merlin’s energies were thusly realigned. Too, for being in this very expansive state, I caught brief glimpses of the outlines of the light energies that were being manifested between us. During the moments when he would exhale potent puffs of smoke, I observed the manifested spheres of light each time. The smells of the patchouli and ganja, combined with the ganja’s smoke, created the effect. I was so grounded for being here in this astral plane reanimation of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house. It was a truly sublime shamanic experience.

It was clear that Merlin had no desire to experience unpleasant aspects of the past. As he sat there, Merlin waited for the air to clear; he waited for the ganja to wane and the strobe of the light spheres to fade out before replying, “No, no. It’s okay. I’ll be okay…” As Merlin spoke for the first time, he looked healthier than he had looked at any point before during our astral plane dream encounter. Earlier, he was lying on his stomach with his left cheek on the pillow; his face looked out the door that led to the room from Harella’s bedroom. There was a cool sheen of sweat then that covered his brow and body; he laid there looking truly wasted.

Even his breathing was loud then. As I patted his cool brow, I could hear the crackling in his lungs that suggested that he was again suffering from a bout of pneumocystis. On soothing his spirit, I had brushed the wet strands of his shoulder-length hair from his brow. It was so very good to have seen Merlin. The most exquisite pleasure of being in his presence was the great sense of peace that I felt for seeing him whole again. The simple act of his rolling a joint was, for me, on the order of bliss; he was transcendent. Of course, as was the case during our relationship in the waking state, he did not offer me a toke of the cigar-like joint.

I do know that I found the second-hand smoke pleasurable. It was sweet; it did much to relax me, along with the focussed deep breathing that I independently did – that we did in unison and which had been triggered by his breaths when smoking the joint. Feeling the need to come down from the intense energy work that I had accomplished with Merlin, I got up and walked slowly over to Merlin. I asked him if he was going to be okay on his own. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about; he would be fine. I knew it too. So with that, I took my leave of him. In a bid to move back into my regular-dream body, I went out to get some air on the veranda.

He assured me that I did not need to come back, later on, and join him. He would be quite okay to handle things on his own, he assured me. I believed him. Merlin simply glowed throughout; his cheeks were flushed and fleshy even. Merlin looked centred and genuinely contented. I then found some ice cream, beneath one of the living room chairs, which earlier I had been eating. Naturally, it was not all that great as it had melted down and lost its flavour.

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Yeah groovy people, you know the score, just plié, push off and fly like when you have just had the greatest sex and dance as if this gorgeous planet ain’t nobody’s property but yours. I love you more.

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Catherine: A Deeper Shade of Vermeer.

08.07.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Girl with a Pearl Earring, Oil on Canvas Johannes Vermeer 1665.

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Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Doria Ragland. HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl Dumbarton. Jane, Baroness Fellowes. Lady Sarah McCorquodale. HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.

As I stated to a dear friend, “Doria is all the Queen they need in that photograph!” Not for a second do I buy the notion that HM The Queen stayed away because, when it is all said and done, she does not approve of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Her Majesty also did not attend HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge’s christening last year.

It is so immensely satisfying to see HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex matured into fatherhood and his numerological double-sixthness is validated by his open warmth, love and protective care of both his wife and his beautiful baby boy.

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Archie, a seventh-level mature priest soul; he is infinitely more evolved than either his parents, or the Cambridge’s for that matter. He is, though, the same soul age as his paternal grandfather, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, however, Charles is a seventh-level warrior to exalted role priest, Archie. This man is going to perform a rather dynamic role within the history of the House of Windsor.

Much has been said about Prince William’s demeanour in this portrait. Without doubt, both the Cambridges attended Archie’s christening with an agendum of their own. I don’t know if William put his wife up to her power play but I do know this, it was decidedly vile and you can bet your bottom dollar that none of this went unnoticed, nor for that matter will it go unchallenged by Meghan – she who was Margaret Beaufort in a past life.

