Just when I thought there could be no tea more sublime than soursop bush tea – a favourite since childhood in the West Indies, I discovered Fortnum & Mason’s elderflower-flavoured green tea. As my latest order arrived just in time for what would have been Merlin’s 74th birthday on July 21, [21/7/1947 Pig 3.1.4 = 8] I thought to go one better and try and get myself a lemon and elderflower cake for my birthday on August 2 [2/8/1960 Rat 2.1.8 = 11]. After all, it was the Sussexes’ gorgeous-looking lemon and elderflower wedding cake that got me thinking. Soon, I was on the quest for an elderflower-flavoured cake for my upcoming birthday. Daniel et Daniel, which really is not what it was in the 80s when Merlin and I got choice pastries and at least one dish per week there, carried no such cake. Restless, I called partout and eventually got around to placing a call to another of the Weston family’s refined businesses, the Loblaws at Maple Leaf Gardens. Eventually, I was put through to the bakery department where I got an haughty prude, who seemed too bothered to have to take the call. For the third time, I repeated that I was looking for an elderflower-flavoured cake, when Ms. Krakow, 1978, third runner-up dismissively bulldozed back, “Elderflower? No! We only use white flour in our cakes!” Well, there has to be a first time for everything because early in my seventh decade, I laughed so damn hard that I fell onto the sofa, clapping, tearing up and simultaneously experienced the most mind-altering trifecta of ageing: leaking, farting and feeling damn near on the cusp of what one assumes an aneurysm must feel like. I am determined to yet have that lemon and elderflower-flavoured cake.
The tea photographed is actually not elderflower; it is a far more pale, sublimely subtle affair.
Beyond these gates, at a royal Roman villa, recently occurred the most sublimely magical theatre…..
Unescorted by her father, Lady Kitty Spencer proved that Spencer women are indomitable whether her aunt, Diana, Princess of Wales or for that matter, Georgiana spencer, Duchess of Devonshire. Ah those fabulous, formidable Spencer women!
30/12/1990 (Horse) Lady Kitty Spencer-Lewis 3.6.7 = 7
Georgiana Spencer Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire…. a Spencer woman to the core.
7/6/1757 (Goat) Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire 7.4.6 = 8
A Spencer woman who more than measured up to Georgiana – standard bearer of Spencer fortitude, Diana, Princess of Wales.
1/7/1961 (Ox) Diana, Princess of Wales 1.8.7 = 7.
Diana despite what has been claimed, was immensely uncomplicated and the most dynamic Spencer woman. She was 1 energy body, which means that regardless of her artisan soul doe-eyed fawning, she was a loud, combative, bossy bully-arsed Amazon and as tough as they come. Diana’s second number of 8 simply means that she was going to earn even more money than that into which she was born, which was true – though the Spencers are infinitely more ancient a family than the Windsors. Most of all, Diana was possessed of double 7s. All 7 persons can see beyond the veil and know exactly what is going down at all times. They can see ‘dead people’ as the saying goes but tend to rarely advertise this. They see auras and they more than anyone else can penetrate beyond the veil such that they can be as readily focussed on the astral plane as they can the physical plane. They are master manipulators and they are the ultimate power in any dynamic. Diana was neither pawn nor unaware. Most of all, all persons with more than one 7 in their numerological makeup and when the fourth/destiny number is a 7 run the very real risk of being murdered/assassinated.
29/5/1917 (Snake) President John F. Kennedy 2.7.7. = 7.
There are only 2 deaths of persons in public life in the West during the 20th century, which to our very core collectively broadsided us and shook us to our soul… all of us. President John F. Kennedy and Diana, Princess of Wales. The President was openly assassinated as it was a message to all future presidents not to ever think of trying to dismantle the Federal Reserve, which is a private rather than government entity. All persons in public life who are assassinated if they are politicians will have a 4th number of 4, 5 or 8; however, when that public person has a 7 as fourth number they were assassinated by a institution in Kennedy’s case the cartel families which own the U.S. federal reserve and in Diana’s case the dynastic institution and power behind the Windsor dynasty. Diana was pregnant and as mother of a future sovereign and future head of the Church of England, she could not be allowed to start a rival dynastic house, which would doubtless be after she had converted to another religion.
21/4/1926 (Tiger) Duke of Lancaster 3.7.7 = 8.
Diana was a damn bully and her two 7s were no match for her ultimate rival, the very powerful Duke of Lancaster, who also happens to have two 7s and the fourth number is 8, which is the ultimate sign of ruthless power. More artisan souls get knocked off for being a pain in the arse than any other role. Flaunting her pregnancy in the South of France was the final straw for the Duke of Lancaster. Diana had bullied the Duke of Lancaster’s son, Charles, Prince of Wales. Indeed, it was quite one thing for Diana to have provoked the Duke of Lancaster’s ire by producing a firstborn who only happened to be an obvious Bourbon bastard but it was quite another to be hellbent on further ridiculing and insulting the Duke of Lancaster by starting a rival dynasty and of a totally unacceptable faith.
Diana’s death was such callous open warfare. It was such vicious business that we became for a week, and longer, unhinged. How could this have happened? How could every effort not have been made to save Diana when clearly she had survived the car crash? Well, when make it look like an accident, does not work, then you scream down the phone, “then kill her goddamn it! I want that damn woman dead!” Like John F. Kennedy’s open assassination, we collectively fell to our knees and came undone with Diana having been ruthlessly assassinated.
Time is a most callous business and sooner or later, like shit, it always surfaces the secrets and lies and lays them irrefutably bare. One of the features of Diana’s two 7s is that the fourth number being 7 means that such persons once assassinated, have the ability to avenge their murder from beyond the grave. This is rare but does occur when there is more than one 7 and the fourth number is a 7. Prince Andrew’s undoing and the Sussexes quitting royal life in a blow to the Duke of Lancaster’s Commonwealth legacy, seem in part to be influenced by the long shadow that Diana’s assassination has caused. In quitting royal duties, Diana’s revenge has also struck a blow to Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, who treated Diana so horribly. Indeed, as the Duke of Lancaster has shrunken with age so, too, it seems that the longer the Duke of Lancaster lives, the more Diana’s revenge exacts its toll.
