The Rat King!

Harry 40th Birthday Prince Harry and Here’s to Your Fifth Decade!

Windsor, Henry 15/9/1984 London, England

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

Body type is Mars/Saturn. 

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

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

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

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

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

Past Lives of Note:

Michael: There is long standing rivalry between Catherine and this fragment. Fought in many wars together, 14 past lives of note between Catherine & Henry.

            1. This fragment was also present in the 13th century Khan lifetime as the first cousin of the scholar William. He (former Henry) was disruptive at best and had difficulty following orders with a primary chief feature of self destruction and a secondary of greed fixated on independence.

His (former Henry) view of his cousin’s preference of male company was negative at best, and he continues to have strong viewpoints of what he considers moral. Of course, at this time, Henry is working through 4th internal monad issues and has chosen a partner, Meghan, similar to his mother, the late Diana, Princess of Wales through efforts to provide protection that he was unable to do when he was young.

            The fragment who is now Catherine was a soldier (male) in the Khan lifetime who also disapproved of this warrior’s (Henry) behavior. Catherine was incidentally a lover of the fragment who is now William, hence the triangulation of this trio.

            We will concur here that there are many complexities between the principals in the royal family which is not unusual given their mature soul status at this time.

            2. This warrior and his previous relationship with the mature artisan Chelsy Davy of Southern African descent were married and ruled the island of Tonga during a constitutional crisis and reorganization in the 1800’s – King George Tupou I. His temperament was much calmer than it is today due to the choice of acceptance and stoic.

            3. Member of a large sailing expedition under the command of Cortés. Spanish. (former Henry) Was cast overboard when he refused to comply with implementing rules of conduct.  Died of hypothermia.

*Dec, 2023.

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Context: Coupled with his numerological two 6s, Harry is power mode and a sceptic. He is a very shrewd and deeply complex human. One thing that I have come to know, is that apart from the fact that all gap-toothed Whites having been Black in their immediate past life, when such persons have two such 6s, which has to do with being focussed on their familial iconography, such persons always display a deep affinity towards Blacks. The other prominent gap-toothed White with two 6s who has that abiding affinity towards Blacks is Madonna; they have major issues with familial iconography – Papa Don’t Preach, Like A Virgin, Like A Prayer et al. Madonna, of course, had been Blues/Jazz singer/songwriter, Bessie Smith. There are other famous gap-toothed Whites who were Black in their immediate past life, who are not necessarily focussed with Black culture as such. They are model and actress, Lauren Hutton and the riveting, handsome actor, Willem Dafoe. Harry’s affinity and deep empathy for Blacks is reflected in his having started Sentebale in Lesotho with Prince Seeiso of Lesotho. I will always remember seeing Harry dance in Jamaica and a friend with whom I watched TV before dinner, clapped, laughed and declared, “That Boy’s got soul!”

Ciccone, Madonna Aug 16 1958 Michigan

Now, for Madonna Louise Ciccone, who was also very well-known in her immediate past life, as Bessie Smith, the “Empress of the Blues.” 

This fragment was, in her most famous life, however, the composer of many madrigals and operas, the forerunner of today’s 12-tone compositions, Claudio Monteverdi. 

The voice has always been this warrior-cast sage’s favourite instrument, whether the fragment was writing for it or performing with it, but the fragment has also danced and acted on most of this world’s stages at one time or another. 

A consummate performer and a shrewd judge of the way the world works, this fragment likes nothing better than to know she has caused a shockwave to reverberate around the globe. 

Madonna Louise is a sixth level mature sage in the observation mode, with a goal of dominance, a cynic in the moving part of emotional centre. 

She has a Lunar/Venus body type. 

Madonna’s primary chief feature is arrogance, with a strong secondary of stubbornness. 

This fragment was third-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence.  She is a member of entity six, cadre four, greater cadre 41, pod/node 414. 

A fragment of this entity recalls acting with the fragment who is now Madonna Louise on the Greek stage 1800 years ago and being completely in awe of his, at that time male, talent; also, at that time, this fragment was a seventh level young soul sage and the fragment of our entity was a sixth level old soul and a sage-cast king. 

We would not exactly brand Madonna Louise as androgynous, since she uses every feminine wile she can possibly bring to bear.  All three of these fragments: Madonna, Prince and Michael Jackson, have a very high percentage of yin energy as compared to yang energy. 

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I do believe that the channelled information touched on the life at sea with explorer Cortés for Prince Harry because it was also a reference to one of the 9 past-lives where we were known to each other. In this past-life dream in 1989, Prince Harry would have been not yet five years old and thus he was though vaguely familiar also not readily discernible. I identified with him, assuming that it was me in a past life, but it clearly was not the case. I would have been aboard ship at the time when Harry in that past life was thrown overboard. Clearly, the rules of conduct had to do with the sexual mores of the crew, to which Harry stubbornly objected having to do anything about. The dream follows…

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The fourth dream then found me about a large, hangar-like dormitory area.  As a matter of fact, it seemed like a prison because it was very dark and wooden all about – below deck of a large ship. Somehow, one had the sense of Elektra Munk-Ejoonhoè being about.  Too, there were lots of Hispanic – Latino, youth about.  Jorge Delacruz was there and on seeing him, I enthusiastically reconnected with him.  I decided to see him later.   

Then a man came and sat where I was and when he had, he had come over and he had on a dark coat.  He had bags of fruit and there was a large light-green fruit, like really large green grapes – like the ones you get in Paris. Then he had two other bags – those bags that have got slits in them so that the contents in the plastic can breathe.  He had dark and green grapes.  I asked him for some whilst we sat about.   

As he was sitting there eating, I bent over to his right ear and said, “Why don’t you come on and let me give you a blowjob.  I’ll suck you off and make you feel real good.” 

However, in fact, I had said this to Jorge Delacruz and he had said, “No.  No.  There is no technique.  I once got in trouble because only a woman can know how to do it.  I once got a nickname for getting into stuff like that which is why I’m in trouble. Now I’m only with ladies.  You know, there are times when these ladies can get to me, I was caught with a younger girl.”   

He then went on about all this personal demonic stuff.  I was saying, “Come on.  We can go across there and then inside there in that room.  There is that room where nobody goes into.  We can go in there.” 

So finally, we did go across the way.  This was after Jorge had been in a scuffle with some other guy who had on a pretty t-shirt. There was also a guy there with a fat arse.  He wore red shorts and top and he was holding on to the guy telling him, “Don’t go get mad, don’t go get mad.  Man don’t go get yourself into trouble.  Lord I love you too much.”

Most of these were Spanish guys and they were all Gay.  They were in a larger dormitory area in which I had been earlier.  Guys were on top of guys frottaging and carrying on. As a matter of fact, their play was quite affectionate and loving.  There was a little guy on top of a big guy and he was very paternal. I found it rather nice and interesting to have observed them.  There was so much machismo to this group of men.

What ended up happening was that I progressed to the scene wherein I went into the little area up towards what would be the bow of the ship.  I was in there with Jorge and wanted to give him a blowjob. Though I went off that way to be with Jorge, yet a part of me was separate – I was astral-projected.  So naturally, I was able to go up above deck and look at the ship whilst still privately being alone with Jorge.   

This was a large wooden ship with sails and it was out to sea.  At the time, it was dark like in the night but coming on to daytime. I looked into the sea and it was greenish, heavy and as if molten liquid.  As the ship sailed through it, it made no furrows because the water was so heavy and molten. The ship almost did not create any waves.  Seemingly, the large ship merely glided through the ocean.  There were just little circling pools of water where the ocean was organically green.  I was up on a raised part of the deck towards the front of the ship’s bow. 

Way down at the very front of the ship, on the right side, was a man and he had a fishing line and he was fishing.  He was an older White.  Every now and again, the little fish would leap out of the water as he fished. He got the anchor and I knew that when he threw it in the water, the rope that it was tied to was in the room where my primary dreamer self and Jorge now were in the midst of having frisky relations.   

I was somewhat concerned but anyway remained unmoved.  He tossed the anchor that looked like a bucket.  The unusual-looking anchor was large and the rope had knots with wood along it so that you could walk up these wooden strips like a ladder.  Overall, it was rather interesting. He tossed it in and the anchor, however, pulled him in.  There was so much rope, it kept on going down, down and further down into the calm ocean; that was when I realised how far out to sea we were.

I then was concerned for both the man and myself in the room where the rope originated.  I was afraid that we would be exposed as I gave Jorge a very energetic blowjob. Was the rope going to catch amongst our feet and drag us off? I was frantic about the older White who had gone overboard whilst fishing.  I thought, My god what if he gets attacked by sharks or such?

I was indeed quite concerned.  The older White never did surface for the longest time.  I was concerned that he was caught down there or attacked by sharks.  I was looking to see if there were any sharks in the water, but there weren’t any. The water was such a soulful green.  Too, it was so richly heavy, liquid and tranquil, I thought, Oh how beautiful to be on the ocean. I found it to be rather nice. I was wondering if he going to drown? Is this me drowning in another life, as it were?

Being there for the man and feeling great empathy for his dilemma, I was rendered catatonic.  Eventually, I did see him come up to the surface.  His face, however, never did break the surface of the water. He just seemed this large body of clothing and flesh that was floating just below the surface.  I thought, Oh dear… I guess it meant that he had drowned. I did not see any sharks about and was pleased at that.

At that point, I then progressed back into the hull where all the people were.  Jorge was coming out and I was with him.  Again, he got accosted and he was going to get into a fight situation. Now he was quite lean-bodied, wearing just underwear and a merino.  I saw his basket and I was quite attracted to him.  He was quite virile and boyish in that frame of body.

Virile, in the sense that he was quite macho and very much so into abusing people, if need be – in self-defense. He was being groped, sexually assaulted, by these lecherous Gays and he was exceptionally pretty indeed.

*I think that it is safe to say that this was a past-life dream experience.  The man who went overboard was, without a doubt, someone of note connected to me in a life where I was at sea.

**Long after the fact and so many channelled overleaves later, I suspect that based on how information in shared, when it is relevant to one’s arcana, the man who went overboard may well have been Harry in that past life where he served Cortés. I felt such empathy for his situation; he was clearly at odds with what his superiors charged him to undertake aboard ship. Life aboard was all about debauchery, licentiousness, all of which would have left the old man incapable of keeping order aboard the ship, nor was he much inclined to have intervened. END.

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

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

William’s body type is Lunar/Mars/Saturn. 

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

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

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

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

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

Past Lives of Note:

Michael: Past lives of note include the following:

            1. This fragment was the second in command to the Khan of the Mongol empire and helped explore and deploy wartime strategies, a skill he had developed over time and throughout multiple incarnations. His expertise was that of a cartographer and he put to paper various “options” that could be utilized depending primarily on the weather.

He did not marry or have children and preferred the company of men. This past life occurred during the 13thcentury.

            2. Female, head of matriarchy, New Zealand. Fought against the encroachment by Cook, married to Tupaia (sic) and served to assist in negotiations with the invading forces, mid 18th century.

            3.  Henry IV of England. Highly influential in War of the Roses in his overthrow of the monarchy. Fought for his inheritances. The current warrior spouse, Catherine, was also present as Mary, his first wife. The fragment who is now his eldest son, Prince George, was his daughter, Philippa, who became Queen of Denmark, Norway & Sweden, in this life of note.  

*Dec, 2023.

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As Merlin is my task companion and a scholar; it is always good to have dream encounters with William. Regardless his persona in the waking state, like most scholars, he is fairly centred and serene. Always, without exception, he sits comfortably with legs gathered beneath him as is distinctly unique to males on the spectrum or as I recently discovered neurodivergent. He is never hostile and sometimes telepathic. The only other times he has not been thusly sat, was one dream of him on the eve of his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales’ violent departure – assassination, wherein he was asleep in bed. More recently, when he was having rough sex with Catherine where he bottomed and she used a strap on; he was pleasured rather than violated during their sexual play. Of course, this would be owing to his fourth number of 5, which is always about outré sexuality; that too would have harked back to the 13th century past life when serving the Mongol Khan and he was same-sex focussed. Though William has the great goal of Acceptance, it’s opposite or negative pole is Rejection/Discrimination. That means that with a mind set of 9, he would rarely be focussed in acceptance at this point in life, but a discriminating snob, and as we now know a blasted racist boor. The preceding photo of a young William is what acceptance looked like before it withered and was replaced by his hatefulness and he moved to a goal of Rejection.

Elephant mandala created by Merlin for his oldest friend

Incidentally, on the matter of sexuality, I must state that the whole business is rather queer to my perception. Men are perfectly attracted to men and if they weren’t, they’d not be human, as for that matter are women attracted to women. Obviously, a lot of that same-sex attraction is oftentimes triggered by past-life connections that are undeniable and magnetic. The notion of Queer men finding women sexually revolting, is absurd to me. Nothing beats honouring womankind by eating pussy like a famished gilt set loose in truffle patch… grunt, grunt. It is a man’s honour to make the Queen he sexually serves squeal! Alas, just as William when King Henry IV started the House of Lancaster, he seems now destined to start another royal House as he, rather than Harry, seems the obvious illegitimate. At the end of the day, the human body comes equipped four sex organs, your mouth, your anus, and what ever happens to be up front, which for far too many unstable souls is no longer an immutable proposition. Most of all, the fourth and most powerful sex resides between one’s ears; one would be amazed at the countless millions who die, never having known of their fourth sex. For all such persons, they are just goddamn zombies, who aimlessly breed out of season. As for those of us who wear our pussy between the ears, we are never fucked!

HM King Charles is, of course, like his son, Prince Harry, Catherine and the late, Prince Philip, The Duke of Edinburgh, a warrior soul; he is the oldest soul warrior of the group at seventh level mature. HM King Charles III is an entity mate of Canadian artist, Robert Bateman who is a seventh level mature soul, though, a king soul; the latter’s task companion is the mature warrior soul, Bristol Foster. George Hawken, who was a first old soul artisan when recently incarnate and a lover of mine, collaborated with Robert Bateman. Not surprisingly, Jonathan Yeo who masterfully captured the sanguineous essence of HM King Charles III in the official portrait is an entity mate of the King’s and Jonathan is a sixth mature scholar soul.

Windsor, HM King Charles III 14/11/48 London

Michael: Charles Windsor is a seventh level mature second-cast warrior.  Charles Windsor is in observation mode, with a goal of acceptance. Charles’ attitude is pragmatist, and he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.  

Charles’s body type is Mercury/Saturn. 

Charles’ primary chief feature is stubbornness, secondary is self-deprecation. 

Charles has an incarnate warrior essence twin with no plans to meet and a discarnate priest task companion, who exerts considerable influence on him. 

His casting is virtually the same as Robert Bateman’s: entity two, cadre four, greater cadre 16, pod/node 404; however, Charles is a second-cast in a fourth cadence, entity four, cadre four, greater cadre 16, pod/node 404. 

Past Lives of Note:

            1. This fragment served as a primary advisor to King Henry VIII between the years 1510-1536. Male. Charles Brandon. Duke of Suffolk. Married into the royal family and was a close friend of the sage, HM King Henry VIII, who was third level mature at the time.

            2. Member of the Roman senate, 10 BCE. He was a leader and adjudicated trials as a magistrate known for being a bit heavy-handed and leaned in the favor of the wealthy. Assassinated by poison at an evening meal and still has an aversion to certain spices.

            3. A well-known calligrapher and scribe for the old king soul, Lao Tsu, 600 BCE. Helped to document what later became the Tao Te Ching. Very significant life.

*Dec, 2023.

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King Charles, of course, is born in the year of the Rat. 14.11.1948. 5.7.2 = 5. Like Prince Louis of Wales, he has an energy body of 5, and also has 7 but more importantly, 5 in the fourth position. Sexual scandal, debauchery and outré sexuality are the hallmarks. 5 in the fourth position is also in Prince Andrew, Prince William and Prince George’s numerological makeup. One of the wonderful things about British society is how, apart from being chiefly ruled by the number 9 – bullying, rapaciousness, superiority complex, it is also ruled by 5 and 2. 2 not only governs giftedness and creativity with a healthy dash of genius and eccentricity, it also rules a deep an abiding love for members of one’s sex; there is a keen yearning of men to bond with a trusted man/men. This is why the culture of the military, warfare and prison/punishment is so pronounced in British culture. It also, not surprisingly, governs the aristocracy for whom the rules of engagement do not apply as with mere mortals. Eton, Harrow et al are all institutions which foster this underlying manly bonding that marries loyalty with an abiding love – physicalised or otherwise. It is not coincidental that both 2 & 5 are present in the numerology of King Charles III, Prince William, The Prince of Wales and Prince George of Wales the future King George VII. George and William are especially close and always will be because among their strong past-life history, is that of King Henry IV (Prince William) & Queen Philippa (Prince George) when they were also parent and offspring who would become Sovereigns in their own right. As King Charles III has a goal of acceptance, this is why he has the sweetest, smiling soulful eyes, that warm hushed almost silent laugh and is ever approachable. Acceptance is the great goal and such persons radiates the love vibe, which Charles does as a late mature warrior soul on the cusp of being an old soul, likely in his next incarnation.

Let’s then explore the interactions of 5 & 2 numerologically and how it is explored by the upper classes in this cases, the British royals. Edward ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe was, like Louis Mountbatten, a man with whom King Edward VIII was deeply besotted. Edward ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe’s companionship was so indispensable that he was made King Edward VIII’s equerry, the one aide who spends more time with the Sovereign than anyone else – you can damn well bet that it was not owing to their passion for needlepoint! Both Edward VIII and Edward ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe had 5 & 2 in their numerology. King Edward VIII 23.6.1894 Horse 5.2.6 = 4. Edward ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe 16.1.1887 Pig 7.8.5 = 2. Knowing both the numerology and Michael Overleaves of hundreds of persons as I do, I can quite confidently state that Edward VIII would have been an aggressive, besotted bottom with Edward ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe… good God look at the feet on the man! What’s more, Pigs, such as Edward ‘Fruity’ Metcalfe, are the most horny, raunchy, loud fuckers. Yes please! No one is born White, Black, male, female, Straight or Gay. We are souls incarnate, pursuing the human experience in as many variables, with as many choices and options as all lives are chosen for starters. I don’t have 5 in my numerology but in speaking to other male 2s, one thing we all admit to, even the ones who are not ‘Gay’ is that we love the smell of a man, we love male energy and ever yearn to touch, bond, be intimate with a man. Religion and societal mores are all mindfuck. Souls incarnate will and must do as they choose as we are numerologically hardwired to do. Being possessed of 2, 5 or even both numbers do not mean that one wants to put on high heels and act as though every goddamn day is DragRace, it is perfectly possible to compartmentalise that aspect of self and be a perfectly full blooded tail-wagging pussy hound, who enjoys the companionship of a woman, wife and creating a family as is human… it’s all a manifestation of human civilisation.

Queen Elizabeth II 21.4.1926 Tiger 3.7.7 = 8

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

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

Body type was Venus/Lunar. 