So, William threw shade. Quelle surprise ça. William does as William does. Born on the summer solstice of 1982, he has a geniture that is most unique; it comes with an intense stellium. That is not necessarily a good thing; with so many planets closely concentrated, this gives him a tendency towards short-sightedness and in his position as future Prince of Wales, he takes very seriously his role as future king and acts autocratically at every turn. He did not invite his aunts to the christenings of any of his three children. William did not invite, Sarah, Duchess of York to his wedding. After the birth of his firstborn, he decamped at the Middletons in Bucklebury and avoided his father, the future king. As with most people with a numerological attitude of 9, which is the hardest number to master, he does things more often than not for spite.

Of course, he could not be more different to his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who is born in the year of the rat, like his father and his paternal great-grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. Rats, I am one, are deeply loyal and will always be inclusive of family to the point of appearing sentimental. This would be especially pronounced in a rat like Harry who is a warrior soul and such souls are deeply loyal. So, too, is HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales a warrior soul and also, HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh a mature warrior born in the year of the rooster like Meghan. Warriors forget nothing and do not readily forgive insults – a pity William in his myopic blissfulness remains unaware of this.

Saturday, for Archie’s christening, true to his warrior/rat spirit, Harry had his beloved mum’s sisters present at the christening just as Jane, Baroness Fellowes read scripture at his beautiful, historic wedding to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Every rat would do exactly the same. Well there were TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge smugly telegraphing their ennui for all the world to see. As a warrior soul, I would not have expected such a gutter snipe move on Catherine’s part on Saturday.

As this was Harry’s firstborn’s christening and he was so deeply bonded to his mum, Catherine who had never worn those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’, to any of her three children’s christening, rather than loaning the earrings to Meghan by way of affording them to Harry so that his lovely wife could wear them as they would mean so much to Harry as his mother had worn them for his christening, instead, there sat Catherine feigning hauteur whilst smugly smiling to those in the know. Indeed, this was Catherine’s star turn, which was just as vile as HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s infamous blackamoor brooch outing in December, 2017.

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Positively nothing that these courtiers do is happenstance. In essence, in wearing those earring of Diana, Princess of Wales’, which she had worn to Harry’s – and William’s for that matter – christening, Catherine was in effect saying to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, as much as Harry would like for you to have them, seeing as you are straight outta Compton, there is no guarantee that you’ll return them. No matter, as long as I wear them, Diana’s spirit will be present. This was a very cruel and low blow and not the sort of dirty pool that warrior souls engage in. I am betting that William put his wife up to it; however, as Catherine’s right eye has become increasingly pained and umbraed in the past few years, she is clearly deeply stressed by the pressures of being married to William, who also happens to be her task companion. Notice the way that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge wears her hair at Archie’s christening; the high headband, with the hair fully pulled back and the headband ruby-coloured to best set off the pearl earrings, worn by Diana, Princess of Wales at her sons’ christenings. With the headband, there is no chance of Catherine luscious main covering the pearl earrings, the choice of which are to telegraph much to those courtiers in the know.

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Catherine’s right eye since HRH Prince George of Cambridge’s christening in 2013, has become pained, saddened and distant. I also suspect that she may have become anorexic from the stress of being wedded to William who as a scholar soul is void emotional depth and can be expected to be keenly spiteful.

In this clip for William’s christening, at the five second mark, Diana, Princess of Wales turns to the left to look and speak to Charles who wanted to mop up William’s dribbling and it is then that you see that Diana is wearing the same earring. It is not lost on me that clearly Diana is being rude to Charles when he offers to wipe away the dribble. Of course, William was christened on August 4, 1982; it was Charles’ beloved grandmother’s 82 birthday, which is precisely the sort of gift that a rat would present his much loved family member. Ironically enough, on that day, it was Prince Charles’ future daughter-in-law’s first birthday, the admired and adored Tungsten.