Just as the Duke of Lancaster grew drunk sipping on Diana’s warm blood whilst seething with contempt for the rabble drunk with grief, so too time will reveal why the Duke of Lancaster refused to honour Diana’s murder for days on end. Time will callously reveal the dark visage of the most deceptive Duke of Lancaster yet – double 7s notwithstanding.
Though in utero, enwombed in this photograph is the most fascinating Spencer woman of the modern age after, Diana, Princess of Wales. Lilibet Diana Mountbatten-Windsor born 4 June 2021 an Ox, she will have Diana, her paternal grandmother’s inner strength. Most of all, what this reborn soul has is an inner fortitude that will be a force to be reckoned with. 4/6/2021 Ox 4.1.6 = 11. This Spencer woman is a powerhouse, who will stand shoulder to shoulder with Diana and Georgiana before her. Lilibet has 3 numbers in common with her father, Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex 15/9/1984 Rat 6.6.1 = 4 and, of course, she has two numbers in common with her mother, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4/8/1981 Rooster 4.3.4 = 11. Having master numbers of 11 means that just as Meghan is more famous than Harry in their dynamic so, too, is Lilibet Diana going to be more famous than Archie her older-souled brother. It matters, too, that during a near recent past life of Lilibet Diana’s, she was famous and a seasoned performer – she has reborn, having already mastered the fame game. More than that, like her mother, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, she is as tough as they come and with master numbers of 11, Lilibet like her mother will be iconic and a lone panther. Persons will drop in and leave her life – they will never stay a nanosecond longer than necessary. She was born to rule… and will.
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, owing to her age – this occurs during late teen years.
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, brother, Prince George and The Queen).
Lilibet’s essence twin is a sage and the task companion a warrior incarnate at this time.
Lilibet 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, Lilibet, 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)
End (August, 2021).
22/7/2013 (Snake) HRH Prince George of Cambridge 4.2.8 = 5
Speaking of Spencer women… Always follow the numbers for clues as to just how history is likely to repeat itself; of course, with each generation the players and the drama may change but the numbers always produce the same personae; however, the results may vastly vary. Want to know how Prince George of Cambridge is going to turn out? Apart from the fact that like his maternal and paternal uncles, he is gap-toothed and thus in his immediate past life, like both uncles were, also black. George is a king soul, not that that should make him superhuman; however, the template for this royal role-play is Edward VIII, Duke of Windsor.
25/6/1900 (Rat) Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma 7.4.5 = 7
14/11/1948 (Rat) HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales 5.7.2 = 5
23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5
25/6/1900 (Rat) Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma 7.4.5 = 7
Also, possessed of two 7s, like Diana, Princess of Wales and the Duke of Lancaster, was Earl Louis Mountbatten of Burma. Just as with Diana & President John F. Kennedy, one of his multiple 7s was in the fourth position, which resulted in him having been assassinated. Of course, the line at the time and possibly still floated was that it was an IRA hit job. Nonsense. Louis when in India as Edwina his stylish wife openly saw Nehru, this freed up Louis to be with his one true love, Edward, then Prince of Wales, who was truly besotted with the charming, manipulative double 7 lover. This is why, they were sequestered in the colonies in India where their love could be fully flagrant and that it was. Persons with 2 and 5 in their numerology, King George V, Prince William, Duke of Windsor, Prince Charles, Prince of Wales and Prince George of Cambridge are sexually addictive and indulge readily and with whomsoever. Whether male or female, they will have long, passionate, abiding, same sex-focussed love affairs, though, will marry and procreate as is expected of them. All Edward, Duke of Windsor wanted was to marry Louis Mountbatten and fuck night and day but that could not have been. So, the very mannish, bullying Wallis was a useful beard. Of course, Edward would have gotten off on being bullied by Wallis and likely Louis also got off on watching them at play whilst Wallis would definitely have gotten off on Edwin and Louis lovemaking. Eventually, the well-hung Louis Mountbatten would move on to Edward’s coveted great-nephew, Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Equally as besotted, Charles, Prince of Wales would have loved Louis Mountbatten as deeply and passionately as his great-uncle, Edward, Duke of Windsor had decades earlier in India and thereafter.Of course, it was not until Louis was assassinated that Charles finally sought to get over the assassination of his lover, Louis Mountbatten, by marrying not the Rottweiler beard, rather the conveniently clueless virgin, Diana who faster than a sneeze grew wise and more importantly shrewd and gave the Windsor’s something to gloat about, the flat-footed Bourbon bastard heir to the Windsor dynasty.
19/2/1960 (Rat) Prince Andrew, Duke of York 1.3.1 = 5.
Where 2s favour being bottoms and being bullied, 7s however, are sadistic and among their sexual fetishes apart from S&M, is having sexual slaves and also power-tripping by way of having sex with minors. It is a known fact that Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, Edward, Duke of Windsor and Charles, Prince of Wales’s special friend, Louis Mountbatten got himself assassinated for his sexually predatory exploits with male minors, which saw the IRA having no part in his assassination. Whereas one could lie and cover in the past as in 1979, today, and thanks to American irreverence, Prince Andrew finds himself exposed with nowhere to hide for cover and mummy’s ermine coat just won’t do. Andrew is a bully, 1 energy body, and it is no surprise that with a fourth number of 5, Andrew has been exposed as a sexual predator; infamy is a common outcome when 5 is in the fourth position. Andrew is also a rat and more rats cause their families to stay up late at night in the near-dark, looking at the ceiling and wanting the rat curse to go away.
3/6/1865 (Ox) King George V 3.9.2 = 5
23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5
21/6/1982 (Dog) HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 3.9.2 = 5
5/1/1938 (Ox) King Juan Carlos 5.6.9 = 2
King Juan Carlos is also possessed of 2 & 5 in his numerology; however, his 5 is in the first position – the energy body. This is the signature of the serial womaniser who likely has fathered multiple offspring. Prince William has three numbers in common with Juan Carlos whereas with Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, William shares only two numbers. William also shares no numbers with his mother whereas Harry shares one with Diana, Princess of Wales.