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

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

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

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

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

Past Lives of Note:

Michael: Past lives of note include the following:

1. Daughter of Queen Victoria, named Alice. Devoted servant of the people through medicine. (nursing) Health was compromised due to exposure to many contagions.

2. Son of Malcolm, king of Scotland. David. Interested in business and promoting townships. Very powerful.  This incarnation was during the 12th century.

3. Two lives in South America. Not notorious by any means, but known for her intricate designs (Mexico, pottery and Chile, clothing) Her slave role life task had to do with practicality.

4. Roman senator. Dedicated to the people through passing laws that were more favorable through less taxation. This incarnation was during the 2nd century BCE.

*Dec, 2023.

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As Queen Victoria’s daughter, Princess Alice’s short life, to age 35, prepared her for the rather momentous journey in her next life, as Princess Elizabeth, daughter of the Duke of York, later King George VI. As her passing has borne out, this was a very phenomenal human being and a Sovereign who will remain unmatched for centuries yet. It is always exceptionally good to dream of this ennobled soul, to have dreamt of her imminent passing, will remain a highpoint dream of this lifetime, and for me that’s saying a lot! Elizabeth is a cadre mate of Prince Harry, Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex, Prince George, Doria Ragland, Prince Archie and Princess Lilibet. Regardless what relation someone is to HLM Queen Elizabeth II, if they are not entity or cadre mates, they will never have had a stronger heart connection to her than the aforementioned people. For example, King Charles in not only not an entity or cadre mate, but he is from an entirely different pod, 404. There is no way that The Queen would have been warmer or closer to Charles than to say, Prince Harry or Meghan; one just knows… we all do. Kindred spirit bond is immutable. Similarly, The Queen would instinctively feel closer to Prince George than to either of his parents, William and Catherine, The Prince and Princess of Wales. Further, the Queen with two 7s in her numerology was a superior empath and would most definitely have been able to observe persons’ aura; this, of course, like all 7s, she would never advertise. Though I don’t know their overleaves, if Pamela Hicks, Lord Louis Mountbatten’s daughter and Zara Tindall are both cadre mates (pod 418) of The Queen’s, she would have had a greater affinity for both rather than King Charles and Queen Camilla, who respectively are in pods 404 and 129 – they are not kindred spirits as it were.

HM Queen Elizabeth II
https://dreampoetica.com/2021/11/15/homecoming/: The Rat King!

Once more, I share the most uplifting dream which foretold The Queen’s passing and arrival on the astral plane. One of the truly most festive dreams in this lifetime.

Prince Philip 10.6.1921 Rooster 1.7.2 = 1

Mountbatten, Philip 10/6/1921<O>9/4/2021 Greece/Windsor

Michael: This fragment was a fourth-level mature warrior – second life thereat.  Philip was in observation mode with a goal of preferred dominance.  A sceptic, he was in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Body type was Saturn/Mars. 

Philip’s primary chief feature was stubbornness – due to early death of a family member and the secondary subdued impatience. 

The fragment Philip is seventh-cast in first cadence; he is a member of greater cadence six.  Philip’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 408. 

Philip’s essence twin is a warrior and he has a scholar task companion who was known to him. 

Philip’s primary needs were: exchange, acceptance and power. 

There are 14 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.  _____________________________________________________

As I have had a relatively strong past-life connection with the Late Prince Philip, he has certainly been ‘solid’ in dreams. There is an immediate and strong connection; they have been far-ranging dreams and nothing extraordinary such that one would share herein. Again, like Prince Harry, Prince Philip had very strong overleaves, was also a sceptic and also is a warrior soul.

Windsor, Queen Camilla 17/7/1947 Pig 8.6.9 = 5.

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

Body type is Lunar/Venus. 

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

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

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

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

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. 

*July, 2017.

Past Lives of Note:

            1. This scholar was also present in the Henry life of note, HM King Henry VIII, with her now husband Charles. She was his lover, clandestine. Promises made at that time to bring her “Into the light” (limelight) This promise was brought to bear in the current lifetime as it was not possible at the earlier time. She was maid to Queen Anne Boleyn, who was approving of the relationship.

            2. Similar to the theme just mentioned, this fragment followed behind the footsteps of Emperor Yuan, 3rd century CE. Her innate neutrality assisted her in being the “silent partner and support” of her husband.

            3. The *task companions Camilla and Charles have also accomplished tasks that include some of the following:

                        a. Designed habitat in Amsterdam, having to do with waterways that are still being used today.

                        b. Scribes at the Library of Alexandria prior to its downfall. Helped to preserve documents and catalog information.

                        c. They have created maps, charts of both land and sea, and these include trade-routes from Europe around the South African Cape.

d. Worked on military uniforms for both practicality and flare – late 18th century.

            4. Exemplary harpsichordist who accompanied the child prodigy Mozart. She was also a gifted vocalist and played 4 other instruments.

Dec, 2023.

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*One’s task companion is never the same soul type as one’s own; for instance, Charles is a Warrior soul and Camilla is a Scholar. The task companions is 99% of the time in one’s entity; there are times that the task companion may be outside the entity but within the cadre. Then there are cases such as Charles and Camilla where over the course of several lifetimes, during which time they shared positive experiences, there is an agreement made between both souls to be honorary task companions, as the two souls have found themselves a good fit, as it were. Charles and Camilla could only be honorary task companions as they respectively are in pods 404 and 129. Past-life example #3 explores those four times when they served as honorary task companions and accomplished much for the sake of society at large. Incidentally, as scholar souls are adept at being detached from their emotions, it is much easier for scholar soul Prince William to get along with scholar soul Queen Camilla than it is for warrior soul Prince Harry. Loyalty is the hallmark of warrior souls and there is no way that Harry could with William’s ease, compartmentalise the strong emotions, pain and public humiliation that Camilla (fourth number of 5) caused Diana, Princess of Wales, William and Harry’s mum.

Charles, The 9th Earl Spencer 20.5.1964 Dragon 2.7.9 = 9

Spencer, Charles The 9th Earl 20/5/1964 London, England.

Michael: This fragment is a fourth level mature scholar – second incarnation at this level – in the observation mode, with a goal of dominance.  A sceptic, Charles is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

Charles has a Saturn/Mars body type. 

Charles’ primary chief feature is stubbornness and a secondary of arrogance. 

Charles is third-cast in the fourth cadence of the fourth greater cadence, he is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 48, pod/node 380 – he is an entity mate of Diana, Princess of Wales’. 

Charles has a female scholar essence twin, who has been known to him. Charles’ warrior Task companion is an incarnate elder statesman, living in South Africa. 

Charles’ three primary needs are: exchange, security and freedom. 

Charles has had 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin.  __________________________________________________

Charles, The 9th Earl Spencer is as steely as they come. Not only is he an entity mate of artisan soul, Diana, Prince of Wales, that would also make him an entity mate of Dodi Fayed, who is also an artisan soul. Charles passionately gave his word before the world at his late sister, Diana, Princess of Wales’ funeral that he would protect William and Harry. Needless to say, William has no use for Charles Spencer. A sceptic, like Harry and Prince Philip, Charles, The 9th Earl Spencer will always be there for Prince Harry and his family; this is precisely why on Harry’s return to England to attend, Lord Robert Fellowes’ memorial service, Charles welcomed Harry to stay with him at Althorp, rather than having anything to do with the racist boors who rule the House of Windsor in Queen Elizabeth’s wake.

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Diana, Princess of Wales 1.7.1961 Ox 1.8.7 = 7

Spencer, Diana  July 1/1961<O>August 31/1997.

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

She had a Lunar/Mercury body type. 

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

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

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

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

*Shared September, 1997

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The incomparable Diana, Princess of Wales, as is obvious, is an entity mate of both her brother, Charles, The 9th Earl Spencer and Dodi her lover. I do believe that based on her numerology 7 in the fourth position, also solidified by a second 7, she was assassinated. 7 in the fourth position is more likely indicative of a public figure who has been assassinated. Also, when such persons are eliminated, their violent death stuns and has a devastating effect on society. This was also the case for U. S. President, John F. Kennedy whose numerology was 29.5.1917 Snake 2.7.7 = 7. That’s a lot of 7s. He was too great a threat for the powers behind the throne, as it were, and thus was assassinated. Similarly, Diana was removed because she could not be allowed to start a rival court with a Muslim, bare him offspring whilst still the future King Mother. Based on dream insights gleaned, here is how I foresee this all playing out. William will groom Prince George to have a Jewish wife as his Queen Consort. She will in turn will insure that her firstborn is female, thereafter that future female Sovereign will choose a Jewish spouse thus precipitating a name change from the House of Windsor to what seems obvious – William’s choice of a wedding date, and his abrupt cancellation of his appearance at his godfather, the Late King Constantine II of Greece’s service of thanksgiving. At that point, well into the future, it will then be implied that William himself was never a Windsor anyway. The clues are all there, which is precisely why Nicky Hilton was wedded at Kensington Palace’s orangery. All this, further lends credence to the violent opposition to Meghan marrying in so high up the line of succession. The one thing that has always been obvious, is how thoroughly the mere mortals choose to be blind to the truth… facts after all are truth. History will see the eighteenth letter of the alphabet playing a key role in the name change. And you can bet your bottom dollar for all that displacing sea change, racist Britons, too fearful to cause offence, will readily look back in history and blame it all on Meghan… but, of course.

David Mirvish. Diana, Princess of Wales & Ed Mirvish 1991

Back in October, 1991, as part of my annual Toronto Symphony Orchestra subscription, I attended an Emanuel Ax recital. Thankfully, it was short and sweet as his diminutive stature left him bobbing about, which proved irritating for me. I got out of Roy Thomson Hall and noticed that there was a large gathering on King Street West just west of the concert hall on Simcoe Street at King Street West. Soon enough, on learning that Diana, Princess of Wales was at the Royal Alexandra Theatre to see Les Misérables, I hightailed it down the block then across King Street West to the north side and back easterly towards the theatre. I knew that with persons in wheelchairs just beyond the marquee that the Princess would make it for them as they eagerly waited to have an audience with her. I was floored when the Princess emerged from the theatre, there was a deafening frenzy of cheers, a blinding lightning storm of camera flashes. Eventually, she made to the wheelchaired persons beyond the barricades that kept the rest of us in check. She was steely, her eyes were phenomenally blue and doe-like. Dazzling, I was then completely won over when she made it eventually to her limousine. She sat into the car backwards, knees and ankles together, she then did the most graceful port de bras imaginable; she pushed off, swivelled and swung her legs and body into the car, all the while maintaining the elegant line of her long neck.

Diana, Princess of Wales at Toronto’s AIDS hospice Casey House, 1991

Years later, as a dear close friend, the first Gay friend with whom I never once had sex – truly remarkable, came by to help me get situated on my move from Vancouver to Montréal, we talked overlong about Diana, Princess of Wales as Graeme had been visiting me from Toronto at the time of her violent death. Graeme, who was the most truly Boteroesque man imaginable, was a stickler for facts and ever keenly observant. He shared that he thought it was pretty bizarre as he was a keen royalist, less so than his chum, Ms. Kitty Litter – local Toronto drag queen who in the unforgiving world of drag, was said to both smell and look like piss-sodden, shitty kitty litter! They had both attended every visit that Diana ever made to Toronto and were present at Casey House, Toronto’s AIDS hospice, and the Royal Alexandra Theatre and as I recalled, Diana, Princess of Wales once settled into her ride, did put on her seatbelt. Ms. Kitty Litter whom we called and consoled as he was an hysteric mess back in Toronto, swore up and down that there is no way that Diana would not have put on her seatbelt in that car… go figure. Sobbing, Ms. Kitty Litter blurted out, “Oh my god, they’ve killed our angel, I’m telling you. They’ve killed her!” Three years later, Graeme who lived alone with his mum, suffered a heart attack whilst reading the morning’s newspapers on the living room sofa, in tony the Beaches, in the city’s east end. For more than a week, Graeme’s mum left his body on the sofa and kept calling on him to wake up. Needless to say, the city’s social services moved in, as he had no children nor she relations, and took her into psychiatric care – neighbours had raised concerns about the lack of activity and a foul odour. Diana, Princess of Wales had an energy body of 1 and such people pay keen attention to details and are the most cautious, self-aware and leave nothing to chance.

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Dodi Fayed 15.4.1955 Goat 6.1 3 = 1

Fayed, Dodi 15/4/1955<O>31/8/1997

Michael: This fragment was a third level mature artisan – second life thereat.  Dodi was in power mode with a goal of submission.  A realist, he was in the intellectual part of moving centre. 

Dodi’s body type was Saturn/Lunar. 

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

The fragment Dodi is third-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence four.  Dodi’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 48, pod 380. 

Dodi’s essence twin is an artisan and his task companion a sage, both of whom are discarnate at this time, though, they plan on reincarnating soon.  Dodi is an entity mate of Diana, Princess of Wales’ – there was a mutually facilitating agreement for “unconditional support.” There were 26 past-life associations between Dodi & Diana, Princess of Wales.

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

There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin.  _________________________________________________

Respectively, The Queen, Harry, Meghan are in entity one of cadre 6, which resonates with slave and priest soul energies which is all about a life that is committed to serving as well as doing so for a higher good. Similarly, Charles, The 9th Earl Spencer, Diana, Princess of Wales and Dodi Fayed are in entity one of cadre 6 of their pod, 380 to the others’ pod 418. There is positively no way that Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan would not have gotten along. During their engagement interview with the BBC, Prince Harry said that Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan would have been as thick as thieves in their ease of friendship and he was correct. One thing that is certain about Dodi, for being in the intellectual part of moving centre, there is no way that Diana and Dodi were not passionately involved. Moving centred persons are intensely highly sexed persons and by the time of their assassination, it is highly probable that they were already unofficially engaged, Diana, Princess of Wales was pregnant and it would have been the best fucking sex that both had ever had to that point in their lives. They are entity mates and sex with such persons is truly ecstatic. Furthermore, Diana, Princess of Wales with her two 7s would have definitely seen their aura during sex and there is no way that she would not have wanted to spend the rest of her life with Dodi. Good God they had had 26 past lives together to that point; they were in deep and nothing and no one was going to stop them except, of course, someone immensely richer than her in-laws and his family. Making deals with the devil, is precisely why the little grovelling bastard wailed as he did on seeing Diana, Princess of Wales’ lifeless body in the Paris hospital. He was truly horrified of what a mess he had made of things and how callously he had been betrayed by someone he thought he knew… someone who neither looked up to him nor considered him an equal.

Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex 4.8.1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11

Windsor, Meghan The Duchess of Sussex 4/8/1981

Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature artisan in the tradition of the deceased mother fragment who was Diana, Princess of Wales – third life thereat.  Meghan is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance.  An idealist, Meghan is in the moving part of emotional centre. 

Meghan’s primary chief feature is self-deprecation and the secondary of mild impatience. 

Meghan’s body type is Venus/Solar. 

The fragment Meghan is fourth-cast in the fifth cadence.  Meghan is a member of greater cadence four.  Meghan is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 – she is an entity mate of both her spouse, HRH Prince Henry, The Duke of Sussex with whom she shares 20 past lives and also an obvious entity mate of Her Majesty, The Queen. 

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

Meghan’s three primary needs are: expression, acceptance and expansion.

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

Incidentally, this artisan has been a member of the British royal family twice before.  Firstly, as Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, she was the cousin of King Henry VI and mother of King Henry VII.  As such, she was the matriarch of the House of Tudor.  Her grandson was King Henry VIII and her great-granddaughter, Queen Elizabeth I. 

This artisan, Margaret Beaufort (former Meghan) in that lifetime was involved in the sacraments of the church, being included in the newly established college system.  She founded Christ College, Cambridge and was instrumental with the founding of St. John’s College as well. 

Secondly, she was HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York and Albany and younger brother to George III, whose father the Prince of Wales, HRH Prince Frederick died before acceding the throne after George II.  In that lifetime, the artisan (now Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex) was interested in military structure.  He, of course, died young of a then unknown illness but which had to do with dysentery. 

Comment on Megxit:

Michael: This is a complex issue and as noted there is a karmic debt owed by Harry to Catherine. As a warrior, Catherine expects strict loyalty from the scholar soul William, her task companion, and this position has influenced the separation at this time.

Catherine and Meghan have also been adversarial when they were members of an aristocratic family, China, 7th century. They each sought power and this discord was continued in a life in Portugal when they were married and the fragment who is now Meghan abandoned the warrior due to war time activities. (Meghan was then male)

Finally, there is strong dominance on the part of Catherine who now disapproves of Meghan’s “celebrity” and is distrustful of her motives. Warrior Harry is loyal to his spouse and this loyalty was part of the motivation for the move to America.

*Dec, 2023. 

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Both Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex are emotionally centred members of a very military family where such intensity of emotional intelligence is not the norm; both Diana and Meghan are in the moving part of emotional centre. Emotionally centred persons are usually focussed in the arts, are especially gifted dancers, singers and actors; however, what each one of them is, is the most gifted empaths. This is why Diana, Princess of Wales was deemed the people’s princess. They have the ability, for being emotionally centred, to create magic – they set the tone wherever they are, make you feel loved and can quite literally heal one’s spirit. Again, this is why during the BBC engagement interview, the very astute Prince Harry stated, “And the corgis took to you straight away, for the last 33 years been barked at and this one walked in and absolutely nothing, just wagging tail…” The Queen’s corgis recognised that Meghan was an empath; it is not something that you can fake. Also, the Queen with her two 7s would have clearly discerned the truth of whom Meghan was when presented at court by Prince Harry. The Queen would have keenly taken note of the corgis reaction, she likely would have seen Meghan’s aura which emotionally centred persons can ‘broadcast’ at will. Furthermore more spectacularly than any other senior member of the royal family, Meghan has Venus/Solar body type, which is rare in the extreme. Meghan is the real McCoy!

As Meghan was not unknown to Queen Elizabeth II at heart centre that is why she was allowed to walk in alone at her wedding as a Queen, King Mother of King Henry VII returned. It was a truly millennial moment of theatre as Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex walked down the aisle unaccompanied to the quire, returned as she was as the reincarnation of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond & Derby, Tudor Matriarch, King Mother, mother of King Henry VII, grandmother of King Henry VIII and great-grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I. Children fan yourselves!