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At all three christenings for her adorable children, Catherine did not wear those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’. I am sure that if she wanted to, William would have decided against it as there is nothing sentimental about him and scholars by their nature are not given to being sentimental. Three different earrings for all three children’s christenings. I think that it would have been especially cruel if Meghan had thought to ask her husband, Prince Harry to request those pearl earrings that Diana wore to his christening, only to have William veto the request then turn around and have his wife parade them at the christening – this of course would play beautifully to those courtiers like the Michaels of Kent et famille; it is precisely the sort of petty spitefulness that would have made Meghan put her foot down and insist that they relocate to Frogmore Cottage and away from the vipers’ nest that Kensington Palace so clearly had become for the Sussexes.

Of course, wearing the earrings would be seen as further rejection, coming so close on the heels of the disbanding of the Royal Foundation. Not to worry, as an American and Black American, you can bet your bottom dollar the very shrewdly canny Tungsten will have a rebuttal. Besides, who is Catherine to Meghan, she is a mousy little thing, who did not walk the aisle at her wedding alone; indeed, how Meghan must sniff and look sideways from beneath raised, bored brows every time Catherine has to go gag on a mic as William pushes her to be more relevant and not be eclipsed by the Compton interloper. As for William, Meghan is likely little bothered by a petulant, spiteful man-child, who has to be told not to sit with his back to the horses on entering the open landau on his wedding day.

Just as including his aunts, Harry would have thought to have his wife wear the earrings that his beloved mum wore to his christening. This is the sort of warrior/rat thoughtfulness that saw Prince Charles salute his beloved grandmother – another rat, though, a second-level mature slave soul – by having his firstborn christened on her 82nd birthday.

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HM King Henry VIII’s ruthlessness was the result of having been mentored and much loved by his grandmother, Margaret Beaufort – Matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty… kingmaker. Well, that soul who was then Margaret Beaufort is back and did not return to be anyone’s pushover, as her entrance unaccompanied at her wedding in May, 2018 demonstrated. A mean-spirited move, it most definitely was on the part of both William and Catherine by having Catherine wear earrings, which I am almost certain, Harry would have requested of them that his mother’s pearl earrings be loaned to his wife as a continuation of that rat/warrior reference and homage to both history and his beloved mum. Naturally, such a request would have been a perfect opportunity for William to have been callously spiteful as he has proven time and again with others – Sarah, Duchess of York, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, his father.

Naturally, the media did not portray Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as having been duplicitous by having worn the earrings that Diana, Princess of Wales wore to Harry’s christening. Why on earth had it never occurred to Catherine to wear those earrings to any of her children’s christenings? Just imagine if Meghan had done any such thing, it would have garnered an excessive response of outrage on the online tabloid portals with their legions of bigoted trolls.

Indeed, lynching Meghan is now big business, just imagine, even that Trenchtown jagabat came yammering that can’t-shake mid-Atlantic accent of hers as she opined on both Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales. Running off at the mouth as though she knew Diana, Princess of Wales. Would that she would just shut up and crawl into her casket… I want a damn good return on that godawful, and justly pulped, ode to specious slander – a copy of which sits in my library, awaiting her exit. She no more knew Diana, Princess of Wales than she does or ever will know Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

At the end of the day, the real masterpiece, worth more than a gaggle of Vermeers, is the product of the love that Harry and Meghan share; it has resulted in the most beautiful baby boy, Archie, the Earl Dumbarton.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support. Here’s wishing you the most gloriously lucid dreams. I love you more.

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Givenchy & Valentino

04.07.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Givenchy (Clare Waight Keller) Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020.

Monochromatic, feathers, and all that silver… to say nothing for the headpieces.

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Valentino (Pierpaolo Piccioli) Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2019/2020.

Everything about this show was simply masterful… from the music, Ennio Morricone’s score to The Mission with the show being closed to Aretha Franklin singing Natural Woman. So much colour, so much verve and attack; the structure and that ruffled purple gown at the end. Bravissimo!

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Go on cool kats, you know what to do, push down, plié, push off and start flying your merry little hearts out… cause life is a dream and you damn well can…. I love you more. Thanks for the ongoing support…

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Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

30.06.201909.12.2024 Arvin da Brgha1 Comment

Diana, Princess of Wales & HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.