9/1/1982 (Rooster) Catherine HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9.1.3 = 4
22/7/2013 (Snake) HRH Prince George of Cambridge 4.2.8 = 5
With the tyranny that is both his parents’ 9s, apart from the usual 2 and 5 mix, which will leave Prince George sexually addictive, he does possess one feature that is mildly alarming. He has 8 as his third number. This position of 8 usually manifests as massive financial setbacks and losses. All in all, 8 in the third position likely means that during his lifetime, George will possibly lose his title to the crown jewels either by abdication; quite simply, George can find himself displaced, for doing something that has not been done before. In short with that 2 & 5 mix of being sexually fluid, George just might end up becoming the second Spencer woman named Georgiana!
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 three primary needs are: expression, power, security and freedom.
There is a facilitating agreement with the father, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, for training and preparation for ‘duties’.
There are 4 past-life associations with Arvin and 2 with Merlin.
END. (December, 2019).
With a predominantly Jupiter body type, HRH Prince George of Cambridge, like King George IV before him, will tend towards having a large overpowering body; his 5 does run the risk of him being gluttonous.
4/8/1900 (Rat) Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother 4.3.4 = 11
4/8/1981 (Rooster) Meghan, Duchess of Sussex 4.3.4 = 11
Both women are mature souls: Meghan (mid-cycle mature artisan soul) slightly older-souled than Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon (second mature slave soul). Numerologically, both women are vibrationally exact in every way. How you would respond to one, is exactly how you would respond to the other in a one-on-one encounter. However, aristocratic Elizabeth married a royal and though an outsider (Scottish) was not baited and hounded by an as yet out-of-control tabloid press. Meghan, self-made, black and an American exposed everything that is ugly about British society in an age where post Charles & Diana, the tabloid media are way out-of-control and hold to ransom the BRF. In marrying Meghan, Prince Harry has exposed what ‘yank’-hating, ugly, racist, truly small-minded, classist boors inhabit the small isle of England.
19/6/1896 (Monkey) Wallis, Duchess of Windsor 1.7.4 = 3
23/6/1894 (Horse) Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor 5.2.7 = 5
Let me start by making it perfectly clear; the only 3 similarities between Wallis and Meghan are these: both are women, both are American and both are human. They have positively nothing else in common. Secondly, before you can reincarnate, you must first die and Meghan was already very much so alive before Wallis, Duchess of Windsor died in 1986. All men with both 2 and 5 in their numerology are innate bottoms regardless their sexual focus; they love to be dominated by strong sexual and emotional partners. 2 introduces fluidity with regards sense of self to all such men. With the combination of 5 which rules excess, gluttony, perversion and insatiable indulgences, all such men need to be sexually dominated, owned and submit to their partner. 1 in the first number, the energy body, is that of the bully, the bossy, emasculating woman. Such women would be driven to be with men who wish to be dominated and who were born to strong, controlling women. The combination of 2 & 5 in a man’s chart always leads to sexual intensity, perversion and being gratified by fetishes of one type or another. From being yelled at, punched, bullied, cursed, pissed on to being strapped such men are also turned on by men and love to be controlled by strong men with whom they are prepared to indulge but would never consider it homoeroticised. Wallis with an energy body of 1 would perceive Edward, Duke of Windsor as her bitch and may well have referred to him as such during their very intense, ritualised and heavily fetish-focussed sexual relations. Edward, Duke of Windsor was as he was because 2 causes fluidity in men which is readily perceived as weakness, effeminacy… or both. 5 persons will always rebel against the rigidity, judgmental, controlling, stubborn restrictiveness of 9. Even though possessed of 5 himself, King George V’s 9 proved too overwhelming for Edward, Duke of Windsor and would have caused him to rebel which resulted in his relationship with Wallis because of her 1 and also because his father’s 9 meant that he positively despised Americans and their culture. Wherever you find 5 in a numerological chart, you also find both excess and infamy.
Back in May 2018, at the time of their dazzling wedding, many television commentators asked, how is Meghan going to change the monarchy? Well, now we know how… certainly, not as anyone had envisioned. However, the need to demonise, vilify and make sport of being racially predatory, was the singularly focussed agendum of many – especially those of the tabloid press and obviously some royals.
Meghan is a master strategist; like every artisan, she knows how to lay a trap and watch mere fools reveal their hand.
Hey Stooopid! Well, of course, the thick-as-a-plank William would take the bait, which was issued by the Sussexes when speaking with Oprah Winfrey before everyone on either side of the pond. William’s rebuttal, the pissed off double negative uncharacteristic outburst, naturally serves as a validation of whom the Sussexes wished to protect, though, not really. “We’re Very Much Not A Racist Family.” Naturally, he who chose during his gap year to travel to a Catholic South American country to assist disadvantaged persons – persons they were who were not part of the Commonwealth, of which one day he will be king – more importantly, a country to which he travelled where not only was it not a Commonwealth nation but it is also not a predominantly black country.
Really, William, the mother of your closest royal male friend, shows up to your brother’s future wife’s inaugural Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace and she wears a blackamoor brooch and this is not racist? Certainly, it could not be racist when that male best friend royal’s wife is Jewish and works as an actor in Los Angeles. Nah, there couldn’t possibly be malicious, racially predatory, shade-throwing afoot in such an open display of racism, which you did not object to, especially when it was your supposed much-loved brother’s affianced. For that outburst of William’s to the reporter, the prosecution would say to his colleague, I’m afraid you’ve a fool for a client, to which the defense attorney would not object. If Princess Michael of Kent wore the blackamoor brooch to the Sussexes’ wedding as a result of Meghan allegedly having made Catherine cry, days leading up to the wedding that would be one thing – doing so as a way to put the upstart American in her place. Either way, it would have been no less controversial. Indeed, it would have been more controversial had she worn the blackamoor brooch to the wedding as more blacks with the televised global audience would have been aware of the racist attack than were aware of the Christmas lunch at Buckingham Palace.