Meghan channelling Margaret Beaufort… the lighting pure sublime theatre

And how like a true Queen, Meghan walked down the aisle at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle one gloriously sunny mid-May Saturday at noon, truly momentous. It was not just a royal wedding, it was the most sublime theatre. As she walked alone in the nave, there were times, as in the photo above, where she was umbraed. She was as though Margaret Beaufort being channelled in the diffused light of the veiled past, coming forth to be celebrated as having been the Tudor matriarch, affording the world not just Henry VII her son, but larger-than-life, Henry VIII and the most phenomenal Sovereign, Elizabeth I, whose namesake half a millennium later would sanction this union of two entity mates of hers. Meghan’s overleaves in this lifetime are simply wonderful, for not only is she emotionally centred, but she has the great goal of acceptance – as do King Charles & Princes William and George; incidentally, so did Diana, Princess of Wales have the same great goal. It is the feel-good, how can I be of service to you, goal. Dogs, cats and even arboreal life react positively at all times to persons in acceptance. All the lies you hear by Britons about Meghan are just Britons being horrified that this woman would be reborn Black and expect to be accepted in their kingdom. Britons have proven themselves the ugly, drunken hooligans that they truly are; after all, they are ruled by 9 – bitchy, bickering, fault-finding, negative, biting, sarcastic, bullying, xenophobic and racist. Why the fuck would Meghan ever want to set foot in that hellhole? Meghan is a Queen in acceptance and she knows her worth.

Here was The Queen dancing with Ghanaian President Kwame Nkrumah, because she was human as was he and she also knew the optics for the health of the commonwealth if she were seen to be in service to them as well and not just to the United Kingdom. Thus it was that The Queen saw the advantage to her legacy of the ably Meghan, The Duchess of Sussex and her inordinately charismatic grandson, Prince Harry, fellow entity mates carrying on that work with the commonwealth to keep the healthy relations with the Crown and making the commonwealth politically, financially, culturally viable well into the next century. Then along came Catherine, William, Charles and Camilla filled with racist venom, spite, jealousy, aggression and off to work they went trying to vilify, demonise and exile Harry and Meghan.

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Prince George of Wales 22.7.2013 Snake 4.2.8 = 5

Windsor, George 22/7/2013 London, England

Michael: This fragment is a fourth-level mature king – third life thereat.  George is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance.  An idealist, George, at this time (December 2019) does not yet have centreing. 

George does not yet have chief features. 

George’s body type is Jupiter/Mercury and a small tertiary of Venus. 

The fragment George is fourth-cast in the seventh cadence.  George is a member of greater cadence seven.  George’s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418. 

George’s essence twin is a king – they are likely to meet at a later date and also head of state.  The task companion is a warrior. 

George’s primary needs are: expression, power, security and freedom. 

There is a facilitating agreement with the father, HRH Prince William, The Prince of Wales, for training and preparation for ‘duties’. 

There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 2 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Past Lives of Note:

Daughter of King Henry IV (William his current father), Phillipa of England, Queen of Denmark, Norway & Sweden – co-regent.

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Prince George is a king soul, which is the most rare of souls. He is an entity mate of Prince Archie’s – they likely had an agreement to be close and a support to each other. Your chief feature and centreing are not chosen until experiencing individuation and exerting one’s will against parental imprinting – teen rebellious years. George will always be especially close to his pa, William who has an agreement to thoroughly groom him towards becoming Sovereign in due course. A Jupiter body means that he will be taller than William and likely have issues with controlling his weight; George will be prone to being massive on the order of King George IV. That George’s primary need is expression means that he will likely be focussed in the arts in some way an actor, director, voracious collector or even a painter. Certainly, he will be damn good at whatever he chooses to become focussed on creatively in due course. George is a cadre mate of Meghan, Doria, Harry, The Queen, Archie and Lilibet – regardless how much he will be groomed to shun the Sussex family, they are family at the level of kindred spirits on the order of first cousins or even closer.

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Prince Archie 6.5.2019 Pig 6.2.5 = 4

Mountbatten-Windsor, Prince 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, as can be expected, does not yet 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, The 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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Not only are Princes George and Archie entity mates for being in the fifth (sage) entity of cadre 6 (priest) but they also have two numbers in common, 2 & 5 which has much to do with loving persons regardless of their sex. Archie, of the Michael Overleaves done of the royal family has proven the oldest soul of those done – that is saying a lot. He is an older soul than HM King Charles III. Regardless the politics, I would not be surprise if George and Archie are not reunited as adults and remain in touch; they are after all entity mates. As such, they are both cadre mates of The Queen, Doria, Prince Harry, Meghan and Princess Lilibet. No one glows more radiantly than priest souls and an older soul priest like Prince Archie will be known for his remarkable wisdom and the beauty of his eyes. This will be especially enhanced as his mum, Meghan has a goal of acceptance and is an empath for being emotionally centred. Music, yoga and wholistic living will greatly appeal to Prince Archie. He will definitely give off a zen/guru vibe in later years.

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Princess Lilibet 4.6.2021 Ox 4.1.6 = 11

Mountbatten-Windsor, Princess Lilibet Diana 4/6/2021

Michael: This young fragment is a third-level mature sage – second life thereat.  Lilibet is in observation mode with a goal of dominance and has an attitude of idealist. 

Lilibet has neither centreing nor chief features at this time. 

Lilibet’s body type is Mars/Mercury. 

The fragment Lilibet is second-cast in the third cadence.  Lilibet is a member of greater cadence four.  Lilibet is a member of entity two, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418.  (Adjacent entity, same cadre as her father, mother, grandmother, brother, Prince George and The Queen). 

Lilibet’s essence twin is a sage and the task companion a warrior incarnate at this time.  

Lilibet’s needs are exchange, communion, adventure. 

She has shared 8 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin.

There is an agreement with the older brother for emotional support.

This fragment has been a revered performer in a recent past incarnation, primarily operatic but with some aspect of light entertainment. She was also present in several lives of note in European aristocracy (Italy and Spain)

*August, 2021.             

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Doria Ragland 2.9.1956 Monkey 2.2.5 = 9

Ragland, Doria 2/9/56 Cleveland, Ohio.

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

Doria’s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary, stubbornness. 

Doria’s body type is Venus/Saturn. 

The fragment Doria is fifth-cast in the second cadence.  Doria is a member of greater cadence seven.  Doria’s entity is three, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418. 

Doria’s essence twin is a slave and the task companion a priest who is known to her. 

Doria’s three primary needs are: exchange, adventure and power. 

There are 5 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin.

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As is obvious, Doria is a slave soul – the most populous soul type at 25 per cent of all souls cosmically, is a cadre mate of her daughter, Meghan, son-in-law, Prince Harry, The Queen and both grandkids, Prince Archie and Princess Lilibet. Doria, as is obvious, has rather strong overleaves and is a study of poise and graciousness and she has the same slave soul vibe as her cadre mate, Queen Elizabeth II. All these persons, The Queen, Doria, Meghan, Harry, George, Archie and Lilibet are quite familiar with each other; they would have a very rich and varied past-life history. Now it is obvious why during their BBC engagement interview, Prince Harry said of Doria, “Her mum is amazing!” And that she certainly is; Doria, it cannot be stated enough, has truly regal overleaves.

Catherine, The Princess of Wales 9.1.1982 Rooster 9.1.3 = 4

Windsor, Catherine HRH The Princess of Wales 9/1/1982

Michael: This fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior – third life thereat.  Catherine is in the perseveration mode with a goal of growth.  A pragmatist, Catherine is in the moving part of intellectual centre. 

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

Catherine’s body type is Saturn/Mercury/Venus. 

The fragment Catherine is fourth-cast in the sixth cadence.  Catherine is a member of greater cadence one.  Catherine’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6 pod 208. 

Catherine’s essence twin is a warrior and the task companion a scholar, her husband, HRH Prince William, The Prince of Wales. 

Catherine’s three primary needs are: expansion, power and expression. 

There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 8 with Merlin.  ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Past Lives of Note:

Michael: This warrior has held positions of influence in three past incarnations.

            1. This fragment was present at the crucifixion of Jesu and served as an apostle known as Matthew in the not entirely accurate version of early history. He was considered evangelical but in our estimation this had more to do with this early young soul’s approach to life which had little room for compromise or discussion.

            2. Present at the beginning of the Fall of Rome by the Visigoths in the 5th century. Leader of advancing forces. Second in command to the sage Alaric I. Was wounded mortally by the fragment who is now Harry, The Duke of Sussex (karma) that has not been repaid fully and is part of the current debacle.

           3. Samurai. Japan, 1650. Skilled in the art of the bow and horsemanship. Crafted sword and weaponry. Edo period. As the Samurai prestige was reduced, this warrior became a respected diplomat who was adept in contractual negotiations.

The fragment who is now Princess Lilibet was present as his wife who died in childbirth (sixth child.)

*Dec, 2023.

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Launch fire!

Of the current group of royals, Catherine, The Princess of Wales is the most phenomenally powerful. She is truly a powerhouse. As we have ten past-life associations, I dream more of Catherine than any other royal. During her prominent Roman past life, I would most likely to have known her. At the time, I served Alaric I and was instrumental in affecting the outcome of the campaign for having been the one to have invented the giant scaffolds from which catapult firebombs were launched; were it not for those structures, the sacking of Rome would not so quickly have then succeeded. I have dreamt of this tumultuous period more than once. Very intense and ridiculously lucid past-life dreams. Past-life dreams usually begin when you are caught in a flying dream, always at night time and easily at least five thousand feet above the action way below; all at once, as though an eagle going in for the kill, one zooms down into unfamiliar territory. As you move from flight to being ambulatory, one shifts from one’s waking astrally projected current persona to that of the past life being visited. You enter the body of either the male or female former self and the action unfolds over which one has no control. These are always the most exciting dreams.

Windsor walkabout

Catherine has been the catalyst for everything that has gone down in the so-called Megxit. Her powerful overleaves have meant that long before The Queen’s passing, she operated as a rouge agent. Of course, she had license to because she is future King Mother and as such, the most important member of the royal family is Prince George and that would make his mother’s womb more valuable than was The Queen’s. Camilla never factored into any of this; she bore no royal offspring. Everything that has happened has been a testament to how women are groomed from birth to be of no support to other women. Moreover, warrior and king souls are always the dominant partner in any relationship, personal or otherwise. It does go without saying that the one doing the yelling in any relationship, does not have power. Based on her soul type and her phenomenally powerful overleaves, Catherine is a far more potent and powerful human being than is William. Catherine’s numerology only adds to her power. Catherine is also well aligned with the kingdom’s psyche. She has an energy body of 9 and the UK is ruled by 9. Catherine is also in the perseverance mode, with a personal need for power.

Anyone, regardless of race, was going to have a tough go of it for having married Prince Harry. Based on their past-life history in Tonga, Harry and Chelsy would have made a formidable team; however, I rather suspect that Chelsy is also a warrior soul in her own right. Most of all, once exposed to who Catherine is, Chelsy chose not to be subjected to that archly negative, dense energy bully, to say nothing of inarticulate arachnidan bore, Catherine. Also, there is easy, breezy, wonderful lovely Cressida. If Cressida is not an artisan soul, like Diana and Meghan then I don’t know anything about the Michael Teachings. Cressida may also, like Meghan, have a goal of acceptance. Either way, forget about driving Meghan to tears, Cressida would fast become a complete basket case for having to suffer Catherine and her attack dog, William. Absolute power corrupts each human who would ever choose to pursue such an Icarian life; Catherine is no different to all who previously have so chosen and there is always a waste of bodies in their wake.

Sixth mature lives, as is William’s are all about stewardship. In his case, he follows the example of his father, King Charles III in stewardship of the environment and nature, as per his conservancy work in Africa. Sixth level lives are all about paying back karma; in the process one can, as in all lives, create karma – this he certainly has been actively engaged in doing. Of course, William has done so at the behest of his dominatrix wife and task companion, Catherine. You will reincarnate more often with your task companion and form as many life experiences as is imaginable than with any other soul. Catherine and William are as solid as it gets. For Catherine, and for that matter Harry, she is living a fifth level mature life. Mature level lives bring on the drama and that they currently do so in spades in the House of Windsor. More of the brain is used from fifth level lives onwards. One is campaigning in focus in such lives. As is obvious, the very complex and strong-willed Harry is on a campaign to avenge his mum’s abuse at the hands of his family, the press and the firm. Catherine would have been better served had she been born aristocratic like, Alice Manners. She sent William into the House of Windsor to do the heavy lifting of being born and affording her access; she wanted a female life and at the time, a female firstborn would never be Sovereign. Catherine, however, does not have the polish and class sophistication to have addressed Meghan, returning to the royal family for the third time reincarnationally. Do not ever forget that Thomas Markle Sr. admitted that Jason Knauf had him attempt to sabotage Harry and Meghan’s wedding, by way of faking a heart attack and thereby pulling out of the wedding. Everything that has occurred has been instigated by both Catherine and William. She lied via the tabloids that Meghan made her cry. She has zero fuck-all credibility. Catherine does not have cancer; it is a ruse to cover for her facelift downtime. More importantly, it allows the stigma of having been outed by Omid Scobie’s exposé as royal racist, to go away. Just as Catherine & William got Thomas Markle Sr. to fake a heart attack to sabotage Harry and Meghan’s wedding, once outed by Omid Scobie, she then fakes cancer to engineer public opinion in her favour. Crying cancer also afforded Catherine the rallying support of the idiot isle of hooligans, who readily blame Meghan for having made their mumbling heroine sick. God only knows, Catherine’s self-toxicity could not have played a role, that is, if indeed she did have cancer.

Of course, there is serious karma between Catherine and Harry, very serious and she has chosen to strike at Harry by way of cannibalising Meghan. Regardless her powerful overleaves, Harry is a blood Prince, he is also a sceptic and there is no shrewder fighter than a sceptic. Prince Philip was also a sceptic. Such persons, myself included, are able to see all sides of everything, readily know our enemy’s every weakness and will keep score and never stop until scores are settled. What Catherine and William had not anticipated was Harry’s response to their racist abuse of his wife. Harry effectively said, “My wife is my life, fucking with Meghan happens to be fucking with me. You want Meghan gone? Cool. Then go fuck yourselves. We are out of here!” No matter how the royals and their Fleet Street goons spin it, Harry’s rebuttal against Catherine was swift, thorough, eviscerating to the very core of her soul and the response that they had never contemplated. With Harry and Meghan departed the racist Guglielean court, Catherine and William are left on the backfoot, gutter sniping via Fleet Street to no effect. “I may owe you karma, but you do not go after my wife, grow a fucking pair and come for me!” For Harry, anyone fucking with Meghan, is where he goes nuclear, because it also goes to the very core of his soul and how as a warrior soul, he has been bruised at not having been able to better protect his mum, Diana, Princess of Wales when she was being ravaged by Charles, the Firm, Camilla and their Fleet Street henchmen. Meghan has the most sophisticatedly evolved of spirit overleaves of the lot of the royals. She did not come into this world to do Jerry Springer. No matter how you throw shit at her and lie, that Venus/Solar body type means that she will always outshine Catherine from here to Alpha Centauri. Healing Harry’s spirit and bringing up two emotionally grounded and loved humans is her sole agendum; beyond that, Meghan really does not have time to give a fuck. Meghan has master number 11 and two 4s, she so does not give a goddamn!

The mature soul cycle is all about high octane drama; it is where old karmic debts are finally settled so that one can move on the groovy splendour of being an old soul. All these major players of the House of Windsor are not only mature souls, but they are all related at the level of soul and have a very complex and rich past-life history, some of which include having been members of the royal family. Far be it for mere mortals to ever take anything such as spirituality and soul histories into consideration. For the truly racist boors, Catherine and William, Meghan was straight out of Compton. Meghan’s Black heritage was a non-negotiable. Adversely, William and Catherine, in general, fawn over non-Blacks as this is the current vogue in Western civilisation. And Britons are the only group of Whites who will never ever admit to being racist and to have mightily gained from the enslavement and exploitation of Meghan’s ancestors. Somehow, King Arthur, in their make believe world, merely waved his magic sword and faeries flittered about their magical isle where the kingdom was suddenly populated by castles and grand homes far and wide. Fleet Street has no other job, but to do the bidding of the senior royals: Charles and Camilla, William and Catherine. Conversely, for not having been born an aristocrat, Catherine was not an inappropriate bride for William. Indeed, classist boors notwithstanding, Catherine was born to be King Mother and that she has admirably achieved. It would also do one good to see beyond façades. Sight being the most dominant of human senses, we ever need to take the time to look callously at everyone through less myopic, jaundiced lenses. Who is this person, are they a mind set of 9 or energy body of 9? Could it be that they are a young-souled sage who happens to be a cynic with strong warrior casting, plus warrior task companion? Is this a mature or baby soul slave or just another young soul with truly fucked up overleaves? It is always good to hang back and critically listen. If one takes the time, you can glean a great deal beyond mere tangential markers like race, skin tone, body type, socio-economics. Seriously, Meghan is not a grifter, who is out to ruin Harry then divorce him for another husband. No, Meghan is a phenomenal artisan with an impeccable reincarnational royal backstory, who has the most awesome overleaves. You cannot fake Venus/Solar body type that’s coupled with being emotionally centred – The Queen’s beloved corgis attested to that. The racially predatory boors on Fleet Street do not know sweet fuck all and what they do know – the state of William and Catherine’s marriage, they will never ever divulge for fear of being ruined. Again, Catherine is as power mad as she is embarrassingly inarticulate. She is petty, vengeful, jealous and fault-finding, which is precisely why The Queen hardly ever had anything to do with her. She does not have cancer anymore than Meghan made her cry. What Catherine does have, is a newly refreshed face, looking like grandma’s doily-covered brand new Naugahyde sofa, on which positively no one is allowed to sit.

Go Harry go! Play hard and go to court and lay waste to Fleet Street like Alaric I did Rome. Harry was then present and it was at that time during battle that he mortally wounded Catherine, who of course has a score to settle. Like every human owed karma, passion more often than not gets the better of the magnetic pull of karmic bonds and before you know it, you are creating new karma, which had never been part of the original plan. In Meghan, Harry, you have a Queen, wife, lover, partner and mother to your two beautiful children, both of whom are cadre mates. In *Nacho, a man of fierce loyalty, you have a true brother, a comrade-in-arms who will never betray you; Nacho is neither interloper nor racist boor. Happy 40th Sir.

Nacho Figueras 4.3.1977 Snake 4.7.4 = 6

*Nacho is a seventh level young soul Warrior on his third life thereat. He is in the power mode and in the intellectual part of moving centre. He is kingly cast in cadence, in entity seven, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414, which would make him a warrior cadre mate of Merlin and mine as we are next door in entity six of cadre one.

Sing it Frank! Happy 40th Birthday Harry, you epitomise the very best of the indomitable human spirit. Shine on!

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Revisited: Dream of Meghan!

All these years later, I have finally had an initial dream encounter with Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex. It occurred as I slept during mid-day on Friday, January 27, 2023 whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my 11th house. As per usual, Prince Harry (fifth-level mature warrior soul) was in the dream and as ever, he was sat at the top of three steps to a large wooden structure. Not surprisingly, here as in every other dream encounter with this fifth mature warrior soul, Harry was barefooted, unpretentious and again, I marvelled at how hirsute his arms were. There were a couple of men visiting them and the one who did most of the talking, had an American accent. He was strongly advising the couple to acquire the surrounding lands, to the tune of thousands of acres, to their property which was about 100 acres. Opposite the wooden structure was a stand of trees with a small body of water hidden within the growth.