On the eve of what would have been her 58th birthday, I share a dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales. At the time of the dream, July, 1996, Diana was then incarnate and would be dead less than 14 months later. The dream suggested Diana, parenting a male child of mixed race heritage. Naturally, at the time of the dream, she was not then yet involved with Dodi Al-Fayed. Years later, whilst living in Montréal and transcribing the 250 audiocassette recordings of my dreams which spanned a decade, I happened on the dream. By the time of the transcription, Diana was dead and so, on poring through the dream I thought that the male child in the dream to whom Diana seemed a mother, must have been a child of hers and Dodi’s.

Fast forward twenty-three years from the dream in question and I am beginning to think that this exceptional male royal child was actually a dream of tuning into a future in which Diana was serving as protector of her beloved son’s own baby boy, Archie Harrison. The skull of the baby boy in the dream who seemed like a son of Diana, Princess of Wales’, is exactly shaped like that of Archie, Diana’s grandson by way of her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex with his black wife, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

Alas, another dream encounter with Diana, Princess of Wales. This one would involve moving into a probable reality scenario which may well have eventualised had she not tragically died thirteen months after having had the dream.

*Then again, it may well have been tuning into a future which has now come to pass wherein, the interracial Sussexes have a male firstborn. END.

As with the dream of July 9, 1993, in which I would have a most rapturous astral plane encounter with task companion, Merlin, here too there would be lots of train travel. This means of transportation, I have come to realise is employed by the soul when one is questing and traversing the astral either to past, future or probable timelines.

In this case, I had clearly dreamquested to a probable and non-too-distant future for Diana, Princess of Wales. Sadly, it was not to be. Obviously, in this probable near-future astral plane dream, Diana, Princess of Wales was fulfilled and had gone on to start a second family and was mother to a rather precocious son; a son whom I might add was clearly at least fourth level old-souled.

At the time, it was Sunday, July 27, 1996 and the Moon then transited both Capricorn and my eighth house. The house of death wherein is posited my retrograde Saturn, gave interesting insights to things as they might have unfolded as others’ agendum precluded Diana, Princess of Wales’s life becoming more of an inconvenience.

*Then, too, as time has unfolded, this rather prophetic dream was actually tuning into a probable reality which has become the collective future of human civilisation and one which we enjoy today. Here’s to TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex and their incredible baby boy, Archie Harrison. END.

Of course, at the time of these dreams, I was then resident in Vancouver’s West End. The dreams were audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and seventeen and to be found in volume XXII of the dream opus.

There was much sturm und drang in parts of the dreams as it mirrored the vicious tectonics, long after Merlin’s passing, being played out legally and otherwise with persons whom I am so glad to be finally rid of. Chief among them that STD-riddled, dominatrix poseuse and fag-hag to boot, who quixotically saw herself cast into the world to play Merlin’s protector and saviour – the dreams of lost village idiots… indeed.

At the end of the day, Merlin never liked her and rightly so considered her a damn idiot. At his passing, he had nothing to do with her; hence the fool spent the next two-plus decades being bedpan-changer of Merlin’s betrayers – a poor play at atonement that.

Enough about knock-kneed caribou roadkill; the journey endures. Besides, the bond with Merlin could never have been successfully broadsided.

Come now my magical darlings, mischievously sport that wry smile known only to kindred spirits, slip into a luxurious plié, take my hand and let’s have ourselves a delicious group flying dream. We are better for sharing this journey together; for your support, I love you more.

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Whilst heading down a street in what was undoubtedly Toronto, in this the first dream, it was then daytime. The street seemed like the one just around the corner from the Underground Railroad Restaurant, on King Street West, to the west of Sherbourne Street – Frederick Street. Going down Frederick Street’s incline, I noticed along a back lane that there was a large building. Too, I noticed a great many persons from past workplaces. The building seemed to be an annex to the main workplace as I had known it.