For being task companions and both possessed of 9 in their numerology, William as he guilty admitted by his outburst, have been the major racist architects of the Sussexes banishment from court – all of which they orchestrated by having the tabloid press do their bidding and the sycophantic ‘royal experts’ vilify the Duchess of Sussex at every turn. As ever, this being a patriarchal society, thus two prominent women had to be pitted against each other. Catherine, a weak, mousy inarticulate woman was threatened by a self-made woman… a black woman and that simply just could not be tolerated. Of course, Catherine fully empowered as future Queen Consort and future Queen Mother, disinvited Meghan from her sister’s wedding to the exceptionally well-hung, odd-looking billionaire whose father’s legal troubles are not dissimilar to prince Andrew’s. At the short-lived Royal Foundation press conference, Catherine sat there hissing an already full bellied python ready to unhinge, strangle and expediently devour the far too challenging prey that was her brother-in-law’s affianced. At Wimbledon 2019, Catherine much as she had at Ascot was just grinning her best ‘fuck you, fuck off’ mask, telegraphing to her sycophants that the American was truly done and finished. Catherine, energy body of 9 – the fiendish shit-disturber, dominatrix and archly discriminating snob held court and telegraphed much at Wimbledon and Royal Ascot 2019.
Back in March 2017, Harry and Meghan flew to Tom Inskip’s wedding in Jamaica. Two months later, betraying their grudge and racist ill-conceived plan to ban Meghan the American, the self-made black woman from the wedding, the Cambridges devised a scheme whereby Pippa was made to ban anyone who was neither wedded nor engaged to attend the church service of her wedding. Meghan, though, to be bullied and shown by the petty Cambridges that she was not welcome was invited to attend the wedding reception in Bucklebury where there was no press. This naturally was a message to Meghan that she was not going to enjoy a long lasting relationship with Harry if they had anything to do with it. However, there was one glaring omission to their bold-faced lie at excluding Meghan from Pippa’s wedding to the billionaire son of a sexual predator – Princess Eugenie attended the church service of the wedding with her boyfriend Jack Brooksbank. Though at the time, the media lied for the Cambridges by alleging that there was assured knowledge that both Jack and Eugenie had been secretly engaged in December 2016; therefore, this enabled Jack to accompany Princess Eugenie to the wedding’s church service. Time as ever always reveals truth; thus it was that in January 2018, long months after Pippa’s wedding HRH Prince Andrew proudly announced that Jack and Princess Eugenie were engaged. So in Pippa’s aka the Cambridge’s alternate reality, Harry a senior royal to Eugenie cannot bring his lover, Meghan, to non-royal Pippa’s wedding; however, junior royal Eugenie was accompanied by Jack at both wedding service and reception. Damn right, slam the door in her damn face and toss the goddamn flowers in the trash – that is what any self-respecting, self-made woman would do. Americans are no one’s inferior and black Americans definitely do not have time to play Prissy to anyone.
All of this drama has originated with the Cambridges, who for being possessed of 9 and being task companions readily became obsessed with banishing Meghan from court. After having successfully banned Meghan from Pippa’s wedding, Meghan was the last person to be surprised at princess flat-arsed-no-calved Michael of Kent showing up to Buckingham Palace 7 months later, sporting the blackamoor brooch because that’s damn well what Catherine & William would have wanted and directed princess Eurotrash to do. Now it was Meghan’s turn to repay Catherine in kind. Catherine who studied art history at university and who had clearly chosen the bridal party for her sister Pippa’s wedding, felt herself perfectly entitled to insist that Meghan’s flower girls and page boys should follow the royal tradition and be stockinged – her son and daughter were part of the party after all. Finally, Meghan gets what Meghan wants and there was damn well no way after being banned from Pippa’s wedding and Princess Michael’s blackamoor brooch that the Mulroney twins were going to look like blasted little stockinged poufters before the world simply because power mad Catherine knows best. In the end, though Meghan won the day, she broke down and cried after being yelled at and put in her place by future Queen Consort and future Queen Mother over-compensatory commoner Catherine. Catherine first number of 9 (shit disturber, dominatrix), perseverance mode and primary need of power could make the strongest self-made woman cry – especially within the confines of the hereditary system that sees her do as she damn well please without ever being challenged and certainly by über milquetoast William.
There they were sat, William and Catherine, throwing shade at his brother’s wedding before the 2 billion onlookers across the planet… to say nothing of the shrewdly observant television industry insiders across the quire’s narrow history-worn aisle. They betrayed their true nature because this is the bane of whites when being racialised towards blacks: open ridicule without a care in the world is more the norm than not; indeed, without the lightest awareness are they just how stupidly ignorant such behaviour is perceived by all humanity, who happen not to be small-minded bigoted whites. Indeed, smugly racialised are such persons who are possessed of zero awareness of just how stupid they are; alas, such persons never own their racism. It is that fix, like all other addictions, that they simply cannot get enough of. Catherine’s visit to Clapham Common was a PR stunt, which only occurred thanks to the truth of what occurred, leading up to Meghan’s wedding being outed during the sit-down with Oprah Winfrey. Meghan made only 2 balcony appearances at Trooping the Colour and on both occasions, she was relegated to the back of the balcony whilst HRH Prince Andrew, who is not a more senior royal than HRH Prince Harry and wife, was given a front row placement. That was not happenstance; just as it was not happenstance that as the Sussexes were banished from court, HM The Queen’s 2019 Christmas address would feature four sovereigns in a crafty way of eclipsing the much too popular Sussexes then along came the jealous Cambridges with their Bourbon-Bucklebury muggles on parade for Christmas Day service in Sandringham; as ever, there the Cambridge kinder progressed, looking just as lost, stupid and clueless as can be expected of bastardised Bourbon blood. Do you think that after that bit of “Fuck you, one of these things just doesn’t belong here” ploy by the Cambridges (the 4 sovereigns photos and the Sandringham walkabout) Meghan was going to sit there before the Queen, Oprah, and not lob a torch over the castle wall by mentioning the royal’s racist obsession with what intensity of melanin Harry’s children would manifest – to which, of course, William could not keep his damn guilty yap shut.
Diana, Princess of Wales spoke across time to her boys and the message was loudly and deeply embedded into the very fabric of Harry’s being: “If you find someone in life, you must hang on to it and look after it. And if you are lucky enough to find someone who loves you, then you must protect it.” Protecting the love with the soul which previously was the matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty, is a true mark of fealty and valour in love. Who has time to remain at the court of two bullying, grudging, jealous boors, who not only have 9 in their numerological makeup but are also task companions? William is not smart in the least but he is stubbornly rigid and exactingly uncompromising; he is also driven by an equally bullying dominatrix whose remarkable jealously has seen Meghan’s articulate command of the stage, scrubbed from the Internet as was deftly and elegantly on display at the 2018 British Fashion Awards.