The second man chimed in and he had a toff’s accent; he expressed concerns about what would become of the expanse of land where clearly the polo pitch was located. Henry made it clear that the pitch was not going to be relocated and the very enterprising American was pointing off to the left and beyond the pitch that they could grow food staples for their business.

Just then, Archie could be heard calling out to his mum. We all then moved inside and there I’d eventually see her – my first dream encounter with Meghan. This building was massive and like all dreams set on the astral plane, not only were there lots of exposed woods and high ceilings; my senses were truly awakened in this rather bucolic and lucid dream. As with astral plane-focussed dreams, there was no natural light flooding the interior.

We got in and the place was set out like a chalet with seating arrangements that encourage socialising and circulating. What soon became apparent was that this was a lifestyle store as much as it was a log cabin. Products were casually on display without their placement being the conventional hard-sell of a boutique. Over in one corner a door opened and out walked Archie (7th level mature priest soul), who here appeared about 10 or 12 – I have no children of my own so it is always hard to gauge children’s ages.

Archie had a big curly afro and carried a large wooden tray with lots of jars of honey. A strong-willed female child (likely Lilibet Diana, third-level mature sage soul in dominance) could be heard in the room from which Archie arrived. Forthright, he placed the tray on a counter and began passing them to his father, to be placed on the shelves behind him where there were other jars. The jars were all glass with an ornate monogram and no paper markings; they were also of various sizes.

Everyone turned and looked and said hello as a warmly smiling Meghan (mid-cycle mature artisan soul) entered through the same door as Archie moments earlier had; she also carried a tray of honeys as she entered. I was completely stunned to see her and realised that I was having my first dream encounter with the very iconic and well-fortified Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex. She was poised and as solid and powerful as the Empire State Building is singularly granite. Whereas Archie carried honey-filled jars that were small and seemingly sampler jars, Meghan’s jars were large and of varying sizes. Placed on the counter, there were jars that contained honeycombs; however, most of the jars contained honeys that were infused with ginger, lemon, orange, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries.

Still there were others that contained lemon flowers, orange flowers, rose petals and removing the lid from one jar, Meghan offered it to me for a sniff whilst slyly smiling. Reaching forward, I maintained eye contact with her as she anticipatorily waited. I took a long, full-lunged sniff; instantaneously, I was just as lucidly awakened as second earlier whilst looking at her smiling eyes, on closing my own. The magic of dreams indeed; the particular large jar of honey proffered by Meghan, had been infused with the most fragrant elderflower imaginable!

As I never get out of bed before fully recalling dreams dreamt, I then realised that this dream was casting light on the fact that this was a lifestyle and wellness business with each bottle monogrammed with the same elaborate calligraphy. I had a sense that the property may well have been in the English country side, though, it could just have easily been in New Zealand, the American mountain states, or even Canada’s B.C. interior. The American was talking about iced wines; this on awakening could also mean a vineyard here in Ontario. One definitely did not get the sense that this property was in California. The American advisor seemed to be pushing for a vineyard to be planted, but definitely there was to be an expansion of the small orchard – 20 acres or so, which supplied the ginger and various fruits and berries that infused the honeys some of which were blond, others richly dark.

Woman, Artists Proof. Lithograph. © 1980 George Hawken

Waiting for me to finally wake up, my FTM transitioning wife brought me a large bowl of hot porridge infused with dates, figs, raspberries (especial favourite) and bananas – the smell of which I cannot abide; their skins make me salivate and grow nauseous. Beaming, I then shared that I had just had my first, very lucid dream encounter with Meghan to which she, a mature soul warrior, also seventh level mature like yours truly but a cynic to my skeptic, faster than lightning striking the CN Tower shot back, “Well, it’s about damn time!”

Here’s to American Riviera Orchard, every success Ma’am. And to Prince Harry, Prince Archie, Princess Lilibet Diana & Doria.

Take A Look. ©1993 Elektra Records Natalie Cole

Sing It Natalie! So many people in Vancouver were introduced to Jazz thanks to my West End apartment 365 overflowing with Jazz 24/7 blasting from the open windows. Vocalese Queen, Natalie was/is an entity mate (fifth mature artisan soul). Several months after she passed, just as with HLM The Queen, I dreamt of her passing over – in the latter’s case, a year prior to her actual passing. And oh lord Jesus, astral plane homecomings for most Blacks is usually a masquerade of celebration with music saturating every fabric of the astral plane. Natalie took to the stage and performed acapella and until that dream, I had not heard vocalese so stratospherically exalted and complex!
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Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Piñatas Get Whacked!

Queen Margrethe II 16.4.1940 Dragon 7.2.7 = 7

I have always admired this Queen, Margrethe II, and it never failed to impress on me that she is possessed of three 7s. That’s a powerhouse. Thus it was that during her New Year’s message when she announced that she was going to abdicate on January 14, 2024, the 52nd anniversary of her ascension, I wickedly howled then exclaimed, “And that is how you whack a piñata!” Despite that little battyfaced fabulist in the Fisher Price château, spending 25 minutes talking readily fished filler on Google, I knew without doubt Margrethe II’s reason for abdicating – the Danish constitution forbids the monarch from divorcing!

Crown Princess Mary of Denmark, breaks down in public whilst in New Zealand

So as the beautiful Crown Princess Mary had a meltdown in New Zealand over the Christmas break after being humilated by that orbital minor aristocrat with big dreams inspired by Queen Camilla, at all of three 7s, Margrethe had other ideas. No, indeed, unlike her recently departed third cousin, HLM Queen Elizabeth II, Margrethe II had no intentions of having her beloved grandchildren (Crown Prince Christian, Princess Isabella, Prince Vincent & Princess Josephine) endure the mental/emotional stress of a divorce’s fallout. Like a truly shrewd/amoral woman with first number of 7, Margrethe II signed the abdication papers at the Danish Parliament, got up, her grandson, Crown Prince Christian handed her, her cane and with that she announced, “God Save The King” turned and walked out, all before King Frederik X could sign and thus officially become king.

Trying to force a divorce by calling the paparazzi and masquerading the morning after in Madrid

Two libidinous piñatas whacked with the stroke of a pen. No need, lovely Mary to feel dispair and break down in public, Margrethe II has got things in control. Margrethe II was Queen for half a century; she’s got balls and knows her power. No protracted drama in the tabloids of cheating, scandals, separation, divorce and a possible remarriage replete with mariachi band for aspirant Danish Camilla.

King Frederik X & Queen Mary, January 14, 2024, Copenhagen

So before you could fan yourself and throw some serious side eye, Conchita deleted her social media presence within days of Mary rightfully taking her place in history as Queen, not having been divorced and dispensed with à la Diana, Princess of Wales to be replaced by a Camilla full of fillers. In short order, Margrethe II signed those documents, grabbed her cane and declared, ‘Now get out there and make my grandchildren’s mother, Mary, your Queen!” Damn right, Margrethe II does not run a pantomime.

George, Louis, Catherine & King Charles III at Sandringham, Christmas Day, 2023

Speaking of piñatas getting whacked… On Boxing Day, (December 26, 2023) I awoke from a rather lucid dream that was brief but potent; it was the last dream before awaking that day in late afternoon. In this the final dream, I came to where there was a couple engaged in kinky sexual play. Initially, the couple’s identity was not readily discernible as I came to in midstride into a bedroom where the couples heads were closer to me and down. Over the bottom’s right shoulder, the top partner’s head was buried whilst aggressively ploughing the bottom whose hands were bound to the bedposts with head turned away to left; the bottom was clearly gagged. The room was dimly lit and sparsely furnished. Ritualised, the couple hardly made noise, save for the bed’s motion; it was rough play.

Rough Play Bed

Abruptly, the top got from the bed and it proved to be Catherine; she would stilettos, a glossy PVC black bodysuit and wore a rather large-headed, upturned strapon. Aggressively, she took her leave of the room with William, #Peggalicius, remaining in bed spent. Prior to that, I had come to in another dream encounter with Catherine. This time, I onlooked as she arrived on what I assumed was Mustique where traditionally the family vacations at the home of the late Princess Margaret. This, though, was much too heavily trafficked; there were lots of yachts in the crystalline waters. I decided that for such a private island, there were too many super yachts here. Could it be St. Thomas U. S. Virgin Islands; however, there were no cruise ships. Not until several days later, in mid-January did the dream’s locale make sense. I then realised that the dream undoubtedly was set in St. Barths.

I swooped down from onhigh, after having arrived in an intensely lucid flying dream. I alighted and as I walked unobserved, I knew that my astrally projected dream body remained invisible. I strode along after a party of about eight persons. I continued on as the party was well removed from the noise and play of the wealthy persons about. There was a tall woman in a colourful muumuu, wearing a broadrimmed straw hat, large shades with blonde hair that bobbed at her shoulders. Stunned was I as I watched the overweight woman, once in a large private suite, get out of a fatsuit, toss aside the blonde wig on the bed, revealing that it was Catherine in disguise. She then came outside to a walled courtyard where a riot of creaping bourgainvillea blooms crowned the awning, affording shade and privacy. She sat in a long white lounge chair, wearing large predatory black shades whilst firmly speaking to someone on the large white phone; her tone was raspish, vile… predatory.

Dream foretelling HM Queen Elizabeth II’s passing

As with the preceding dream, it was dreamt on the eve of the73rd birthday of Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales in November, 2021. Readily, I committed the dream to this blog as I instinctually knew that HM The Queen would pass within the coming year; the following early September, 2022, she passed. There would be little credibility to the dream if I were to have shared it after The Queen’s passing. I awoke and knew straight away that I had to share the prophetic dream. So, too, were these sequential dreams of Catherine, Princess of Wales on Boxing Day, 2023, possessed of the sense of knowing and they were dreams which presaged things to come.

Top to Bottom: Centuries Old English Oak, Cedar of Lebanon at Althorp House & Millennial Yew

The next dream of a senior royal occurred just a couple of days after New Year’s Day, 2024. Since becoming sovereign in September, 2022, it was the first dream had of King Charles III. It is not uncommon to dream of persons with whom you have past life history that was positive; if they happen to be famous and thus recognisable from the waking state in the dreamtime, it is rare. Most times, such persons may well be alive but unkown to self and therefore a mystery though familiar in the dreamtime. This dream was one of high moment. HM King Charles III wore the most glorious saffron robe that was not golden and it draped on the zingy grass after him.

Healing Park of Tuning Fork Trees

Just as in the above dream entitled, “Come on, Let’s Go For A Ride!” All the trees here as in that park were perfectly shaped into topiary tuning forks. They were massive on the order of the giant redwoods of the American northwest; however, here these trees easily were thrice as tall as those ones. The air was pure and inordinately oxygen rich. There were only three types of trees in the dream as represented above: oaks, evergreens and yews, each a colassal trunked column whose branches halved and towered upwards forming perfect tuning forks. I had been in this place before, though, never with Merlin. I had been measurably gliding along drinking in the super negative ions of the place, upping my frequency in the process. I had thrown open my eyes and seen King Charles III coming towards me. Immediately, his exposed hands did not betray the thickened fingers of the waking state; they were long digits that were fluid, sensitive… creative. His age here betrayed his agedness of spirit; King Charles III is a seventh level mature warrior soul – Prince Archie, by the way, is also seventh level mature but a priest soul. They are both the oldest souls of all the senior royals whose overleaves I am aware of. These three majestic arborial species were triple-rowed and along a wide path that easily was wider and longer by ten times than both Windsor Castle’s and Blenheim Palace’s long walks.

Buster Meditating in Pyramid flanked by three George Hawkens, A Bill Reid & A Henry Moore

Comfortably ensconced in my trusty pyramid and lucidly self-aware, I began upping my vibration, drawing in the power and frequency of the trees about me. Swirling about me, the energy soon took on hues of blue-white light, which I directed upwards and outwards whilst King Charles III stood comfortably distant. The light grew more intense, the power more potent until effortlessly my lids fluttered and I awoke with the crystals still in place at the chakra points which rarely they remain during sleep.

Harry & his pa, Charles and his darling boy

Days later, as I looked at live TV, Prince Charles’s former communications secretary, Kristina Kyriacou, said on ITV, “No one could make Prince Charles laugh louder than Prince Harry could…” At that moment, you could have heard a pin drop; no one was better placed to have known this. Indeed, half of King Charles III’s healing was doubtless affected as Prince Harry walked into the salon at Clarence House and they greeted each other, “Hi pa” “Oh my darling boy,” they hugged and both lost tears. Nothing else, not the fabulist bullshit of that battyfaced crossdresser or the other royal experts whether outed by Archie Manners or not – they are all the fucking same… blithering, snobbish, bullshit artists.

EE BAFTA Awards Statuets

Talk about guilty conscience. Just looked at the 2024 EE BAFTA Awards and darling, I honestly had no clue that the shitty li’l racist island’s BAFTAs was specifically an awards ceremony for Blacks. Naturally, as #Peggalicious is president of BAFTA, the #EtonianPoofter has seen fit to fight back against the family having been categorically outed in Omid Scobie’s Endgame as dire anti-Black racists – as if it were not readily obvious at Prince Harry & Meghan’s wedding. Of course, going by those dreams, King Charles III would turn out to be stricken with cancer, hence the giant yew trees in the energy transference dream encounter – extracts from yew bark is used in cancer treatments. Of course, what better way to be rid of the otiose #Middledumb zombie but to push for a divorce. Naturally, as all is slight of hand with The Firm, Catherine has been mysteriously ill and indisposed for a least several months – has she been embalmed and The Firm awaiting the right time to stage the news and disposal. As per the dream, I rather suspect that whilst at Sandringham at Christmas, #Peggalicious violently demanded a divorce, #Middledumb the mute dominatrix, fled to Bucklebury and hightailed it to St. Barths by private jet, in cropped blonde wig and fatsuit no less, where for now, she is staying put with 80m£ worth of missing royal jewels.

HM King James I & his lover, George Villiers the Duke of Buckingham

Christian Jones, the Duke of Buckingham & Norfolk and Peggalicious besotted & Incandescent

Certainly, I cannot see them offering #Middledumb more than 40m£ to go away. Naturally, she has taken flight, not wanting to suffer the same fate that befell the eternally beautiful, Diana, Princess of Wales. It most certainly will be interesting to see if in due course, #Peggalicious makes Christian Jones, Duke of Buckingham & Norfolk; King James I certainly set the tone when making his lover, George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham.

#Middlemuted Missing but is she missed?

Is it piñata whacking time one wonders?

At the one hour & twelfth minute mark of this landmark live performance in New York City on December 4, 1992, Diana Ross performs the best rendition of Strange Fruit since Billie Holiday. And what a stellar assembly of Jazz musicians it was!

Liner Notes:

Arranged By [Music Arranged By] – Gil Askey
[The BIg Band], Alto Saxophone – Frank Wess (tracks: 15 to 18), Justin Robinson (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Baritone Saxophone – Gary Smulyan (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Bass – Ron Carter (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Drums – Grady Tate (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Guitar – Ted Dunbar (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Piano – Barry Harris (2) (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Tenor Saxophone – Jerome Richardson (tracks: 15 to 18), Ralph Moore (2) (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Trombone – Garnett Brown (tracks: 15 to 18), Slide Hampton (tracks: 15 to 18), Urbie Greene* (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The BIg Band], Trumpet – Gil Askey (tracks: 15 to 18), John Longo (tracks: 15 to 18), Jon Faddis (tracks: 16 to 19), Roy Hargrove (tracks: 15 to 18), Stanton Davis (tracks: 15 to 18)
[The Band], Alto Saxophone – Justin Robinson (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Bass – Ron Carter (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Drums – Grady Tate (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Guitar – Ted Dunbar (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Piano – Barry Harris (2) (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Tenor Saxophone – Ralph Moore (2) (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Trombone – Urbie Greene* (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Band], Trumpet – Gil Askey (tracks: 1 to 10), Jon Faddis (tracks: 1 to 10), Roy Hargrove (tracks: 1 to 10)
[The Sextet], Drums – Grady Tate (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Piano – Bobby Tucker (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Tenor Saxophone – Jerome Richardson (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Trombone – Garnett Brown (tracks: 11 to 14)
[The Sextet], Trumpet – Gil Askey (tracks: 11 to 14), Jon Faddis (tracks: 11 to 14)
Executive Producer – Diana Ross
Leader [Music Director] – Jon Faddis
Producer – Ben Sidran
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Rage! Especially at a time like this, rage is the passion one feels at you having the audacity to speciously claim that Jazz has its roots in Klezmer… live on-air! You just know that faster than a sneeze, I was manically dialling up JazzFM and vituperatively emasculating the little fabulist fraud. You can squat all over the culture all you want; however, you are to Jazz what wings are to ostriches. Seriously, what do ostriches know of flight? More to the point, eagles do not give a goddamn that ostriches have wings. The audacity of you as one, enraptured by the language of Jazz, stratospherically soars twenty thousand feet above the oddity of you stealing, squatting… noise-making! Happy Black history month. Jazz, above all else, is the spiritual manifestation of that intensely enriched Black history!

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pink Chair I & II

Within days of George’s 44th birthday on February 9th, 1990, I had been to his McCaul Street loft, which looked east to the buildings lining University Avenue. There, on the top floor’s tiny balcony, we would retreat for some privacy, late at night and suck each other off with his son spying on us… ever he spied on us and it became a definite source of one of our many volatile breakups that George wanted to watch whilst his son and I fucked. I am not about doing anything that I find repugnant. George’s son’s legs are ridiculously bizarre; the space between the knees and ankles inordinately short – he also has too much gum for my liking. Did not matter to me that he was very thick and big; I was not playing. End of discussion. More than all that, George’s son numerology was possessed of two 9s, which made any connection between us glacial at best. Both his energy body and mindset are 9; forget that. In any event, that winter, after George and I had riotously fucked with his son’s conspicuous silence in the open loft definitely indicating that we were being spied on, I fell asleep whilst George, thoroughly, noisily ploughed right, went to shit and shower, which was always alone and a very lengthy affair. On exiting the bath, as I soundly slept, awaiting my turn to shower, George grabbed his polaroid and took several snaps of me in his sole pink armchair as I remained sheathed in a used full and droopy condom.

By the time that George would present me with the iconic, masterful serigraph, he and I were not then on speaking terms on conclusion of the work. Months earlier, in November 1989, Merlin had passed and as George made it perfectly clear that he did not want to be in a committed relationship, I walked away. He was, of course, pissed but I was not getting the support I felt that I then needed. Truth be told, the relationship with George was ideal, I could no more have given two fucks about his friends anymore than they did me. George was totally controlling – energy body of 9 – and in that way, I was his muse and a great fuck; this left both his family and friends off limit – of course, there was obsession with his son, which meant me fulfilling his fantasy. Not happening. So as I did not play along and began taking lovers of my own, as George wanted to celebrate my life in the event that I, soon after Merlin, perished of AIDS – at that point, I still had not gone out and taken an HIV test; I was simply then too solipsistic to have been any support to Merlin who was then slowly dying of AIDS. So not able to bring himself to name the serigraph after me, it became Pink Chair; of course, for his friends, it was a great dig at me whom they thought of dismissible and an utter non-entity. Of course, I never said more than two words to anyone at that point in my life – that is, if I did not think you worth my time why bother saying fuck all?