One of the first persons whom I recognised was Milton Bloomfield. He was wearing a pair of dark blue slacks and powder-blue short-sleeved shirt. Excited to see him, I bounded over and went around to the back entrance. Immediately, I began seeing persons whom I had completely forgotten about. Indeed, some of these persons looked as though they were definitely astral plane habitués. In particular, one old White male had that outré habitué look to him. I was simply astounded to have seen some of these persons. Truth be told, I had not thought of so many of them long in ages.

‘How quickly we do forget,’ I thought.

Such a very pleasant discovery of things past, it turned out to have been. That aside, I resumed my search of Milton Bloomfield in earnest. Again, I saw him in the distance. This time he was walking away from me without having noticed that I was there. In the end, though it would have been nice to have interacted with him, I just didn’t see the point in going after him. On going around another corner, since I was amongst persons from the past, I had thought to go in search of Yaramé Snead. I went over by some machines which no longer exist, in the waking state, seeing that she would shortly have shown up at the start of her shift. I then saw her at a desk working away and hurried over to be with her.

Stooping down to her left and rear, I playfully called out hello to her. On turning and seeing me, her reaction had been low-key. I was surprised really as I thought that she would at least have been her usual boisterous self. Her hair was beautifully braided. Frankly, I felt putout as she seemed not the least bit pleased to have seen me. With that, not wanting to be more of a seeming bother, I wrapped up the visit. Since she had declined to have become engaged, I just couldn’t be bothered to have invested much energy in the encounter.

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Part of the focus of this the second dream, a man and I were together and seemingly were lovers. Tall, he was a redhead; as such, he represented one of my more choice sexual partners. Somehow, this man was in showbiz. We were definitely lovers. Whilst looking at TV Rosie O’Donnell had made remarks about him that were rather cutting. Initially, I had thought that her remarks had been about Xerxes Hamelin. The joke had been a crude remark wondering as, to which sex Xerxes Hamelin was.

This was in reference to her having breast reduction surgery. As I did not appreciate the crass put-down of Xerxes Hamelin, I would abruptly take my leave. I then went indoors of a house which, here, was like moving from the veranda indoors of the Crab Hill house. A few persons were inside the house as I ranted, vowing to get that fat ugly dyke, Rosie O’Donnell. There also was much laughter as I added,

“And we all know that I’m wicked enough, to do just as I say. But first we’re going to sue her frigging Mickey ass.” But my lover didn’t want to go through with it, he was a showbiz lawyer. Snapping at him, I said,

“I won’t hear of it. I will not be cutting him or her any slack. Get her fucking ass! There is no way that that no-classed fool is going to insult Xerxes Hamelin and get off lightly. End of fucking discussion. We sue! During the show’s rehearsal when that joke came up around the production meeting table, she could have had the decency to say, ‘no way, I’m not doing that kind of humour’. Obviously, she fucking well didn’t.

“It’s not about the fucking money; she will learn a thing or two, when I’m done with her fat-retaining, tired-looking ass.” What really amazed me was how lucid and lived-in, in the body, I was. I was really killer mad and out to do battle, “There is positively no way that she’d have gone out there and made disparaging remarks about Jews. And if you can’t knock the fucking Jews, you sure the fuck can’t haul your tired grey arse out on a stage to knock Blacks. Just stop and think about it. If a Jew would have her head in a nanosecond, then so the fuck will I.”

After that, we went off together. My lover was ever quiet and reserved whilst I did much of the talking. In that sense, he energetically was much like Merlin. However, it definitely was not Merlin.

As we walked about, we ran into Diana, Princess of Wales, who had a little child on her hip. One had the sense that, after having divorced HRH Charles, Prince of Wales, she had gone on to start another family. Definitely, this third child of hers was a son. Apparently, she had always wanted a little girl but here she was with a dark-haired bouncing boy. Obviously, from the looks of things here, Diana, Princess of Wales was going to have more than one family.

One interesting feature was that the boy was born with almost a full mouth of teeth. I mentioned in passing that I guess if you end up grinning as much as she does, it would not be surprising to have newborns appear grin-ready. Too, the child was already able to say some words at birth. The child was exceptionally intelligent. The young son’s most interesting feature was that even at less than six weeks, he was able to follow conversations.