Not only has Meghan shrewdly outed the Cambridges for the racist boors that they are, she has also cast a rather unflattering light on racism in American cinema, which must and will change. The small-islanded, arch racism that Meghan for simply being, exposed in the British psyche, will lead to Americans taking action on the constant influx of Britons, jumping the queue into Hollywood and being afforded American awards when Americans find themselves being passed over time and again in favour of Britons as arrivistes in Hollywood suck up and seek entry and access to British aristocracy by tossing Emmys and Oscars at British thespians. Honest to fucking god, why in the hell did Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson, to name but two, get awarded an American acting award when they aren’t Americans and there is a nation of more than 330 million with actors of every range and hue, being passed over time and again in favour of hideously racist Britons. And what exactly does one get in return but stinking arrogance and a complete contempt and disregard for American culture and its people. You never ever hear Britons in American, commenting on race; then again, Meghan for marrying at the very apex of their classist/racist society, exposed Britons for being even more hideously racist than Americans can ever possibly be considered. How is American cinema thriving when the tendency is towards brown-nosing Britons and for what? So many American stories from American civilisation are being eclipsed by these arrogant, archly condescending, cultural boors who can never decade after decade of being in Hollywood, shake that godawful, small-island accent that sounds as though talking whilst juggling hot coals up your flat arse. How much longer is American cinema to be deprived the celebration of Hispanic, Amerindian, Asian, Black and all the other rich cultures, which make up the American quilt, in favour of being recolonised by these racist boors?
What gives this displaced, boorish haus frau the right to go on an American talk-show and bully and belittle Americans? Since when have Americans been tolerated on British television? That’s right, regardless the Oscars and Emmys tossed their way, it has garnered nothing for Americans on the other side of the pond. What exactly do you think that racist boor, storming off set was up to, save looking to be relocated by the Murdoch family to America so he can grandstand on Fox TV, spewing his obsessive, racist hatred for Meghan, Duchess of Sussex day in, day fucking out – God only knows, an American could not have been found to replace Larry King on CNN. For having been there and done that, Piers’ plan in walking off the set of GMB, is to relocate across the pond and continue his racist diatribes with Meghan, Duchess of Sussex in mind; after all, someone has to take up the space recently vacated by Rush Limbaugh on American conservative talk radio. Indeed, Piers is yet another racist, hate-filled white male, who is adored and empowered by the tribe for “telling it like it is…” though perception for such persons is tribal, thankfully for the rest of humanity, perception is entirely a personal matter.
The second photo is a screenshot of ITV’s broadcast of the 2018 Remembrance Day in Whitehall. The red line of the YouTube video passes just below my right ear as I gazed across Whitehall to the balcony where directly opposite stood Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Ahead, there were persons 4 deep in front of me, I never did see the royal males who stood directly before me, facing the Cenotaph and laying wreaths there. I went home that night and when I got in, I was so overwhelmed with the amount of hatred directed at the Duchess of Sussex from every single person around me that I just silently lay there in my hotel bed and cried. It was the longest release…. I knew that I was crying because the vitriol made me recall the exquisite isolation and pain I knew for living in Winnipeg. Moreover, I recalled at one point as I walked back to the hotel what Diana, Princess of Wales had said in her televised interview with Martin Bashir: “There is no better way to dismantle a personality than to isolate it.” In that moment, I knew that Meghan’s life was not as it seemed; yet, I hoped against all hope that this pang of fear was not true. Yet in the end, we have all come to realise that it was true; this was especially evident when Meghan appeared in the landau with Harry and the Duchesses of Cornwall and Cambridge – she was bloated, depressed and at an obvious low point. What is even more disturbing, is knowing the amount of pain that his mother suffered, William has unrelentingly charged forth with his court of sycophants – blackamoor brooch and all – making Meghan’s life exquisitely unbearable…Can you not just imagine the amount of racially predatory peals of laughter that regularly rang thorough Kensington Palace as Meghan was being further subjected to some hideously racist indignity by obsequious staffers, courtiers, his friends and wife. Why if it were not for a campaign of racist attacks would the Sussexes refuse to move into the refurbished Kensington Palace apartment next to the Cambridges and settled instead on Frogmore Cottage?
One fact has become increasingly clearer, William is HFA. Though he is well-practised to within an inch of his life, beneath that deceptive Neptune conjunct the ascendant veneer are the giveaways; among them, he has a marked aversion for blacks, regardless what his handlers have made him get out there and do – it is after all a job. This explains why he never tours predominantly black Commonwealth nations. It also explains why he goes steely even deadly at times in that manner that is common to spectrum fare and no other humans.
Bully and violently loud to say nothing of stubborn are also marked HFA traits, which he possesses in spades and which are borne out by both his geniture and numerology. There is also that vaguely je ne sais quoi aspect to his totally; it is that babyish quality that all spectrum persons possess and his Neptune is conjunct the ascendant – talk about your loaded piece of burnt toast indeed. As with a preponderance of HFA persons, William’s geniture is marked by a stellium. If ever one needed further proof, his dark Moon conjunction sits at the descendant – Catherine the dominatrix revealed to a T.
All of this racist, immature, destructive behaviour would have, after the Sussexes, more devastated HM The Queen than any other royal. The Sussexes as Commonwealth Youth Ambassadors were going to keep alive The Queen’smost cherished legacy, the Commonwealth. Meghan attended Royal Ascot only once, June 2018. Naturally, her arch enemies, the Cambridges, stayed away so that they could stay at home and watch the procession on TV whilst bitching and ridiculing just as openly as they did Meghan and her culture before 2 billion people at the Sussexes’ wedding. Then there were the Cambridges the next year, 2019, with Catherine smugly celebrating because to that point, it was a done deal, Meghan had cracked and it was just a matter of time before they were kicked out of the Firm and be banished from what was soon to be Wiliam & Catherine’s realm.