For the next three years, George and I saw each other on and off. During that time, I was rapidly self-exploring. Of course, at the core of it all, there was the one ritual that grounded me, each day as I went to bed, I closed my eyes and smiled, knowing that on awaking, I would recall a plethora of dream experiences which before sleep, I could not readily have fathomed. Each morning I woke up, grabbed the tape recorder and began audiocassette recording my dreams. For this reason, as it had been a promise made to Merlin, I had no desire to be in a living relationship. No, I do not want to meet your fucking family, most definitely do not want to be caught dead, wasting a nanosecond of my time, listening to your loser friends and their redundantly specious regurgitated anecdotes – been there… fuck that. With Merlin’s passing, I had found a new groove: go to a few bathhouses, fuck a couple or a couple dozen hungry bottoms, head home by bike and listen to either classical or Jazz and get on with reading, writing and looking forward to travelling to the next art exhibition or Jazz concert and, of course, collecting art.

At one point, George moved out of his McCaul Street loft and with his possessive son remaining at the loft, this opened the way for us to get back together. This, of course, was not without its angst. One evening, I was hellbent on ploughing George to the hounds but he kept on begging off and finally blew up at me and told me to fuck off and, perhaps, he wanted to fuck his brains out with someone else. Are you fucking kidding me? No need to sit about when possessed of that irrational cocktail of obsession, passion, lust and mistrust. With regards his sexual activity, George always lied… I knew this. The first time that he had lied, I noticed the tell-tale sign – his right index finger and middle finger would involuntarily quiver and he would always try to cover it by rubbing his right index against his right nostril. Whenever this occurred, he would always get up and walk away to try and better cover up the physiological quirk. As ever, nothing escaped my eagle-eyed perception.

That night, unable to sleep and more importantly being robbed of valuable dreamtime, I got up and hopped on my bike in the middle of a bitching winter’s dead of night. George, who then lived at 62 Austin Terrace, had me pedal like mad in the biting cold and after locking my bike down the hill, made it up to 62 Austin Terrace, which stood right at the northeast corner of Bathurst Street and Austin Terrace. Truly possessed, I hopped onto the mountain ash tree and began scaling the damn tree as though at 0300 on a cold winter’s night with a street lamp nicely illuminating things, my being a black male, climbing a leaf-bare tree in the Annex, was a perfectly natural thing to be doing, among other illogical considerations. The lights were on in the bedroom; alas, he was not being ploughed by someone who was not me. Of course, George always spoke in his sleep and in one of his little pernicious moves, days earlier as I ploughed him good, he let out someone else’s name whilst pretending to be more asleep and or drunk than he was. Of course, seven years of being the lover of an award-winning director, Merlin, I knew fucking bad acting toute de suite.

There were clothes on the bed that were not George’s but he could not be seen.  Undaunted, I scaled and scraped my way down the tree with simian ease, passion-possessed and made it up Bathurst to the rear of the property where I scaled the slippery stone side of the hill and made it atop the garage where for walking across packed, crunching inches of snow, found George being ploughed on the large draught table in his study.  I was beyond livid but wanted and gotten definite proof to slap down his lying when confronted.  His response was, of course, feigned indignation at my having had the temerity to spy on him.  As with all passionate lovers, that entangled, drama-rife bit of Sargasso was soon traversed to calmer seas.  Months later, we got in from dinner, sat down for a drink at his Austin Terrace apartment and laughed and savoured our cognac, after having been out shopping in the early afternoon to choose a new frame for Pink Chair.  As ever,  George wanting to be ploughed long and hard, listened to Haydn’s Paris Symphonies – ever, I favoured the London Symphonies.  I had just returned to Toronto after amour fou absolu had attempted to steal a dozen pieces from my art collection, among which was Pink Chair. 

By March, 1993, I was hanging out in Washington D.C. with Bahamian relations when for walking out on my host, would meet Yuri, the most thoroughly consuming S&M bottom. This, of course, was at a time where all I did was crawl bathhouses partout, ever on the prowl, as finally I had discovered my metier with Merlin’s passing. S&M was the right groove at the right time in my life. So as I crawled predatorily the halls of yet another bathhouse, this one on the edge of a military base in the U. S. capital, I was hotly pursued by Yuri as my swagger and riding boots were just what and more his wildest dreams were in search of. We fucked for several hours, he professed his love and we returned to his place just southwest of Dupont Circle in Foggy Bottom that was the epitome of house proud faggot and way too minimalist for my liking. Alas, we went to his bedroom, which had a bed that was custom-built and made to service his every S&M whim. We were insatiable and it was just right. I looked past his drinking and excessive use of poppers, which second hand ever left me with a splitting headache, he had an actual freezer in which he kept handled bottles of vodka and the salacious bottom with the thick Russian accent was all mine.

Soon he took me to dinner, presented me a ring and demanded that I move to America and his position as lawyer in a queer law firm would allow me to live without the worry of working and the ideal Daddy to come home to. A city full of museums, he had season tickets to Kennedy Center and just a short flight to New York City for more culture and art, it was not very hard to say yes. Soon we went looking at places as I came down every other weekend from Toronto; we dined out and did all the things he had not before. On the off weekend, he had to himself with friends and family, which I made it perfectly clear were a non-negotiable in our relationship.

No sooner than having brought down choice pieces of art and much of my wardrobe as we chatted daily three to five times, I was returned that Sunday evening to no calls or calls going unanswered. Finally, that Thursday evening, he coolly answered the phone and wanted to know what I was bothering him for as, said he, he thought that he had made it clear that it was over between us. Perhaps, I was in denial but now he was with Tyrone who had a big 11.5 inch cock that he just couldn’t get enough of. Putting my master numbers to good use, I morphed and pulled out personalities 33, 47 and 56, all the while not so much as appearing remotely upset. Soon, he was answering the phone whilst being ploughed by Tyrone. Alas, my diamond cutter charm wore him down; we did after all have concerts to attend at Kennedy Center. So fool him, he accepted as Tyrone was going home to Philly for his mama’s 50th birthday – as if I could give two point five fucks.

Returned to Washington, I charmed him though he was wary and mistrustful – his guilt not mine. Finally, he gave in and we had one last S&M session. Tied up, he stood upright in the leather bedding with black bath sheets everywhere to catch his piss as I ploughed his arse, exposed by the thick leather chaps, rough, long and hard. I then slipped beneath the bed and got out the duct tape purchased earlier at Heckenger’s across town – everyone in the neighbourhood knew him and I had no intentions of anyone tipping him off. The hood zipped tight, revealing only his eyes and mouth, I smeared half a dozen strips of the black tape across his lizard-lipped cocksucker mouth and left just enough room for him to comfortably breathe.

As the opera fag neighbours below were in that evening, I turned up the music – Maria Callas CDs on the Denon stereo system – really loudly and pulled his big-boned body from the black leather sheets and hauled him by the harness through the 2100 square foot duplex apartment to the living room, took the strap to him as well he loved it; however, this was not about him, left him slumped and seated on the floor and quietly and meticulously cut my fucking art from the god fugly gaudy gold frames, into which the fucking racist moron had placed my stolen art, 12 pieces in all, including Pink Chair. Having returned my art into the tubes, in which they had months earlier been brought down from Toronto, I called my ride and with lots of time to spare its arrival, I hauled the blasted fool – who to that point had royally pissed off at least half my known 72 personalities, to his large bathroom, where clad in leather from head to toe, I heaved his bulky body – his legs and hands bound as he loved it during play, over the side of the tub, ripped out his butt plug, squatted down, violently ripped off the duct tape, replaced it with my gauntlet sheathed left hand whilst riotously fucking him hard. Hissing into his right ear, still hammering away at his ravaged mangina, ‘you fucking thief… what does that make you. That’s right, you’re a fucking nigger and don’t you ever forget it.’ Slamming the bathroom door shut behind me, my head ached from all the poppers he did. Coolly, I went to the freezer and got the handled bottles of vodka there, where else but America, and slowly undid his suit so that his welted body beneath could really sting from the vodka’s cold, unforgiving bite, after shoving his whimpering body into the tub. When I was done emptying all his vodka on his shivering, enraged body, I straddled his wet body below in the tub and whilst standing on the edge pissed and relieved my bladder which since removing my stolen art from his walls had been straining for release.

From there, I hightailed it to New York City and stayed a few days at Valerie Pringle’s only brother’s West 16th Street walk-up where I grounded anew by going to all my favourite museums by day and crawling the village in riding boots, making further conquests, which usually began whilst gyrating and face-fucking on the tiny dance floor down the mirrored winding stairs at the historic Stonewall Inn. Returned to Toronto with my art, over dinner at a tiny Spanish restaurant off Yonge Street, after we had taken Pink Chair to be framed, raising a glass of red, I winked at George and said of the vanquished amour fou, the best way to piss on a fool’s grave, is to do so before they actually are dead and buried. Dinner was beautiful and with that, we returned to his apartment at 62 Austin Terrace and George was no end of happy, reaching back and holding on to my riding boots, his arse high in the air, as I ploughed and staked my claim to his heart centre as never before.

‘What the fuck are you calling me for?’ On my return to Toronto, I lethally hissed down the phone at the racist boor in Washington D. C.. ‘We have no business together. Obviously, all you can handle, is nothing more than 11 IQ points. Let’s make this perfectly fucking goddamn clear, since your HIV status – that’s right, I have known all along, precludes you making it across the border, you will stay the fuck where you are and get over it. You’re a fucking thief.’ He then violently demanded that I return ‘his’ art and be man enough to bring it back. ‘What the fuck has AIDS and poppers done to your fucking pea brain? Bitch are you fucking nuts? You are dead to me. Shit, I already pissed on you… you are as good as fucking dead! Cutting him off as he launched into his foul, drunken nigger this, nigger that, I boomed down the phone into his gutted soul, ‘Hang it up! Hang it the blasted motherfuck up! Now! Go on, hang up your fucking phone now. You fucking drunken diseased rat. Now! Hang it the blasted motherfuck up now! Hang it up! Finally, the line dropped, collapsing his weak sobbing. A bottom to the core, he never dare dialled my number again.

Also, at 62 Austin Terrace, I announced to George that I had accepted a job offer in Vancouver and would be leaving in mere days. George was devastated as he felt that he was being abandoned for not having been fully engaged in a committed relationship. In the end, not long after I was happily ensconced in Vancouver’s West End, that George visited. We had some of our best sex deep into the musky wholesomeness within the woods of Stanley Park, lorded over by centuries old Sitkas. There in the dead of night, George buried his left cheek in the mud, held on to my riding boots as ever he loved to as I ploughed and took us both to beyond the edge of ecstasy. George’s first visit to Vancouver – there was a second, was passed going to galleries, having an early dinner, likely on Davie Street, going home for a nap before getting up late at night to go do that most primal of deeds, fucking surrounded by the sublime beauty of nature.

On the eve of Bob Marley’s birthday – a very brightly, crisply cold Friday in 1999, my wife and I emerged in full African garb onto Saint Laurent from Montréal’s palais de justice accompanied by George and my sister, Pandora, both serving as witnesses. That evening at our lovely Cote des Neiges home, the four of us were joined by a lovely Jewish boy from Hampstead. George and I were reunited after too long on the cusp of his 53rd birthday and among other things, we warmly celebrated his upcoming birthday. The evening was beautiful. Five years later, my wife and I relocated back to Toronto as both our fathers experienced health crises. My first visit to George’s Borden Street penthouse was beautiful, the view looked north to one of my favourite high-rises in the city; it is a deco affair at the northwest corner of Spadina & Richmond Street West. I am always reminded of Merlin and New York City where we met and how much he loved the architecture of 1930s New York City. Paris, my wife, and Pandora were invited to dinner in the late afternoon.

George seldom hung art about his homes, and rarely any of his; there was one however which moved me the moment I walked into the room. Who is it, I asked, to which George laughed and said, ‘it’s you, of course. It’s the companion to Pink Chair… it is Pink Chair. Back in 1987 when we first met, George had asked me to sit at his loft on Brock Avenue in the Queen West Queen neighbourhood. As a result of our carnal passion, George experienced a new creative drive; he became more creatively focussed and produced more. George’s attack was dazzling and he created with feverish speed. He was always grateful for that time, he was not yet 41 when we met and for him, it proved the mid-life crisis he needed. It was great, too, because Russell, a lover of his, had slowly been dying of AIDS and I became the anchor that kept him focussed here and now.

I was invigorated by this second Pink Chair, which had been completed in 1992 but which he had never shown me. Finally, George and I met separate of my wife, Paris, who has since transitioned and become Denver, for dinner at his Borden Street penthouse condo. Even though I had become a portly little cock-bottomed, short-breathed eccentric with age, I still wanted to return to being George’s muse and, of course, lover. As ever, we dined on another exquisitely prepared meal, which featured a George staple – asparagus and another sublime sauce with the right accompanying wine. At this dinner, however, George began opening up and told me of a murder at University of Toronto where he taught printmaking; it was a murder, George shared, for which he was a major suspect. For the next couple of hours, I watched George come undone as he talked of how unrelenting the authorities were in surveilling him. At one point, as he slumped in the chair across the table from me, George sprang back to life and said that he wanted to apologise; said George, all the years of hearing me speak of the insidiousness of racism and the effects it had on one’s wellbeing, he had dismissed and for that he wanted to apologise.

George trembled at times and he seemed to age before my eyes. Keenly, I kept a raptor’s gaze fixed on his every move. Never once throughout that dinner did I fail to look out for George’s right index and middle fingers’ movements; they never once quivered. George shared that he was terrified of sleeping because he constantly suffered nightmares of losing everything with his being pinned with the murder, going to and dying in jail. George said that he constantly felt as though his every action was being monitored, analysed to discern whether he was the murderer or not. Getting up, I went and knelt at his side at the dining room table and held him, hugged him. I let him know that I was there for him. Slumping forward, George hugged me and dissolved in tears, we both cried. I cried because I realised that there was no way that George could ever be passionate again; there could be no sleepovers – he talked constantly during sleep.

George and I never met at his condo again. Walking away that evening, I was struck by how neutered and consumed with fear George had become. At one point during dinner, with his back turned whilst cooking dinner, one of my notoriously loud sneezes exploded. Though George had heard that loud explosion countless times before, he responded as though a high speed train had unexpectedly zoomed past. George and I seldom spoke by phone and rarely emailed after that dinner. As a matter of fact, apart from meeting twice to catch a movie, we only saw each other whenever I turned up at Dr. Tsang’s. It was one of these visits – whenever I went to the doctor’s, George happened to have been there, George shared that he had cancer. I was stunned. Over time, George’s stomach became more distended, his look more wounded and what pained me most, was how much he remained as if possessed, thanks to having been a major suspect in the murder of a colleague.

After dinner, as I made to leave and we hugged long and hard, we then looked at Pink Chair, another of his masterpieces, George kissed me and said that whatever happened, it was mine; George wanted the piece to eventually become mine but for now, he was holding on to it because it reminded him of the passion we shared and how intensely I had inspired him to create and drove him, drove each other mad with the passion we shared. Getting down to Borden, I was so immensely drained at George’s despair that I walked with bike a block south to Adelaide, hailed a cab, securely tucked the bike in the trunk and silently wept on the ride home. I got in, lit beeswax candles everywhere, listened to Haydn’s Paris Symphonies, then had an extra hot soak in the tub with rose petals and Epsom salt, smudged my home afterwards with sagebrush, crawled into the pyramid, gathered crystals and upped my frequency whilst collapsing through the labiate folds of sleep’s sweet, welcome embrace. George died a dozen years after my return to living in Toronto from Montréal, and all attempts to acquire Pink Chair have proven unsuccessful. A lover scorned… indeed.

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Pluto in Capricorn & in Opposition – Pandemic & Retribution.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always… with every breath… it is quintessentially Jazz!

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

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

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

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

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Buster En Repose Pyramid Green Room.

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(L to R,) Yonge Street Mask (George Hawken Lithograph 1971), Pink Chair (George Hawken Lithograph 1990 of yours truly; there are only three copies in existence) Woman (George Hawken Lithograph 1980) Sockeye Salmon (Bill Reid Lithograph 1991), Four Standing Figures (Henry Moore Lithograph 1978) 

Buster is a really keen familiar.  Recently, someone of dubious intentions visited my home; needless to say, I had dreamt of the encounter days prior.  As he spends long hours therein, Buster came from the pyramid and promptly hissed at the individual then returned to the pyramid where no doubt, he communed with his Egyptian ancestors.  He only ever enters the pyramid at the eastern corner and when meditating will face one of the four corners in the sphinx position and remain thus for long hours.  

Buster loves that duvet; therefore, year round I have to sleep with one.  Now that it is summer, I avoid roasting beneath the down duvet by having the AC on high 24/7.  Bad carbon footprint; then again, I don’t drive.  

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Otello: Race and the Arts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Highlights from a rather underwhelming show.   

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

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

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

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

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© 2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

Jessye Norman & Glenn Gould.

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As I work 7 days a week, I was debating whether or not to attend the Twelfth Glenn Gould Prize Gala at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts.  That morning en route home from some errands, I discovered that someone had jumped from a neighbourhood condo.  I got in and realised that there was no more feet-dragging; to hell with being dog-tired.  I got on the phone and called up Lucian Mann-Chomedy and said, “My darling, we are going to the Jessye Norman Gala!”  As ever, always positive, Lucian chimed in, “Oh my, oh yes, how lovely.  Well, I’ll be both honoured and delighted.”  Indeed, life is for living!  

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Merlin and I met Friday, October 1, 1982 in a Hell’s Kitchen Walk-up, the following Monday evening, on his return to Toronto, Merlin called up crying.  The man whom he had spent so much of our first evening together speaking of, had died; Glenn Gould had died.  For the seven years that we were together, Merlin listened to Glenn Gould’s interpretation of J. S. Bach’s Goldberg Variations at least thrice weekly.  Indeed, the first gift I purchased Merlin, was a recently released recording of the Goldberg Variations at Christmas 1982: I think that it is safe to say that that gift sealed the deal, I was a keeper for sure.  

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As I had waited until the last minute to get seats, I was sat in Ring 4 rather than the usual Ring 3.  This, alas, was my view of the stage and of course, the butterflies are from the set for Atom Egoyan’s masterful staging of Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte, which the moment I saw the set, I began chuckling to Lucian on recall of Tracy Dahl’s unsurpassed performance as Despina.  

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As I was too busy trying to throw something together for Instagram, I was heard gasping when it was announced that the head of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Jury this twelfth prize was none other than the actor, Viggo Mortensen, who then walked out onto stage.  He, indeed, who in a few days time will be attending the Governors Ball where he may or may not be holding an Oscar.  