The eyes on this child were exceptionally old-souled and wise. Not the feigned coyness of Prince William was his demeanour. We were in a huge stately Bentley whilst the child sat on his regal mother’s lap. Diana, Princess of Wales sat on my left with my lover, a showbiz lawyer-celebrity, seated next to me. My lover was of British birth; he was a well-placed Londoner and terribly well-off at that.

He was part of the few in whom Diana, Princess of Wales confided and had done so during her divorce proceedings with the Firm. From the Bentley, we got into another car. Although he really didn’t need it, the precocious son was travelling in a basket here. This child perceptively was quite advanced for his mere few months of life. He represented hands down a case for reincarnation.

Though he could talk, especially for someone less than a year old, he was still rather stubby and full of baby fat. I took the rather self-aware child from Diana, Princess of Wales and headed for the car. I then didn’t know whether she would be sitting in back of the car with us. Considerately, I had opened the front door for her but she told me that it wasn’t necessary.

She then went into the back of the car at which point I returned her son to her. In all of this, the precocious son hadn’t uttered a word of whiny protest for having been separated. He had simply looked me in the eye whilst studying me and not, god forbid, because of something as absurd as my being Black. This woman, his mother, was rather a genuinely sweet-personalitied soul. Not your typical animus-charged, parvenu, New World wealthy snob, like heaven only knows so many North Americans, was she. After we had taken off, I had mentioned that I had heard Prince William – who now was much taller than her – was very well-hung.

Furthermore, he loved roughing it with all the little willing boys at Eton. This supposedly was hot gossip in those circles and which both my lover and Diana, Princess of Wales thought hysterical. She expressed great pride in having produced such a fine stud for the Firm. She mentioned that he had to start his studding practice sometime and far better that it be at Eton than with too many willing little girls the world over. Clearly, Diana, Princess of Wales had no desire to turn grandmother just yet. She was a very funny person with a distinctive snort-like giggle.

We then went into a store that was called something like Mayfair & Browne or something along those lines. A small, high-end department store it was.

*The warm blues here would suggest that it was, in fact, Fortnum & Mason. END.

Afterwards, we had attended the opening of Parliament where Queen Elizabeth II had naturally been present. The Queen had asked the House of Lords to stand and, at that point, they had drawn some heavy red drapes. At this point, there were rituals of an occult nature which were being performed. This had been the custom for centuries and had been nobody’s business. The few priests, who performed the rituals, spoke in an ancient tongue; olde English and Gaelic it would seem.

As part of the ceremony, the queen adopted a raspy, adversarial and tyrannical tone. She snapped at them as they spoke to her. Of course, this was to validate her absolute power as monarch. She had spoken by using the same ancient tongue as they had. Quite illuminating was all this for me. From where we all sat, the monarch sat opposite us at the far end of the stately hall. On the right was the House of Lords.

On the left, was the House of Peers where things were even more arcane and secretive. Clearly, there was much more wealth possessed by the members of the House of Peers than those in the House of Lords; for one, they wore more expensive fur-lined robes. Queen Elizabeth II then stood and put an end to the rituals. When the priests retreated, the curtains rose again and at that point members of both houses of Parliament rose to bow to her majesty, the queen.

The Queen now looked her usual stoical self. Next, a loud debate rang out in the House of Lords; this was the point at which bills were being introduced. All in all, this was a very noisy affair. This was the point at which my London-born lover was expected to have introduced my suit against Rosie O’Donnell. However, he was blowing cold on the issue and tried to back out of it.

What caused him to have hung back was the raucous fight that had broken out between two Lords on some point or other. In point of fact, they had been quite vituperative. Soon after, we took our leave of Westminster Palace. Diana, Princess of Wales was not seated with the rest of the royals. Nor, for that matter, was the more royally scorned Sarah, Duchess of York seated with the royals.