Well thank the good lord the BRF and empire has no power over American media and in particular very powerful American media persons who happen to be black. William apart from having a stellium has Neptune conjunct the ascendant opposite the dark moon conjunction which sits squarely at the descendant. William is a weak, deceptive, not very swift eel, who is totally dominated by a unrelentingly power mad partner Catherine (dark moon in Gemini at the descendant). Numbers, astrology and overleaves do not lie…. you can fool no one and William and Catherine will never win in the current power play against the Sussexes for ultimately Americans neither care nor defer to royalty and once a Queen, Meghan is supremely in control and empowered by the supremely knowledgeable Harry born in the year of the Rat.
These are the all-important supporting power hitters who not only know where the bones are buried, they have the emails and texts. More than that, they are all strong, self-made, shrewd, intelligent women and absolutely nothing is more thrilling than the empowering laughter of a strong woman.
As ever, life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!
Windsor, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge 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 Duke of Cambridge.
Catherine’s three primary needs are: expansion, power and expression.
There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 8 with Merlin. _____________________________________________
Reputed to have the largest collection of tiaras, odd isn’t it that prior to having attended HM The Queen’s 2017 Christmas Lunch at Buckingham Palace when HRH Prince Henry’s affianced Meghan Markle made her inaugural attendance, never before had HRH Princess Michael of Kent worn this brooch. A brooch it is that is decidedly offensive in its racially focussed animus towards blacks. How does one account for this bold, racist display, if one did not have the sanction of those who matter?
HRH Princess Michael of Kent 15/1/1945 Monkey 6.7.8 = 3
For, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, the person who matters is not HM The Queen – we have no idea how HM The Queen is perceived by senior royals, though, there are obvious factions who see HM The Queen as having overstayed her tenure. Who could HRH Princess Michael of Kent have been sucking up to by wearing that brooch? Who were the puppet masters of that emboldened display of venal bigotry? Who was “Princess Pushy,” HRH Princess Michael of Kent taking orders from?
Lord Frederick Windsor, 6/4/1979 Goat 6.1.9 = 7
The male royal with closest connection to HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s only son, Lord Frederick Windsor. Indeed, Freddie & William are so close that it was to Frederick’s daughter, Maud’s, school in Battersea that the Cambridges’ firstborn, HRH Prince George of Cambridge, began his schooling. Why are they so close – apart from a possible soul connection (entity, cadre, pod) and past-life connections, Frederick Windsor, William and Catherine, The Black Queen all have 9 in their numerological makeup. The hallmark of persons with 9, is that they are all shit-disturbers and love plotting, scheming and sabotaging persons of whom they do not approve. No 9 person ever misses an opportunity to fuck with someone… anyone. 9 persons are incredibly insecure.
HRH Prince Michael of Kent 4/7/1942 Horse 4.2.9 = 6
Though these persons do not see themselves as being racially prejudiced – they simply are defending their way of life and how they perceive that their way of life ought to look – its makeup and exclusivity. Also possessed of 9, Frederick would have been much informed by his father’s worldview and perception of reality. All four persons being 9s, would willingly support William and Catherine, The Black Queen‘s edict not to have to countenance blacks being deserving of being in their midst, indeed, being socially acceptable in their midst. The impact that this would have had on the royal households cannot be overlooked. This bold racist slight against Meghan, Duchess of Sussex would have left much of the royal householders at Kensington Palace feeling themselves fully entitled to be openly racist towards both Harry & Meghan. Without doubt, this toxic environment would be a significant factor for the Sussexes not to have moved in to the newly renovated apartment next-door at Kensington Palace to the Cambridges, rather they would end up setting up their household at Frogmore Cottage.
Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge 9/1/1982 Rooster 9.1.3 = 4
HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 21/6/1982 Dog 3.9.2 = 5
Lord Frederick Windsor’s close friend, the future sovereign, William, the Duke of Cambridge is also – along with his wife, Catherine, The Black Queen – possessed of 9 in his numerological makeup. Above all else, William is noted to be a petty, fault-finding, toxic (like all 9s) intensely discriminating, stubborn man who is also inordinately dense and unaware.
HRH Prince Henry of Wales & Meghan Markle December, 2017.
Be that as it may, both the royal rota journalists and their racist hateful fans would readily conclude that in a bid to garner sympathy, Meghan actually presented the brooch to HRH Princess Michael of Kent and asked her to wear it to HM The Queen’s 2017 Buckingham Palace lunch, with the senior Kent princess not having any idea of the brooch’s racially offensive symbology. Indeed, both the print media and Meghan racist detractors have simply glossed over that pivotal episode, which signalled the declaration of a warring campaign of harassment, racism and bullying that would be focussed on both Henry & Meghan and coming chiefly from the Cambridges and all their cronies, the Kents and royal households alike.
TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge with HRH Prince Henry of Wales.
When was HRH Prince Henry ever reported to have been rude and disproving of Catherine Middleton because she was not a suitable spousal candidate for a royal and his much-loved brother?
William is carefully studied and great at slight of hand; at least, this is the case when he is making tightly choreographed appearances, which do not allow for moments of spontaneity. He enters, hands clasped, he makes a speech with a joke that displays the same saccharine, clipped laughter. In the above GIF, Catherine, The Black Queen, is seen brushing off her husband, the future sovereign, HRH Prince William. This quintessentially is the response of someone (Catherine, The Black Queen) possessed of a first number of 9. They are rude, dismissive and never mask their true feelings. William is truly beneath the thumb of his wife, Catherine, The Black Queen. Look at the way that William ducks down, neurotically rubs his arm and then looks to see if anyone has caught the behaviour, which clearly is never supposed to be observed beyond the walls of either Amner Hall or Kensington Palace.
Royal Wedding HRH Prince William & Catherine Middleton, 29.4.2011
Though there were multiple examples of William’s lack of awareness and his inability to mask his appalling lack of sophistication when in spontaneous live events, as at his wedding in April, 2011, a prime example of his behaviour on leaving Westminster Abbey with his new bride. At the second hour and 9th minute of the above video, [02.09.25] and the next two minutes William is totally self-absorbed and completely unaware of his new wife, Catherine, The Black Queen. He fidgets and is unable to properly put on his white gloves. Next, he gets into the Imperial State Landau and sits with his back to the horses; he, as it were, was sat such that his back potentially was to the crowds during procession. When finally he was directed aright by the footman, who knowingly looked at Pippa Middleton whose response validated that it was common knowledge that William is a fool, he then shifted to correctly sit, facing to the back of the horses. Naturally, totally unaware, he simply shifted from one seat to the other and remained seated as his new wife entered the landau. Selfishly, he is then observed shoving Catherine, The Black Queen‘s,beautiful Alexander McQueen gown out of the way and off his uniform.