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Out onto the stage arrived the Twelfth Prize Laureate, Jessye Norman.  Truly, it was a shock to the very core to see Madame being ushered out in a wheelchair.   Suddenly, I was reminded of the events of earlier which caused me to rush home and purchase two tickets for the event.  That aside, there was no greater joy than drinking of her soul’s inspiring beauty.  

This beautiful gala was so filled with touchstones for me, none more so than the moment that bass baritone, Ryan Speedo Green was in full song.  When he sang, “Aprite un po’ quegli occhi” from Wolfgang A. Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro.  

Yes, indeed, this marvellous aria’s orchestration included a harpsichord.  Straight away, I was teary-eyed as memories of the truly eccentric and delightful Milan Newcombe readily surfaced; Milan will ever remain a lover like no other.  

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During the intermission, I ran into two old friends not seen in at least 1.5 decades; we spoke of nothing but our surprise at Ms. Norman’s entrance.  Life really does march full speed ahead.  

After the intermission, it was the announcement of the Glenn Gould Foundation’s Progidy Prize with the recipient being none other than, Cécile McLorin-Salvant, the most fabulous Jazz singer on the planet.  Is this not an evening to remember during Black History Month indeed.  

This stunningly unforgettable gala was closed out by the final recitalist being the divinely gifted soprano and Glenn Gould Foundation Prize juror, Sondra Radvanovsky in full song, singing Verdi.  

The gala concluded with Ms. Norman returning to the stage and singing a duet with Cécile McLorin-Salvant.  This was a moving, emotionally intense evening and my life was greatly enriched for having chosen to attend.  The gala was nothing short of magical.  

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As a tribute to this marvellous evening in the theatre, I will include herein two dreams, which were originally audio-cassette-recorded in the 1990s.  Before each deam, one of Glenn Gould, the other Jessye Norman, I will include each individual’s Michael Overleaves.  

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Gould, Glenn Herbert 25/9/32 – 4/10/82, Toronto

This fragment was a sixth level mature artisan in the repression mode, with a goal of growth, an idealist in the moving part of intellectual centre.
He had a Mercury/Saturn body type.

Glenn’s primary chief feature was self-destruction with a secondary of arrogance.

Glenn was third-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the greater cadence. He is a member of entity four, cadre five, greater cadre 17, pod/node 819.

This fragment has an artisan essence twin who was alive during Glenn’s life but there were no plans to meet. This fragment is still incarnate on the physical plane.

The fragment who was Glenn has a scholar task companion, who was in a previous life, Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach. They were not incarnate at the same time.

However, the fragment who was Glenn was exerting considerable influence on Carl Philip Emmanuel.

These two fragments had many lives together, once as luthiers, three times as court musicians, nine times as brothers of the cloth, twice as brothers in the flesh, as well as completing several important life monads, including student/mentor and master/slave.

In the immediate past life, the fragment who was Glenn had as his three primary needs: security, communion and exchange. Only the first of these was ever even partially satisfied.

So here we had a warrior-cast artisan who had seriously conflicting overleaves and a primary chief feature of self-destruction. He had a goal of growth but a repression mode which would not allow him to flourish.

He had a need for communion, but was sexually ambivalent and socially inept. Undeniably, he had great talent but took no pleasure from performing in public.

This fragment has a great deal of scholar energy that was used in the immediate past life to enable Glenn Herbert to painstakingly examine and interpret the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.

He was very interested in form and structure for all of his adult life. This fragment was, unfortunately, the victim of a severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, also for all of his adult life, which worsened considerably during his third and fourth decades.

This fragment did not, as popular wisdom teaches, retire from public life because of any strong beliefs in the recording industry. Glenn Herbert retired from public life because he could no longer bear to be in crowds, even if he was distanced by a proscenium.

Needless to say, this fragment did not complete work on his fourth internal monad.  

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A Glenn Gould

Astral Plane Glenn Gould Recital!

Nothing is more uplifting than finding oneself at a great musical performance on the astral plane.  This dream was about being richly inspired and by Glenn Herbert Gould, no less; it was truly marvellous an adventure for the spirit.

The dream occurred, on Tuesday, October 6, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aquarius and my ninth house.

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I am in France where I leisurely browsed through a store; perhaps, it was somewhere in Paris.  It seemed here like at nighttime.  Whilst in one corner of the store, I noticed that there were all these big slabs of cheese in packaged containers.

There was a woman coordinating the display of the cheeses.  Sometimes the cheese was being grated and other times not.  There and then, I decided that I was going to buy one slab of the cheese that was packaged in a rectangular box.

The cheese was about an inch thick and about eight inches long.  The cardboard box that it was in was white and almost like the size of a box of Cream of Wheat.

Surprisingly, the box was rather heavy.  Though not unlike cheddar, it was a dark cheese.  The smell of this cheese was really hard – quite the bite to it.

It had seemingly been opened for too long as parts of it was growing hardened and turning colour.  I knew straight off the bat that I wanted to have some to take home with me.

So, off I went to purchase the slab that I liked.  Everyone here was, of course, speaking French which I quite so understood and liked.  Interestingly, I too was speaking very competently in French.

It was obvious that I was not too heavily accented as the others were pleasant-enough with me.

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The second dream had me leaving the store; I then found myself hovering in the air.  Whilst in flight, I went into a building which had a green – oxidised-copper – roof.  It was part of a long set of buildings that had very, very tall stone chimneys.

These were chimneys that were not unlike the ones at the Palais du Louvre.  As a matter of fact, the building was similar to the Canadian Parliament buildings though it was not those buildings.

This complex was considerably longer.  These were a series of complex buildings.  Here, I was easily thirty storeys up whilst in flight.  I looked down at the complex which at maximum could not have been more than five storeys tall.

After having contemplatively observed the complex for awhile, I began very slowly gliding down through the air.  I intently studied a procession of persons, way below, who were bailing out of very large buses; they were, as a matter of fact, tour buses.

This was all happening in a courtyard-like area and away from the bustle of the street.  I next noticed some men who appeared; they seemed, in their long, flowing white robes, to be priests.

They were not Arabic or Muslims in caftans; rather, they were definitely Whites.  The buildings here were long on the order of Palais Richelieu in Paris.  When I finally alighted, we had to go through this incredible entrance.

This led into a wonderful sandstone building; it was very modern with a neo-classical design.  On the order of being imposing, the door to this place was massive.  They seemed to be the doors to a temple.

To get to the entrance, there were many steps which one had to climb.  On entering, off to the right, there was a passage that one could take.

An aisle led along another passage; it seemed illumined by a skylight.  The priestly men had all entered before me.  They preceded a procession of adherents who had come to partake of some ritual.

I had gone to explore, off to the left, because it was the wing of the building that had reminded me of the Palais du Louvre.  Going there, I wandered about being fascinated by the place.

Some women were posing for artists in this particular wing.  They wore modern garb but were very exceptionally beautiful.  What was most intriguing about their look was that it was exactly as they would have appeared on the finished canvases.

They were very nubile young women; they had to hold their poses for interminably long periods.  Here several kids kept on going through the place; they were seemingly art students.

They were all very North American, middle class with their loud, snobbish bourgeois affectations.  Right away, it was obvious that all the muses were still virgins.

Theirs was an innocence that could never be affected.  They were all teenage girls whose bodies were very voluptuous and full.  These were not skinny people at all.

There was one point at which one girl was holding different poses.  Each girl would be painted by from three-to-five artists, at a time.  Thus every pose would be captured from different perspectives.

At one point, they told her to take a break; they then reverted back to an earlier pose.  This was so that they could return to that work and put some more work into finishing it up.

When she changed the pose, she had also turned some 180 degrees.  This particular model, whom I was studying, wore socks with Oriental-looking sandals.

Inside her socks she kept little items of hers.  Whilst she was making the transition, she simply reached up her foot and pulled up her right leg to reach down into the socks.

Hers was a pair of blue-coloured socks – pale blue.  To just above the ankles was the extent to which the socks rose.  Looking at her, she took out something from about her ankle which looked like a wafer.

Not the least bit self-conscious, she ate it at once; it seemed like a chocolate wafer which she favoured.  She seemingly needed it to get an energy boost so that she could stay focussed on the tedious work that she did.

After having found it all very interesting, I moved on sufficiently knowledgeable of the goings on here.  Walking along a corridor, I ended up going into a room where everyone was very strange.

A guy there was a lot like Galen Shim – my very beautiful, Hong Kong-born, Eurasian friend.  He reclined on a bed with his head close to the door.  When I came in, I noticed that he was naked.  When giving him a massage, I began by oiling his body.

It was quite fragrant oil.  Rubbing down his body, I began working on his toes and feet.  Afterwards, I got up to leave but he very silently began coming with me.

So out we went and joined the procession of persons; among them this time were several kids.  Mostly, they were teenagers – amongst whom I did not want to be.

Galen or the guy who seemed like him, here the guy was not wearing glasses as before nor would Galen for that matter, and I kept walking through the place.  Pretty soon, after we had left the noisy kids, we started hearing the most beautiful music.

This was one of the rare times that I found the music of the pipe organ to be beautiful.  Within the complex, we happened on this wonderful cathedral inside which were most of the people from the procession.

On entering the structure, it seemed more like a concert hall.  We soon learnt that the hall was specifically built so that only Johannes Sebastian Bach’s music could be played there.

Never before had I heard classical music sound so beautiful.  We stood there transfixed whilst listening together.  Who then should I notice way at the front of the hall, at the pipe organ that sat high on the dais-like stage, but Glenn Gould.  I could see his right profile as if in close-up.

My god, this was rapture and then some.  He was playing with such rapt abandon that I steadied myself and whispered more to myself than to Galen,

“My god, what an incredible dream to be having…”

Image result for gothic knave ceiling

There seemed to be a skylight on the side of the high-ceilinged nave.  Instead of there being stained glass windows, windows for that matter, there was only intense light raining down through what seemed to be a skylight system.

The centre of the halved skylight was a wonderful neoclassical, oxidised, copper-looking, greenish flying buttress.  Here the look, though modern, was more in the style of Islamic mosques or even Moorish architecture rather than the classic Gothic signatures.

A series of the most intricate and complex circles intertwined, like some riotous jungle vine, in the cathedral-like, concert hall’s stonework.  Breathtakingly beautiful it was.  I stood there, just inside the entrance to the hall, on the left of the wide aisle.

This was a very wide-bodied structure.  As you progressed down the aisle, there were different levels where one could go up and sit.  These were either on the right or left.  The central aisle was covered by the most beautifully designed red carpet.

This place was considerably wider than Notre Dame Cathedral.  Unlike the Parisian Gothic structure, it was not a darkened affair.  Here it was very intensely bright out.  The light coming in on the right and left side of the flying buttress-like, central girder fell through a slightly frosted glass.

The light was an intense – almost aquatic – blue.  Interestingly, there were no beams or columns, supporting the unusual central, flying buttress-like beam.  For looking at the light, one became slightly languorous.  I felt paralysed with pleasure; there before me, down the massive hall, sat Glenn Gould.

He wore the most thick-fabricked garb; it seemed from an earlier age.  All the men in the white gowns were up at the front.  They were all transfixed – as well they should have been.

Though I love Johannes Sebastian Bach, at the time, I had some reservations as I am not especially fond of pipe organs.  I suppose that it is because it has always had too many religious associations during my childhood.

The persons attending the concert were there simply to recharge their batteries.  They seemed, all of them, as if not quite in their bodies for being so transfixed – they were otherwise-engaged.

Eerily, I had a sense that these were all persons who were between lives as is Glenn Gould.  They were in a form of processing, a form of deep meditation on the order of sleep, as they prepared for the next incarnation.

This fugue was the most complex music imaginable.  Indeed, the music seemed designed for those between lives.  The fugue was composed for astral plane habitués who, sans bodies, could best endure the music’s intensity.

Getting a sense that I really shouldn’t be there, plus the fact that I finally couldn’t get into the pipe organ, I started taking my leave of the place.

Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, and I then went out front.  There we waited for the specific tour buses to show up and take us away.  Whilst I waited with Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, I was joined by Pandora.

It seemed that most of the people who were here were very young-souled.  They seemed to be on a pilgrimage, like visiting the original Gohonzon in Japan or going on the Hajj, at Mecca.

As the pipe organ played, I could hear in the tone of the place a faint whisper from the men in white robes.  Their thoughts, it turned out, could be telepathically heard.  Even earlier, when I had been hovering in flight high above the complex, I knew that this was more so a political institution rather than not.

This was a structure which was just as colossal as the temple at Karnak and considerably older.  This place was mind-bogglingly complex and massive.  The temple was posited directly in the centre of it all.

Just like La Chapelle in Paris is comparably dwarfed, by its surroundings, so too the massive concert hall-like temple was dwarfed by the complex.  This architectural marvel was simply soul-inspiring.

Whilst all the buses were waiting, I took to one of the buses with Pandora.  I had gotten impatient waiting to be assigned to one.  We spoke in French because everyone else here did the same.

This was not unlike a Parisian bus – the seats all faced each other.  Seated close to the front, we were on the left side of the aisle behind the driver.

As though getting close to Saint-Sulpice Métro, I got up and said goodbye to Pandora.  I wanted to get off there then walk back to her rue de Grenelle apartment.

Pandora planned to go out then come home later so had asked me to wait for her at her place.  Here it seemed as if nighttime coming on to dawn.

Speaking guardedly in French, I made sure that I was speaking properly and not just fumbling partout.  Really, I rather enjoyed this experience of being together with Pandora.

I was very serene enjoying the very beautiful experience.  Galen, or the person who seemed a lot like him, had silently slipped from my side when Pandora came and joined me.

*Of course, it would turn out that the person in question was Louka Duplessis and not Galen.  I would meet Louka, who accompanied me in this dream, the day following this dream.

Just prior to meeting for the first time, it is not uncommon for me to dream of persons.

______________________________

Jessye Norman

Norman, Jessye 15/9/45,  Georgia

Jessye is a first level old priest in the passion mode, with a goal of rejection – functioning for the most part in the positive pole of discrimination, a spiritualist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.

She has a Jupiter/Saturn body type.

Jessye’s primary chief feature is arrogance, with a secondary of stubbornness.

This fragment was third-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence.  She is a member of entity five, cadre six, greater cadre 33, pod/node 212.

She has a discarnate priest essence twin whom she did know earlier in this life but this fragment died in Vietnam.  She has a warrior task companion and they have worked together and continue to do so occasionally.

Her three primary needs are: freedom, expression and power.

The warrior energy gives Jessye tremendous organisational powers and her stubbornness has enabled her to stick in there when the going got very rough many times.

Jessye is a warrior-cast priest who has been a spiritual rebel in this life.  This is, by the way, not the first time this fragment has sung professionally.  This fragment was a well-known castrato in seventeenth century Italy and performed many times before the crowned heads of Europe.

Jessye has great need to serve her concept of the higher ideal and has done so admirably by combining the folk music of her people with her operatic repertoire.

She performs well, as do most entity five fragments.  This fragment has always enjoyed her work.  Singing has been an extension of her inner spirituality.  It is, in fact, a form of meditation for her.  

________________________________________________

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

Jessye

These rather lucidly awakened dreams were experienced with an intense sense of wonder and joy, on Monday, July 2, 1990.  At the time, the Moon transited both Scorpio and my sixth house.

__________________________________________

This first dream found me in a very busy place.  When going south towards the Danforth, it was not unlike being on Broadview Ave.  It was at nighttime.  I came there and found that there were tons and tons of Black people.

Even so, it seemed like Toronto and at Broadview Subway station because there are all these streetcars there.  One of the streetcars was improperly parked, as a result, it was going to go and turn around.

Waiting for it to do what it had to do, there was another streetcar out in the street.  It was really more like a red-rocket streetcar.  It was not like one of the newer ones.

Everyone here was Black.  There were no Whites or other non-Blacks that I saw.  Everybody was in the street which was very jam-packed.  They were getting ready to cross, after the streetcar had passed, to go in.

There was now a system, where you paid your fare aboard the streetcar, so that you did not have to enter the front doors of the station on Broadview.

When you got aboard the streetcar, it was mandatory that you pay a fare.  So it did not matter whether you paid a fare at the proper entrance or not.  There were many people queuing up to get aboard a streetcar.

Passing these people who were seated there, I went through the proper entrance.  One of them seemed like Gabriella Vartan and they were talking about me.

I came around and began going down the steps, into the nether regions, en route to the trains.  There was this little old lady who was taking her time, holding up things, so I pushed her to my right.

I made my way down then had to go around taking another flight of stairs; I then kept on going.  There were a whole lot of levels to this subway system.

When I got down, there was this little cul-de-sac where there were these Black guys – homeboys – hanging out.  However, they were not Black American.

I found one of them very attractive and smiled at him.  He, however, was very homophobic.  He went running upstairs to go call the police on me.

The train then came into the subway and it was a very, very large train.  It towered very high to the ceiling.  It was like an Amtrak train which seemed like a double Decker train.  It was mostly silver, however, it turned out not to have been double Decker.

When it stopped, I began running full speed because I did not want the guy to come back and board the same car as me.  I ran to the front of the train only to find that one couldn’t board there.  Instead, one could only enter this train where the cars joined each other.

You could enter the front or backdoors of each car but not the front ones of the first car.  It was very sleek, round and Deco like a train from the 1930s.

The whole place did have a feel of the ‘30s to it.  It was very neo-Gothic like the Chrysler or McGraw-Hill buildings in New York City, or for that matter, even the Empire State Building.

It was reminiscent of very early in the twentieth century which was all about great architecture – of things being large, mammoth and spiralling upwards, too, things getting faster and faster.

That sense of adventure about the wonderful world of commerce that one had created.  It was that time when people had not yet begun to see, as we now know, the consequences of things being bigger and better and faster and all the effects on nature.

I got onto the train heading, again, towards the front.  Somehow, I felt relieved because I had lost the guy.  I was there and noticed a stout man who was either High-Yellow or, perhaps, even White.

The people here were very strange because they were just rather unusual.  Even though they looked White, they seemed more bronzish, actual bronze, than the pinkish tonality of the waking state.

This was not a place that I knew.  It was very otherworldly here, I soon realised.  I did not get a seat and as I stood there I then noticed a woman.  She was standing at the very front of the train.

The train progressed with unusual speeds, I immediately noticed.  When the train had shaken, the stout man had tried to brace himself by putting out his foot that was already out in the aisle.

In the process, he had stomped me and I had had to pull my foot out from under his and pushed his away.  He wore business attire, a suit and tie, as though en route to an office job.

The woman who was standing up was playing on a wooden flute-like instrument that was less than a foot long.  However, the thing about all this was that she had unusually short arms.

They were fully functional hands with tiny little fingers that nimbly danced over the valves of the wooden, wind instrument.  Her arms were like a Thalidomide-damaged child’s.