The ride to the department store was no more than ten minutes. Once inside, we had gone some escalators which took us to a cosmetics counter. The look was pretty much like a Clinique counter, though, I really don’t think that it was such. On seeing an extended member of the House of Windsor coming down the aisle towards us, my lover had dropped behind. The focus of my lover’s attention was a rather princely gentleman. He was young with full red lips but not was horsey-looking.

*This princely gentleman was, in fact, James Ogilvy – grandson of the dashing Prince George, Duke of Kent. END.

They exchanged pleasantries and it was clear that my lover was rather smitten with him. I didn’t though get the sense of him, Mr. Ogilvy, that he was Gay. From there, we kept going further down in the complex below street level. Each time that we had come off an escalator, we had headed to the left to get the next. This in turn had taken us down another flight. Eventually, we arrived at a level which was clearly part of the city’s sprawling Underground.

As we walked, there were two little birdlike, old English women whose slow amble gait had gotten me fast impatient. Finally, we managed to have pushed past them and gotten the train just in time. Here we had travelled at fantastic speeds. The trip was for quite some time and, somehow, it seemed as though they used magnetic conductors here in this civilisation. There was a sense too that we had been travelling several miles, at least 100, below the surface.

When finally we had arrived at our destination, we had gotten out into a labyrinth of tunnels which had eventually led above-ground in a Japanese city. We spent not very much time in Japan as it proved a stopover where we changed trains. Moving on, we had travelled on a futuristic-looking train. On board were two stylish, East Indian young women. Both were clearly tired for having travelled a lot and having crossed several time zones. A loud American was on board; she was an overweight woman. As can be expected, she talked aloud for everyone to notice her. She moronically complained about the trains not being aboveground and whined,

“I want it to be aboveground. There’s nothing to see down here. It’s all black and dark.” She said the word ‘black’ with the same customary loathing as she had applied to African-Americans her whole life. “Don’t they realise that there’re lots of tourists and we want to see. It’s so boring being down here in all this blackness.”

‘Such a fucking acculturated bigoted asshole,’ I thought. The train was painted white on the outside with lots of chrome and walnut finishing on the inside. Very comfortable, red leather seats throughout the interior; this was a truly posh experience. We had boarded at the front of the train. We pulled into a station, though, only briefly; the train took off again never having opened its doors. This time it took off in the opposite direction. By now, my lover and I were no longer travelling together; however, I did have a travelling companion with me.

On this leg of the trip, we had moved above-ground at one point where we had passed the most glorious stand of ancient old trees. They were ginkgoes that looked millennia-old. Each was easily in excess of 200 feet. I quite liked it here. Though the vista was beautiful, it didn’t last very long as once again we were below-ground whilst ploughing through the lurching labyrinth of tunnels deep in the earth.

At the end of the trip, we had arrived at a swank hotel which seemed to be in either Switzerland or Austria. From the hotel, my lover and I were reunited and began trying to get in touch with Diana, Princess of Wales. He wanted to write to her instead of speaking so had sent her a fax. Here we were a bit in the future, where everyone was automatically assigned their personal phone number with cell phone/fax.

*Truth be told, rather than a fax, it was a text. Of course, at the point of the dream texting was well ahead of its time. END.

No matter where one was in the world, regardless of the borders, the same phone number managed to get you. Interestingly, they were not excessive amount of numbers. He had sent her a fax (text) with his private number and had asked Diana, Princess of Wales to call him; he had wanted to lend his support in her divorce proceedings.

At one point, when we had been driving, Diana, Princess of Wales opened up and spoke about her divorce from HRH Charles, Prince of Wales. She said that it had left her feeling truly awful. At the end of it, the one thing that she had taken away was the sense that she felt greater empathy for what Blacks suffer globally. Said she, she had gone to a couple of stores to shop, after having been divorced, where the mere salesclerks treated her with scorn.

Nobody wanted to serve her as if she had even been hostile to them. Diana, Princess of Wales said that it had been so overwhelming that in one case she had gone rushing back to her car in tears. For no longer being a part of the ‘Firm’, the public simply treated her as an unfortunate laughing stock. Some clerks had been outright rude to her. She said that she couldn’t believe that anything could have made her so mad.