Royal Wedding HRH Prince Henry & Meghan Markle, 18.5.2018.
At the fourth hour and 7th minute [04.07.00] of The Royal Wedding of HRH Prince Henry and Meghan Markle, Harry takes the time to speak to his new wife and then puts on his hat and gloves.
Windsor, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex 15/9/1984 London, England
Michael: This feisty fragment is a fifth-level mature warrior -– fourth life thereat – to his sixth-level mature brother, William. Henry is in the power mode with a goal of growth. A sceptic, he is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Mars/Saturn.
Henry’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.
The fragment Henry is first-cast in second cadence; he is a fragment of greater cadence three. Henry’s entity is one, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 418 – Henry is an entity mate of his paternal grandmother, HM Queen Elizabeth II.
Henry’s essence twin is a warrior and he has a scholar task companion.
Henry’s primary needs are: freedom, adventure and exchange.
There are 9 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin. ___________________________________________
Henry, infinitely more aware than his brother, then gets into the Ascot Landau and does what his brother never did. Throughout, he remained standing in the Ascot landau, gave his new wife a hand inside then after she was comfortable sat, like a true gentleman, he then sat besides his wife. Their father, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales also did the honourable thing and stood whilst his new bride, Diana, Princess of Wales stepped into the Imperial State landau and was comfortably sat at the foot of the steps at St. Paul’s Cathedral one glorious July day in 1981 whilst I then lived in Winnipeg during my studies at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s school.
Duchess of Sussex, Endeavour Fund Awards 2020, Mansion House.
What Meghan possesses in spades is intellect and emotional intelligence, which eclipsed and served as so glaring a foil that Catherine, The Black Queen, would not have been human if she would not have felt threatened by Meghan. Unlike Catherine, The Black Queen & William, Meghan is a keen strategist because like her mother-in-law, Diana, Princess of Wales, she is an artisan soul. As Diana deftly illustrated during her interview with Martin Bashir, she was not an airhead and clueless lost soul as she was mistakenly perceived. This is not uncommon a response to artisans; however, what all artisans possess, is the ability to see through to the heart of anything and anyone. When you know the structure of anything, right down to the subatomic level, you can never be threatened by it.
Diana, Princess of Wales.
One of the most powerful women in the 20th century lets her mask down and reveals how deeply misunderstood she was. What you are looking at, is an artisan soul in essence, being fully lived in and fully in control. Diana, Princess of Wales was always three steps ahead of any of the sharks with whom she swam. The parallels between Diana and Meghan are not coincidental. Both women are artisan souls who whilst within the Firm were feared and great pressure was exerted to impede the progress of both feared women.
That there were no doubts that Meghan wanted to send a message as to who was the architect of the racist campaign against her and her husband, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex and also why she would choose never to have her black son brought up amongst such persons, is revealed by the choice made to announce their stepping back as senior royals; the announcement to step down as senior royals was done on the eve of Catherine, The Black Queen‘s 38th birthday – thus, she sent a parting shot, making it perfectly obvious who needed to be wiped arse with on Meghan’s departure. Meghan is an infinitely more shrewd and complex artisan soul than was Diana, Princess of Wales. Meghan has master numbers of 11 – such persons will always leave their detractors dazed and unaware; they are visionary, bold and decisive… as is Meghan. Unlike Diana, Princess of Wales, Meghan did not feel that all she had was the comfort of the Firm; a self-made woman, Meghan knew that she could walk out the racially predatory and suffocating confines of the Cambridges’ court and not just survive but thrive.
Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, The Black Queen.
Catherine, The Black Queen, is a scorned wife and a mousy, jealous, petty, small-minded boor, who was perfectly at ease with the blackamoor brooch being used. Catherine, The Black Queen‘s husband, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is moving centred. All such persons are inordinately high-sexed individuals. Not only are they physically active persons but they have a voraciously engaged sexual appetite. As a warrior, Catherine, The Black Queen, is amply able to fulfil such needs of her husband’s. Nonetheless, as a moving centred individual, who also happens to be both male and a scholar soul, it is virtually impossible for William not to have a roving eye and to act on those urges… always.
Catherine, The Black Queen‘s behaviour on taking a seat, along with her task companion, that equally dense plank, William, at Westminster Abbey at the 2020 Commonwealth Day Service, betrays what a crass boor, the perpetually fake-grinning, inarticulate, mousy pretentious toff she truly is. Look at the Cambridges from the 6th through 9th minutes. They are clipped and William makes a point to mask Catherine as they take their seats so that Catherine, The Black Queen will not have to acknowledge Meghan. When sat, Catherine, The Black Queen makes a point of turning directly to speak with Sophie, the Countess of Wessex behind her whilst being sure to never look in the Sussexes’ direction.
What 21st century woman would go trotting out a pre-mid-twentieth century pram but an aspirant, insecure lower class Briton ever intent on impressing her overlords. Both of them, the Cambridges, are so frighteningly pretentious; just one look at that photograph and how possibly could Meghan not have been scoffed at by such starchy, uptight, mean-spirited perpetually fault-finding persons both numerologically possessed of 9. They, the Cambridges, were prepared to racially attack with their royal household gang of low-browed bigots, Harry’s wife as it was pure sport; it is always sport to racially prey on blacks. Indeed, how better to make that lazy broodmare, Catherine, The Black Queen have to work and go tour the predominantly black Commonwealth nations than by stepping down?
Look at William at the 04.00.00 mark on and his interactions with his father, whom he does not even realise, is embarrassed by his behaviour as before all the world’s 2 billion persons onlooking, he openly ridicules the preacher and by extension his brother, his brother’s new wife and her people and culture. This is the same little kiss-arse who ran to Israel to solemnly place his hand on a millennia-old wall, which no one on Haida Gwai could give a living shit about.