Then I noticed too that there were other people on the train, about three or four musicians, practicing as well.  I soon realised that everyone on board had some sort of physical deformity.

They were just ill-proportioned people with torsos that were too long or arms that were too short.  Arms too long or what have you, moreover, this also applied to the legs.

The most pronounced cases were always the musicians like the female flautist – two or three of the other musicians were male.

Someone else who was on the train began laughing and, out of nervousness, I joined in.  The person was laughing at the woman.  She, however, hadn’t paid them any mind.

Nobody else was paying people, who were laughing, any mind.  They did not see anything wrong with the people who were being laughed at.

I then got off the train and was out in this concourse area, where the trains arrived, before I went upstairs.  Before I would go upstairs I saw this child seated in the middle of this white blanket that seemed more like diaper material than flannel.

The child wore a salmon-coloured merino.  He had little, white, cloth diapers on.  The infant had, again, very unusually, unusually short, short legs that made it look almost like a child because it was seated upright on its bottom.

However, it had a very big torso – matured, such that the child seemed like a very big, big child for its age.  Its head was very large with a very developed large and soulful-looking face.

At the time it made me thing of Jake Hudson.  Jake does have a very large head and face.  I was trying to connect with him.  He reached out his short little arms, crying out and said,

“Dad, I want to go.”

There was this youngish man, who was blond like the child, and he seemed not unlike the guy Olaf Knight.  He picked up his son and used the blanket, on which the child sat, that had these straps and put him around his shoulder.

Like an African mother would, carry her child when in the fields, thus he was carried on his father’s back.  He walked off with the child, who was holding on to him, except that the child was really an adult male.

It was all very strange here in this otherworldly place.

I ended up coming upstairs and going out in the outdoors.  There were people here – again, mostly Black people.  I was talking to them when I heard the strains of Richard Strauss‘s Four Last Songs beginning.

I beamed and excused myself from the people, with whom I was interacting, and went running off up this plaza.  It was a clay-tiled plaza and when I got there, I saw the symphony. 

I went and sat in lotus position and sat very close to the front.  There was a gathering of persons in a semicircle and I was, as a matter of fact, the closest to the stage.

The stage was above on a dais and it was edged by old gold juniper.  The juniper was really, really nice and quite fragrant, refreshingly so, to the smell.

Along came, from around a corner walking, Jessye Norman – the high priestess herself.  She had been preceded by her divine voice’s magic.  She was, of course, singing Four Last Songs.

She wore a beautiful, beautiful, glistening black dress that seemed almost organic with a life of its own.  It was twinkling on and off but the lights were lifelike like fireflies.

They were sequins but they seemed, somehow, to be organic.  It had hues of gold, silver, bronze, and dark green hues like pine and blue hues like lapis lazuli.  It was very, very intensely rich a fabric.

She started singing the first song, Frühling, and it was very hauntingly beautiful.  She saw me and beamed down at me.  It was so connected between us.  I was so enthralled and overpowered; I was quite smitten by her.

I thought very rapturously awakened,

‘Yes!  I’m having a dream of Jessye Norman.  So very good to see her again, my god here she is and performing Four Last Songs.’

She then came almost to the lip of the stage and stopped as though about to sneeze.  Then she held her breath and started laughing because it was so hysterical.

The look on my face was one of being truly horrified for her.  This had actually caused her to crack up.  Then she began singing again and began making gestures for me to move or be removed.

I was stunned and thought this some sort of betrayal.

‘Why is she snubbing me like this?’ I wondered.

Then these two huge, burly guys came to eject me out of the area.  As I was leaving, I could hear her starting to sing again.  I was very, very upset.

Image result for large many floored steep roofed house

I was, in the second dream, in this large house that was a very many-storeyed place.  It had many apartments.  I came out and it had a very slanted roof that one could go out onto.  This roof was, however, very dangerously precipitous.

I was looking about and thinking of Carl Leroiderien because, somehow, someone was talking about him.  This White man was talking to me and telling me that Carl had been enquiring after me.

He then went on to ask me if I smoked dope which I denied.  I can’t think of it doing anything for me except, perhaps, to make me sneeze at the most.  Sometimes if mixed with hashish, I then got a massive headache.

“It doesn’t do anything for me, I don’t really like it.  I don’t see the point to it and I don’t smoke it.”

At the time that he was saying this, we were climbing some very, very steep stairs.  Then at that point, after she had given her performance, I encountered Jessye Norman again.  She was seated on a bench and called me over.

She said hello very warmly and apologised saying,

“I hope you weren’t upset.  You realise that it was a misunderstanding.  I wasn’t laughing at you; it’s just that you don’t seem to realise where you were.

“You were, well there are certain degrees of protocol and you were ahead of the dignitaries.

“And you shouldn’t have been so close to the stage because one of the reasons why your nose started bleeding was, in this dimension, if you’re this close to the stage… when I’m singing, when I hit certain notes it can shatter your eardrums but also shatter your mind.

“So you see it was very crucial that I get you out of there.  Also, I was having a very bad allergic reaction to the plants at the edge of the dais.  They made me want to sneeze.  It wasn’t at all you or exclusively you.”

In having embraced me thus, she was being most healing.  I did, in fact, have quite the nosebleed.  As I was being hustled out of the place, by the burly guards, it was then that I realised that my nose was bleeding.

At the time, I had thought it strange.  As this dream progressed very lucidly and linearly, there was no point at which either burly guard had so much as touched me.

I was so upset.  It was so very good, after the fact, to have had her explain as she did.

*This dream really does validate the notion that all persons encountered in the dreamtime, without exceptions, are separate entities and not figments of one’s imagination.  END.

When I was being bounced by her, I was so stunned, upset and humiliated.  Had she not explained as she had just done, I would have awakened from this dream with a totally different perception of events.

I had also no way of knowing that she was having an allergic reaction to the juniper which, at the time, I found so wonderfully soothing.  What’s more, I hadn’t a clue that I had thrown the Chi of the place by having disrespected protocol.

I would never have thought that my nosebleed was due to her singing.  In fact, it is possible that I could have awakened and not recalled that, indeed, I had had a nosebleed which I had totally forgotten until she had mentioned it.

Jessye Norman has indeed straddled, with great élan and diplomacy, many a dimension with great frequency and fluency.

I then began holding her hand and told her that there were times that I had dreams of her, in which there were sometimes cetacean-looking creatures that came and did formations around her as she sang hyper-dimensionally.

She was just enthralled and pleased.  She squeezed my hands and laughed a healthy, really wonderful laugh.  She was quite smitten by me and encouraged me to write it all down.

Her eyes here were so very large, soulfully dark and focussed right into me.  It gave me a high just to have experienced them.

I was wearing, when close to the stage, a satin merino-like shirt.  So at the time of being bounced out, I had passingly thought that I had been dressed too scantily for her liking.

In any event, it was quite interesting.

a madonna mtv 1990

This third dream was truly hysterical.  It seemed like on Eglinton Avenue East, between Yonge Street and Mount Pleasant Road.  It was at nighttime.  There was a lot of goings on.

Shirley MacLaine was there, Warren Beatty and Madonna Ciccone, as well.  Warren Beatty was the man of the hour and the centre of everybody’s attention.

He had a great deal of sexual energy and magnetism.  He had been performing for the camera and for everybody around.  It felt very staid to me though.

One very interesting thing that happened was that he had been heavily drinking and, whilst laughing, had bent forward.  He then began uncontrollably coughing and was holding his chest and faking a massive heart attack.

Next thing you knew, we were in a very crowded area and it turned out that he had not been faking the heart attack.  He had a very, massive, massive heart attack.

He was dead just like that.  He was gone within moments.  It was just incredible.  Shirley MacLaine became utterly hysterical.  Her bawling was like from some Greek tragedy.

She went into a trance-like frenzied state and began calling on astral guides and her Pleiadean guides.  Pulling out a very impressive clutch of crystals, she threw herself onto him and tried healing him of death.

She was placing them all over his body – at the chakras and elsewhere.  It was too humourous for words.

Meanwhile, as Warren Beatty died, Madonna came rushing up to the scene.  It had all been too late and they couldn’t rush him to a hospital.  There was no way that he could have been revived.

They had been out in some desert area having a big party; there were no doctors around.  There was nothing that they could do; he couldn’t be saved.  He was dead… he was gone.

Shirley MacLaine started cursing to the gods, saying,

“This is so unfair.

“He hasn’t even been able to make the sequel to Dick Tracy.  And right when he’s at the top of his career this is happening?”

“Well you know this will really immortalise him now.  Definitely, this is great publicity, right at this point in his career.” someone had dryly said who was not attached to his whole entourage.

I had heard this but Shirley MacLaine hadn’t heard it.  Madonna came and whatever she thought about I could telepathically hear it.  Her immediate response was,

‘Oh shit!  This is just going to fuck up my goddamn career.

‘If only I’d gotten a child by him.  Shit why did I have to have that abortion of his child.  Shit!’

She was thinking fast.  She was someone who knew how to manipulate the media.  She was really pissed off because it would have meant immediate Hollywood sainthood for her, were she to go on and have Warren Beatty’s only child, after he had tragically died.

She was really pissed off because this was media manipulation beyond her wildest schemes,

‘I’ve got to get him out of here.  I’ve got to have the best genetic engineers flown in immediately…’

I was stunned when I read her thoughts because, of course, she intended to harvest his seed and impregnate herself and then have a premature love child of Warren Beatty’s.

I was stunned by this woman’s phenomenal megalomania.

‘During the autopsy, I’ll have his sperm taken out and I’ll have it copyrighted.  It’ll be my possession.  I’ll have it engineered so that I’ll have a child… a son.  God we can even have twins…’

She, all the while, was cowering over his face… kissing him and doing the wailing widow number,

‘…Can you imagine, Madonna?’

She privately squealed to herself – unaware, of course, that she was broadcasting to someone like me.  She was so triumphant at having had that idea because all she knew was that people who so loved Warren Beatty would take to her now.

She was insecure as to whether or not she would endure through time.  However, with this, she knew that she would automatically become iconic.  She would become truly the virgin mother!

She would be actually giving birth to some dead man’s child – he of course being, Warren Beatty.  It was destiny.  After all, she was ‘the’ Madonna.

She had this flash that this was why she had always been so drawn to crucifixes.  She was going to capitalise on the whole drama by making sure that it would be a son.

Of course, not to be outdone by that old, other Holy Mother with the virgin birth, she would eclipse that Madonna by having twin sons.  Again, La Stupenda squealed with delight to herself.

I passingly wondered if I were the only one to be privy to her thoughts.  Then I realised that from my detachment, as everyone bawled and was truly horrified as though these were Olympians and not mere mortals, that I was the only one.

‘What could be better than having two Warren Beatty lookalikes crawling around the planet and who were his twins?  And his only heirs!  With today’s genetic engineering it will be a great coup.

‘Think of the press!  I’ll be guaranteed perpetual immortality.  I’ll be iconised for all history…’

I thought then and there,

‘My god, this woman is monstrous.’

In any event, the funeral was upon us and by some strange quirk of the dreamtime, I was very much so a part of the funeral.  I was as though a fly on the wall, as it were, and aren’t you lucky?

Why, was I participating?  I do not know?

In any event, I was dressed to the nines.  I had on a wonderful, lace outfit with a mantilla with my veil covering my face.  I was part, somehow, of the funeral party.

It turned out that Warren Beatty had had five wives and, at the point at which he died, his fifth wife was a High-Yellow woman.  She was part Black, part White, partly Latina.

He had had all these wives.  They had always been paid and kept to remain silent.  They were never brought out in the public or media.  It was one of Hollywood’s biggest secrets.

People, obviously, never knew about it.  It had never once been spoken about.  There was an interesting turn to all of this… I had been going along Eglinton East on the south side.  It was as though I was going towards Yonge Street; however, it was not Eglinton Avenue East.

Madonna was going to be late because, luckily, it was that time of the month for her.  She was off having herself impregnated, by way of a turkey baster, with Warren Beatty’s frozen sperm – the planet’s most expensively rare caviar fertiliser of sorts.

I was attending the funeral with a short woman who was the fifth wife’s mother.  She seemed a lot like Sybil Ben-Daniel and wore a brown coat over her dress.  I walked with my right arm embracing her as she was on my right.

I had burly bodyguards all about me, before, beside and behind me.  They were real Mossad-goon-cum-Wrestlemania types.  My pants were those flare-legged Giorgio Armanis that allowed me to stride throwing my legs.

There was a lot of train to them and I had such utter style.  I had enormous energies about me and great flare.  My eyes were bedazzling even though mantilla-veiled.

They were what were, of course, fuelling my high spirits.  The onlookers were lapping up my entrance; I felt wonderful.

We then went into the church and the mother was talking about,

“We want the money to go to the Church because the Church is really the staple of society and civilisation.  The Church does so much good.”

I just decided to let her babble on and kept my tongue in check.  However, I cussed her under my breath saying,

“You demented old fool.  What Church are you talking about?”

The church had a metallic-silver front and it looked not unlike York Cinemas on Eglinton Avenue East.  It was not a very big church on the inside.  As we got inside, I turned around and hissed at one of the bodyguards because he had earlier stepped on my train.

Of course, we were surrounded then by the paparazzi and the little people.  His Bigfoot’s footprint was there on the pant’s train.  I reached back and slapped his face real hard calling him a fucking asshole.

Of course, I knew that it was safe to do it here because everyone here knew, only too well, that side of me.  However, I couldn’t wreck my public image doing so outside.

As we got closer to the church, I began striding firmer with each step in anticipation of getting his oafish arse.  I was really careful not to show that side of me when in public.

I started going down the aisle and there at the end was Warren Beatty’s corpse in the open casket.  It was a pure black casket that glistened.  It was a dark black wood and a really gorgeous casket.

Escorting the mother-in-law, I came all the way down the aisle.  I decided that I would go into the first pew on the right.  The first pew on the left actually went further down the aisle and did go past the casket.

It held men in white flowing robes; they were priest of whatever denomination this was – very cream, ivory-coloured and obviously very Catholic.

I went and sat down and immediately behind me was the fifth wife’s family.  They were very Hispanic-looking more so than Black.  They were very handsome in that family.

I turned around and smiled at one of the men and the energies coming from them weren’t as I had expected – I had thought that they would hate me.

I knew Madonna; I was apparently part of her hangers on.  Somehow, I had known her through dance.  I thought that, for that association, they would hate me.  However, they displayed no such hostilities towards me.  

_001roses

Finally, the fifth wife came and was walking very slowly, regally.  She carried a globular bouquet consisting of tiny, little white roses that were sprinkled in amongst some baby’s breath.  There were one or two little red roses as well.

She wore a white, lace outfit.  Deliberately dressed as though attending her wedding, she was not though veiled.  She came down to the casket and knelt before it, like Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis at the rotunda, staking her claim on history by her performance.

She sobbed in a controlled breath and then got up and walked around to the right end of the casket.  Facing the church, she was now behind it and up on the altar.  She was before the pews on the left side of the aisle.

She knelt down again and this time began wailing and ululating.  She was doing ritual port de bras with her torso and head as well.  She kept on holding on to the bouquet.

It was a very Latin; a very emotional display; definitely, not Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis.  It was very soulful and moving.  One really felt for her.

Finally, Madonna made her entrance and began slowly progressing down the aisle.  There was utter silence in the place because everybody was thinking,

‘Oh dear, poor Madonna was slutting with Warren Beatty at the point of his death.  Here is the fifth wife and is she going to create a scene or not?’

Well, of course, she is.  The fifth wife is Latin so, of course, there will be theatre.

When the fifth wife had been crossing the casket, I took in her body which was very wide-beamed.  I knew then, in a flash, that she was pregnant with Warren Beatty’s child and four months pregnant.

It was clearly no Immaculate Conception as per Madonna’s little trick.  She was a very big-boned woman.  She got up when Madonna entered the church and stopped crying.

Madonna saw her and avoided her glance as I turned and watched this fascinating bit of theatre unfold.  Everyone was really excited at the potential fireworks about to go off.

She started coming down to confront Madonna.  I immediately and intuitively knew that there was a gun inside the bouquet that the fifth wife so firmly clutched.

Positioning the gun, the fifth wife began holding the bouquet to her stomach.  Madonna, staying her ground, kept on proudly walking down the aisle.

She wore black; it was an outfit that was not dissimilar to mine.  She wore a short veil and not a mantilla like I did.

She came walking down towards the casket staying closer to the left pews.  The fifth wife came around the right side of the casket and was walking down the right side of the aisle looking at Madonna.

She had a very, very vexed and determined – an almost trance-like, expression of self-absorption on her face.  All the energy in her body was directed at Madonna.

When she was about five feet away from Madonna, she held up the bouquet and callously said,

“I’m going to blow your fucking brains out!”

It was filled with so much venom that it reverberated throughout the very high-ceilinged-though-tiny church.  It was also very Gothic an interior.

Madonna stopped truly catatonically horrified.  You could see it beyond the veil.  She had no entourage or bodyguards.  She showed up alone, so confident was she of the coup that she had just scored at the geneticist’s.

She was so flustered that she gallantly stuttered back,

“I dare you…”

She was very nervous and said very quickly with a weak, little laugh.  She was also vamping à la Breathless Mahoney – the character she played in Warren Beatty’s Dick Tracy film.

She was, however, visibly ashen.  Madonna was visibly shaken with fear.

Those persons in the left pews automatically screamed out and crouched down for cover because the fifth wife had held up the bouquet in both her outstretched arms like the gun that it so obviously hid.

“Come on.  You wouldn’t want to do that.  That’s just stupid…” Madonna bravely said.

“…You can’t do that.  Besides Warren’s already dead.  What are you trying to prove?  You can’t do this to me!  Don’t be stupid.”

The woman, however, started slowly walking towards her not buying her bullshit.  At that, Madonna turned around and started to bolt and she fell down over her long-trained dress.

She had already made it to the back of the pews on the left.  She was much too vain, to run outside and possibly be murdered in front of the little people.  So she got up and began running around the far side of the pews.

Of course, as she ran away, the fifth wife could easily have shot her in the back.  Then Madonna got really pissed off, stopped against the far left wall of the church, holding out her palm at her attacker saying,

“Stop it!  You don’t want to do this.  This is stupid.  You can’t kill me.  I’m Madonna!”

She was just winded; the expression on her face was unbridled rage, fear, terror, chutzpah, all in one.  Then the fifth wife pulled the trigger, which was the only sound in the place, releasing the magazine.

Madonna cried out and began pleading with her.  It was truly a spectacle.  It was really pathetic.  The fifth wife then pulled on the trigger and there was a loud plopping sound.

Everybody just screamed and the place became flooded with blinding blue light.  It turned out to have been an older-model camera and the flashbulb from the camera as it went off.  

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At that, the fifth wife laughed this loud, truly callous, heavy-from-the-womb, ripe, wicked, vindictive, victorious-all-in-one laugh.  It echoed throughout the church.