To have been denied was the most painful experience. They were so mean-spirited and spiteful she claimed. Her voice here was high-pitched and almost feverish when she expressed her rage at the injustices she had experienced. She said that the idea of racial animus that she has heard Blacks speak of, she could finally understand. Diana, Princess of Wales said that she had experienced something pretty close to it in the lack of civility that she had gotten from everyone. Intently looking at her large clear eyes as she spoke, I was much impressed by her remarks. She was rather ravishing-looking and was so in her element for being mother to this exceptional child.

*Long after the dream and as things played out, the male child whom Diana, Princess of Wales had parented in this dream was clearly fathered by Dodi Fayed. Of course, at the time of the dream, I hadn’t a clue of Mr. Fayed’s existence. The precocious boy had his father’s nose and brows.

Clearly, this dream was tuning into a probable reality which finally was not to be. The child was clearly at least fourth level old-souled and may well have been a king or if not warrior soul.

**More thoughts on this dream. The fact that the lawyer who proved a lover of mine in this dream was a redhead, is at this time, I believe, a reference to HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. As it is extremely rare that I would dream of the latter, it is not a surprise that he was translated here by my waking consciousness as anyone but Prince Harry. Also, in light of the fact that in marrying Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Prince Harry can be said to be an advocate of sorts for racial reconciliation with regards to the ties that the BRF historically have to the enslavement of Africans. Interestingly, that Diana, Princess of Wales should talk about having empathy for the racism that Blacks experience on a daily basis, is a dead giveaway. The theme of race and racism is a prevalent one where her son, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex is concerned.

For having chosen to wed an entity mate of his (HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex) with whom he has a long reincarnational history and someone who has twice previously been a senior royal in the British Royal Family, is reason enough why the theme of race would be discussed and why Diana, Princess of Wales would be both empathetic and speak passionately about this issue. Naturally, throughout the dream she would be closely bonded with a firstborn male from another marriage; however, rather than being a firstborn of hers in a subsequent marriage, this older soul child would prove to be the firstborn mix-raced child of her son, Prince Harry, who was represented by the redhead lawyer/advocate who happened to be my lover. Indeed, Prince Harry can be seen to be an advocate for addressing and advancing racial dialogue and race relations. Similarly, that his firstborn son, Archie is a seventh-level mature priest soul would indicate someone whose focus in life will be about inspiring, uplift, healing and harmony… god only knows that is sorely needed at this time. END.

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Straighten up and fly right! I love you more than you know…

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An Incredible Baby Boy!

23.05.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The higher ideal has to do with unification.

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

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

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

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

*As I have not had channelled the Michael Overleaves of the other two children of TRH Duke & Duchess – HRH Prince George of Cambridge; George is an early mature king soul and an entity mate of Archie’s, HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge and HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge, I do not know if any of them are older souled than HRH Prince Charles or Archie. I also do not know if either of them is an exalted role – King, Priest or Sage, though, neither of them strike me as any of those three roles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HM The Queen at Lady Gabriella Winndsor’s wedding.

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

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

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

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

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

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Coz There Ain’t No Goddamn Minor Royal Named Mama June!

16.05.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

Know your lane and stay the fuck in it!

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

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

Never gonna happen!

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

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

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Earl of Dumbarton.

09.05.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

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

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

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

Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl of Dumbarton.

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

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

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

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

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Books

Charles & Diana: La Deuxième Partie (Like Father, Like Son).

Go In Peace: Energy Transference with Recently Departed Famous Entity Mate.

Bullocks! That Is Not A Fucking Clit!

Lesson In Older Soul Lovemaking.

Catherine: A Deeper Shade of Vermeer.

Givenchy & Valentino

Prophetic Dream With Diana & Archie

An Incredible Baby Boy!

Coz There Ain’t No Goddamn Minor Royal Named Mama June!

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

Earl of Dumbarton.