When her echo collapsed, as Madonna stood there truly disempowered, the fifth wife uttered in a weary breath,

“I always said to Warren that you’re an ugly slut.  This picture will prove it.”

At that the fifth wife turned and came and sat down on the pew next to me.  Her Latina family members were just going wild clapping and hysterically shrieking.

Now that’s a Hollywood wife!

Poor Madonna was still standing there involuntarily shaking.  She was holding her chest and gasping for air like an asthmatic.  Her left hand placed on her chest, with her right hand holding on to the pew, thus she stayed her ground.

Although her hand was on her chest, she was being most clever.  However I knew that really where it should have been was at her pussy because what the fifth wife instinctively knew, as did I, was that she had just miscarried.  Madonna was profusely bleeding.

Poor Madonna was so humiliated.  The look on her face was truly sad; she was sweaty and runny-nosed.  She soon collapsed and had to be taken away.  Of course, she would be beaten out of having Warren Beatty’s heir by the fifth wife.

The whole thing was so funny and hysterical.  I was so stunned that the fifth wife was going to pull this stunt.  I really thought that it was a gun; I had, at least, gotten this flash that it was a gun.

The idea to have a bolt release, affecting a gun, was truly ingenious.  The picture turned out to be truly horrific.  It was all a joke being played on Madonna by Hollywood’s film elites who could not have cared less about her and her parvenu ambitions.

The whole affair was so very wickedly political.  The whole thing was so hysterical.  I wondered as to what next was going to happen.

Is the fifth wife going to come forward and produce the first Warren Beatty heir – the true child?  A child that would look like Warren Beatty – more like a child of the future being of multiracial heritage and a bronzed version of Warren Beatty would the fifth wife bear.

What then will she do about Madonna’s copyright of Warren Beatty’s sperm?  Will the fifth wife, for producing the heir, win the legal rights to them and have them destroyed if she chooses to?

Will this not, in fact, begin a Pop Religion rivalling the King, Elvis Presley’s, if Madonna had won custody of the sperm and gone on to impregnate herself and bear those miscarried twin sons because of her bonds to Warren Beatty and his two pseudo-virgin-birthed children – sons at that?

Truly, this is iconography for the new millennium, indeed.

*A very, very interesting dream.  Certainly, that I would be dreaming about these people is interesting enough.  I don’t pay much attention to any of them beyond the passing.

I had seen Dick Tracy three weeks ago.  That the whole thing would evolve the way it did was rather insightful.  I was totally surprised, as much so, as was Madonna in the church.

I really did think that she was going to be shot.  I thought that it would be so messy.

You know, I just did not want having anybody’s can’t-wash-out bloodstains on my Giorgio Armani pants.

A truly, truly funny dream this was.

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*What can I say, dreams are purely experiential.  I dream it and awaken, immediately bringing forth the dream experiences, committing those experiences to audio-cassette tapes. 

I rather enjoyed being alone and visiting with Jessye Norman in the earlier dream.  Clearly, those dreams were set on a parallel Earth in another dimension and one in which the mostly Black population is differently proportioned than we humans of waking state Earth are. 

On the eve of the Oscars, I thought this a fitting offering.  I could never have fathomed the outcome of the fifth wife’s agendum until it unfolded.  Ingenious, to say the least, was her use of the bouquet. 

As ever, sweet dreams and don’t forget to push off and start flying… and so what if you bump into a wall, just attempt doing so again and this time believe that you can effortless transcend the barrier.  Perception is, alas, everything. 

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As ever my dear sweet ennobled friends, I am ever grateful for your continued support.  Please do spread the word, far and wide about this happening dream joint on the cosmic wide web.  Always remember to push off and start flying… I love you more.  

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.  

#BestDespinaEver!

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Opening nights are always such fun… Tuesday night past, I was reminded of all the opening nights that I would attend with a slightly neurotic Merlin as some show or other that he had directed was being presented to the world… As ever, it was great to see my plus one, Lucian Mann-Chomedy as the ideal partner for these occasions. Always reserved, pleasant and just the right amount of chatter and wit.

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Whilst Lucian enjoyed the pre-show lecture in the Four Seasons Centre Amphitheatre, I slipped next door into the warmth of the Sheraton Centre Hotel and warmed myself on a glass of sherry whilst finishing off 2018’s Scotiabank Giller Prize winner on my KOBO.

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What an utterly stunning tour de force. It was a moment to reflect, this Black History Month on just where we blacks are in the scheme of things. God only knows, it has been bruising to watch Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become the print media’s most reviled and hunted fugitive from justice of that most vile creature, the racial predator.

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I was still smarting at the events of a week earlier during the winter season’s first major snowstorm. I had been recalling to friends how strange it now was, compared to my first winter in Canada. December 1, 1974 and it snowed that day more than 8 inches. Back then it generally was guaranteed to snow once if not twice weekly. Now at end of January, 2019 and we were finally having our first major snow. This was not like snow from years past… Now it was a dirty, sooty-looking hard mess that lingered, largely in part because the city has contracted out its snow removal services.

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As there are no windows in my apartment – Sol’s too damn bright by far and besides, boarded up windows afford me more art-hanging space – I got down in the early afternoon that Monday with my bike, only to be met by falling snow and several accumulated inches. Back up I went, retired the trusty chrome steed and returned and hopped into a snazzy Audi A6 Uber ride with a Macedonian whose spirit was as smooth and elegant as matchingly was his car. The mood set the tone for my day. As I am known to work 16-hr days, I called another Uber at the end of gig one whilst hoping to get to gig 2 in good time. The snow was still coming down; it was also bitterly cold and windy.

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When finally, Uber #2 arrived, cold and dark with icy pellets mixed in with the snow, the driver rolled down his passenger side window and declared, “Sorry Buddy but I am going to have to cancel this ride…” Already running late, with my wheeled suitcase at the ready, he edged along as I tried to open the door and raised his voice, his eyes almost feral-looking beneath his turbanned, narrow skull. “I said I am cancelling you. One: I never take people like you in my car. Two: you have a shitty rating… Sorry, not sorry. Fuck you Buddy.” With that, he stepped on the gas and I had to swiftly haul me and suitcase out of the way as the rear of his red older model car whose interior did have that blasted malodorous melange of curry, dirty armpit, dirty arse, smegma and whatever the fuck else that passes for immigrants of choice these days. Finally, after having struggled out onto a still-not-ploughed Bay Street, I managed to hail the fourth cab whose West African driver insisted that I call Uber and report him… Days later, I was afforded assurances that the racist Dravidian was no longer part of Uber’s fleet. Similarly, when calling a Beck Taxi with a fairly generic name as Arvin, on coming downstairs the Indo-Canadian drivers on several occasions as though staying on script would feign obsequiousness and state that they were deeply sorry but owing to a family emergency, they were having to take the cab out of service. No sooner than having refused me a ride, they would then be observed heading out to Wellesley, turning on their unoccupied light and picking up a fare off the road. As if the blasted motherfuck, the likes of your overbred arse invented Jazz.

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Each and every time that one experiences racial animus, is preyed on racially, it always harks back to that first winter in Toronto. My best mate from two summers earlier, when I would come to Canada to visit with my dad during school break, had been sick. After Sunday church service at Knox Presbyterian at Harbord and Spadina before returning to our beautiful home at 122 Mortimer Avenue, I would visit – my dad and I – with Tommy who was holding up at Toronto Sick Kids Hospital on University Avenue. My father explained that Tommy was sick with the winter flu, which sometimes could last for months and well beyond winter. I was a scrawny little fourteen-year-old who looked like most ten-year-old Canadian kids as I crawled the halls at Harbord Collegiate where among my mostly Italian-Canadian chums was future lawyer, Rocco Galati. As Tommy, who was a couple of years older than me, had gladly shared books with me the two summers prior that I would take to Knox summer camp and read then have a good stroke off, lusting after my inamorato, Tommy, I readily agreed to do his newspaper route for him until he came home. My first Saturday, the cart was overflowing with the thick Toronto Star newspaper and there was a good foot of snow everywhere. It was hellish but for Tommy, I was game to go the distance – who knows what hot frottage, docking and more was in the offing for having done his route for him! When I got to the northeast corner of Floyd and Bater Avenues that first Saturday to collect the funds, the door opened to a woman whose response to me was the most hideous display of the displaced madness that is white bigotry. Screaming at the top of her lungs, the woman in her upper seventies, vituperatively cursed my black bugger arse off and laid down the law. Never again, “you dirty little nigger” was I to set foot on her verandah.., I was to put the paper between her screen and front doors, knock then return to the top of her steps and wait for her to pay the bill. That first Saturday, she ripped the paper from my hand, flung the money at me. She was terrifying, in her faded blue A-line dress, black spectacles that had those upturned pointed edges at the sides; she wore faux pearls. Most of all, she wore the most hideously terrifying eyes. I remember how much they looked like eyes of a rooster, especially so for being such puffy eyes. Like the evolved, winged and feathered reptilians that roosters are, her eyes truly did look not the least bit human. She was so consumed with racial animus that it was truly frightening. By the time I made it home, I found myself regurgitating. Thereafter, every Saturday, I would take my spot at the top of the steps and consistently she would hurl out pennies mostly at me rather than the verandah where that first winter I had to suffer the indignity of picking through inches of snow on the verandah, steps and lawn to collect my money. Naturally, without fail she called most Saturdays to the Toronto Star, complaining of either not having received her paper on time or that it was missing altogether. This would mean having to buy her a replacement at the corner store, take it and only to be fed on by the hideous-of-spirit racial predator. Like a true cockhound many an indignity I suffered in hopes of my spectacled, full-lipped and scholarly inamorato, Tommy hooking up with me for having been so loyal to him. The summer prior, I had ventured to the public pool on Broadview at Riverdale Park with him and a couple of others and thrilled beyond belief was I to spy his large pendulous balls and that hammer-headed girthsome salami that pummelled his bikinis. Indeed, for Tommy I would suffer much indignity. There was a low-rise apartment building at 1111 Broadview where on the ground floor, there was another predator, this one equally septuagenarian who lived alone, smoked incessantly and always answered the door in various stages of undress, mostly ever only wearing a soiled merino. He was always a generous tipper; a whole 2$ bill in 1974/75 was serious cash. Naturally, in the pre-Ciaslis epoch old anorexic, drunken paunched predator would sometimes tug on the old bulbous semi-flaccid/semi-tumescent, though, pendulous but perfectly useless appendage, trying to lure me in. Sitting there in all that squalor and acting as though he was sugar daddy material… indeed. He was always keen on trying to grab me when giving me the “tip” and I was ever sly and crafty enough to get away from him each time. He, too, lead me to regurgitate, which I had not done since age nine and suffering my first racial attack. Of course, to this day, neither academia nor medicine will concede that there is any such a thing as the racial predator and the effects it has on those preyed on – mostly blacks – and the psyche/mental illness of those who prey on others chiefly non-blacks in varying degrees of severity based on otherness.

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Finally, the house lights went down and I was met by the whimsical vista of the COC’s production of W. A. Mozart’s glorious opera, Cosi Fan Tutte. Previously, I had caught productions of this Mozart gem in Chicago, Montréal and New York City. I was not expecting much at this rate. The Frida Kahlo connection was a bit of a stretch but the butterflies fast won me over.

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From the moment that she stepped onto stage, my spirit soared aloft higher than Mozart’s glorious music to that point had spirited me. Never before had there been so captivating a Despina. My eyes teared up and I was ever on the cusp of explosive giggles. Then what made me truly come undone was the moment Tracy Dahl took to the stage as the notary… by now, I was losing tears and beginning to emit choked snorted chuckles. Each Saturday back in 1974/75 when doing Tommy’s newspaper route, I would end off taking the Saturday Star to Giovanna an octogenarian Italian, who was plump, charming and more adorable than any mere mortal ought to be. Soon, we were fast lovers and she loved fussing over me, baking me each Saturday nice, warm, oven-fresh biscotti washed down with a glass of ice-cold “gingah raleh”… her thick Italian accent was part of her charm. Hers was a large black and white cat, simply known as pussy gatto, who always sat nesting on the armchair. Each week, Giovanna sat transfixed as I read her the newspaper; her vision was to that point fairly deteriorated. As a way of better forging our bond and because most of my mates at Harbord were Italian, for three years, I studied Italian and that really impressed Giovanna, who was simply known as “Mama Mia.”

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As the opera progressed, Ms. Dahl as the notary, dashed and took cover beneath the table at which point, I buried my face in the program with explosive laughter. Straight away, I was reminded of each Saturday when the ever silent pussy gatto would bolt from the armchair and take cover beneath the sofa where I sat as Giovanna began an explosion of long-winded farts. Even the singer’s voice sounded much like Giovanna’s as she sang the role of notary. Remarkably, it was as though she was channelling Giovanna. In that moment, I was healed of the bile, which the recent Uber incident had caused to surface, bile that dated as far back as 1974.

In the end, Tommy’s parents sold their house and it was not until a couple years later that I discovered from the neighbour next-door that Tommy, who had never returned to their Mortimer and Logan home, had died of Leukaemia. Indeed, the winter flu was my dad’s way of protecting me from the callousness of having to lose a friend so early in life.

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Apart from the catharsis that Tracy Dahl’s performance personally effected, I don’t think that it would be biased of me to state that hers was the runaway performance in the COC’s fantastic, and fast-paced I might add, production of Cosi Fan Tutte.

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As ever, mischievously push down and melt with laughter in celebration of the joy that is life and start having yourselves a most glorious of flying dreams. Thanks for your ongoing support of this happening astral joint on this side of the astral plane. I love you more.

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Day After the Night that Was.

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By now the effects of the stewed fruit at breakfast has seen my waist shrink; I am grateful.  The morning after the night that was, I am still elated and humming away that catchy melody from Ludwig Minkus’ greatly composed ballet.  

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After breakfast I decamped at Leicester Square where it was time to enjoy the bright, cool sunlight and catch a movie.  The Vue cinemas are rather interesting; I was keen to know if I would have a repeat of what had transpired last winter. 

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Back then, I was upstairs at the same cinemas watching, Darkest Hour, which proved a real tour de force performance from Gary Oldman.  Sat in the back row, soon I became bloated and expansive.  Though not the least bit drowsy, I felt wide-open and lucidly self-aware.  Next, as the film progressed, I watched as several pure white humanoid forms simply stood up and walked to the sides and quite seamlessly walked through the very real walls of the cinema.  

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One of the things that Merlin and I always loved doing, was seeing a film during its opening weekend.  Naturally, so close to the anniversary of his passing, I was keen on seeing a film.  J. K. Rowling is among my favourite contemporary writers and having seen the first film in this series, it only made sense to go.  

Whilst waiting for the cinema to open, I caught a series of items; all are favourite actors of mine, especially Sir Kenneth Branagh.  

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The first screening of the day was a special affair with about one third of the theatre occupied.  A lovely Chinese couple sat to my right with their precocious son of about ten years stuck between them.  We chatted briefly and I thought it so strange that conversation with strangers is almost unheard of when attending a Canadian movie.  

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I emerged into the crisp Saturday morning in Leicester Square a bit teary eyed as thoughts of Merlin at one point during the film overwhelmed me.  It was after all the eve of his passing some 29 years earlier.  

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Slipping inside this tiny joint – I always favour hole-in-the-world, ma-n-pa joints, I got a couple of really good slices of pizza whilst pouring through the Times of London.  There was conversation close by, which struck me as interesting; it went from Theresa May and Brexit to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.  I soon realised that both persons were openly criticised chiefly for being women; in the case of the Ms. May, she is dismissed and not taken seriously chiefly for being female.  As for Meghan, like every woman who marries into the BRF, she is readily reviled, though, some of this has bordered on racial hysteria and seriously threatening.  

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In a bid to cleanse my very soul, after all that, I slipped from Leicester Square for the uplifting sophistication of the National Gallery where I deftly moved through my favourite salons with usual mercurial speed, taking the time to pause and admire the key works of art that bring me the greatest pleasure.  

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Well, after all that art, it was time for more prowling the decidedly unCanadian wintry streets of London.  Along Shaftesbury, I strode my Crockett & Jones booted and blistered feet into Neal Street where my favourite hippy-dippy (as Merlin would remark) New Age store, The Astrology Shop in Covent Garden.  Though, it most definitely does not have the best choices, I still love the feel of the place and their sagebrush collection is second to none.   

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Along with marvellous pieces of crystals and a wonderful Citrine, I really connected with this gorgeous agate ring.  The moment that I saw it, I really resonated with me and it felt so right. 

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After a rather warm conversation with a green-eyed, redhead, she was fascinated by my custom Reuben Mack messenger bag.  

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I then headed back to The British Museum for more shopping.  As it was the weekend, there was now a sizeable lineup to gain entry.  As though my impatience with crowds were not enough but soon, I had two Torontonian women doing what Canadians do best; they spent much of their time gawking at me, talking about me and cultural appropriation for wearing the custom Reuben Mack messenger.  Standing there in line, I was reminded of what petty, small-minded bigoted jackasses the average Canadian can be and god do they love being openly racially predatory towards blacks. 

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Never once had I experienced a scintilla of racial animus from a Briton or for being in London to that point; there you have it, the land where racism is enshrined in law: employment equity law of Canada: All employers must employ, Caucasians, First Nations persons, Disabled persons and visible minorities and therein is the framework of Canada’s own form of Apartheid – state sanctioned racism.  All employers, in particular crown corporations (government agencies – federal and provincial) employ visible minorities to the exclusion of blacks and if and when they do employ blacks, they then hire blacks only as casual workers which means they are not entitled to benefits, pension and guaranteed hours.  

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So smugly established is this state of affairs that the current prime minister refused to attend the 50th anniversary of Caribana – the nations West Indian community’s gift to Canada on its 100th birthday in 1967; however, he attends ever Gay pride parade in the same city as Caribana, Toronto, and has repeatedly been to India, to dress up and act a right clown because who gives a damn about blacks in Canada.  As one friend said, blacks over the past three decades have become as marginalised as First Nations persons.  But enough about aggressive young souls and their racialised worldview.  Meanwhile, as they were openly rude towards me whilst queueing to enter the British Museum, I grabbed my phone and pretended to film them to which one of them suddenly became enraged, demanding that I not film her…  You have to laugh or truly you would go mad.  In any event, I got the feisty Buster a nice but scary Egyptian stuffed cat – he is actually afraid of it.  

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On my return to the hotel, a couple of blocks from The British Museum, I slumped into bed and decided that my aching feet needed a break from the rest of the day’s planned events.  To that end, I stayed in that night rather than return to Barbican Hall to catch a celebration of the Windrush Migration.  At that concert were to have been Calypso Rose and The Mighty Sparrow; though it had been years since last seeing either performer, I just was not into it.  Moreover, I wanted to take the time to be with myself and reflect on the eve of Merlin’s passing some 29 years earlier.  

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and ever remember to push off and start flying.  

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©2013-2026 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.