Windsor, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge 21/6/1982 London.
Michael: This fragment is sixth-level mature scholar – third life thereat. William is in the observation mode with a goal of acceptance. A pragmatist, he is in the intellectual part of moving centre.
Body type is Lunar/Mars/Saturn.
William’s primary chief feature is stubbornness – death of his mother, Diana, Princess of Wales, was the triggering event and the secondary arrogance.
The fragment William is third-cast in sixth cadence; he is a member of greater cadence seven. William’s entity is four, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 208.
William’s essence twin is a scholar and he has a warrior task companion to whom he is married, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.
William’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and security.
There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 3 with Merlin. __________________________________________
William lacks sophistication and by his every action, he betrays what a small-minded bigot he is and thereby reveals himself working in tandem with his task companion that listless Edward Gorey somnambulist of zero spontaneity, zero stage presence and who is incapable of speaking articulately, eloquently and convincingly. In short, Catherine is just someone who after having persevered and ingratiated her way well beyond her class, ended up being settled on when Cressida Bonas’ sister saw no winning hand in having to pass a life, babysitting a boor, adulterer… to say nothing of bore. All Catherine, The Black Queen is capable of doing, in her glaring emotional immaturity, is focus on working with children and early this and early that developmental mental health psycho twaddle all of which has positively nothing to do with frig all anything.
A family void spontaneity… always on… always staged. This on the heels of William’s latest adulterous dalliance. Both on either side of that path with the kids divided between them. What is Catherine, The Black Queen to do but be a saccharine, utterly transparent dolt in her response.
Both Diana, Princess of Wales and Meghan, Duchess of Sussex are artisan souls, who proved unfathomable women, women who proved too powerful to not be threatening. Look at them both, where did they get this power from? Where did they intend to use this power and why do they want for change? In the case of Diana, hers was a fairy story in which both the media and public were vastly invested. With Meghan, however, hers was a fairy story that simply could not be tolerated. In every way, the affront of a black duchess, a black royal simply had to be challenged at every turn, in every way… every day. Both the media and public were hellbent on invalidating, obstructing and destroying the marriage of Henry & Meghan, if alas they could not have prevented their wedding.
Windsor, Diana Princess of Wales July 1/1961<O>August 31/1997.
Michael: The fragment who was Diana Frances is a second-level mature artisan and was in the passion mode with a goal of acceptance, a pragmatist in the moving part of emotional centre.
She had a Lunar/Mercury body type.
Diana’s primary chief feature was stubbornness with a secondary, not of self-destruction but of self-deprecation.
Diana Frances was first-cast in her cadence and her cadence is fifth in the greater cadence. She is a member of entity one, cadre six, greater cadre 48, pod/node 380.
This fragment’s essence twin is a discarnate artisan and her task companion is a discarnate sage, both of whom are staying near her, waiting for her to become oriented to her situation.
Here we had an artisan with drama in her casting but also with a very deep need to serve both the common and the higher good, which she did with grace, charm and a good deal of conviction.
*These Michael Overleaves were channelled in early September, 1997 just after Diana’s death by Sarah J. Chambers who was part of the original Michael group and part of the composite Jessica Lansing in the Chelsea Quinn-Yarbro Michael Teachings books. END.
Michael: This fragment is a mid-cycle mature artisan in the tradition of the deceased mother-in-law 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 of Wales 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 Henry VIII and her great-granddaughter, Queen Elizabeth I.
This artisan in that lifetime was involved in the sacraments of the church being included in the newly established college system. She founded Christ College, Cambridge and was instrumental with the founding of St. John’s College as well.
Secondly, she was HRH Prince Edward, Duke of York and Albany and younger brother to George III, whose father the Prince of Wales, HRH Prince Frederick died before ascending the throne after George II. In that lifetime, the artisan (now Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex) was interested in military structure. He, of course, died young of a then unknown illness but which had to do with dysentery.
Incidentally, in the current incarnation, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex has suffered from gastroenteritis, which is related to the last-life health issues – this is the immediate past life and not that in 18th century when the artisan died aged 28.
Without reason, even when it was obvious that Diana was no saint, however, so strong was the investment in that fair story that both the media and public were prepared to turn a blind eye. Diana like every artisan was a shrewd strategist who was always three steps ahead of her enemy.
Diana was at war with Camilla Parker-Bowles – interestingly, the media never refer to the latter as such, yet going on a decade after her marriage, they continue referring to Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as Kate Middleton, so strong is the need to be classist boors in British society – and unlike any royal bride before her, Diana aired her linen in public with the Andrew Morton 1992 biography. Only an artisan soul would have had the balls and vision to pull that off, knowing that by so doing, she would win public support.
Windsor, Camilla HRH Duchess of Cornwall 17/7/1947.
Michael: Yes, this scholar is at the mid-level of the mature soul cycle — third life thereat. Camilla is in caution mode with a goal of growth. A pragmatist, Camilla is in the moving part of intellectual centre.
Body type is Lunar/Venus.
Camilla‘s primary chief feature is impatience and the secondary arrogance.
The fragment Camilla is third-cast in sixth cadence; Camilla is a fragment of greater cadence seven. Camilla‘s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7, pod 129.
Camilla’s essence twin is a scholar and the task companion is a warrior.
Camilla’s primary needs are: exchange, freedom and power.
There are 10 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. (July, 2017).
An older soul than Diana, Princess of Wales, Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall is better suited to be HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales’ spouse. In general, Warriors and Scholars make better companions and, of course, in such pairings, the warrior is always the dominant partner. This is why no matter how you cut it, Catherine, The Black Duchess is the dominant partner in the Cambridges’ marriage – they, of course, also happen to be task companions, which only adds more texture and complexity to their bond, which is rigid in terms of who gets into their inner circle – they both do have a primary chief feature of stubbornness.
The Cambridges in their every outing with Meghan and Harry wasted no time in telegraphing just exactly their displeasure at having her in their midst. Meghan was a welcome addition to the monarchy and the royal family as a senior royal for as HM The Queen saw it, in a Commonwealth whose member states are predominantly black, having a Commonwealth Youth Ambassador’s wife be black was a masterful move and one which would assure The Queen’s legacy as she comes to the end of her life. However, William and, more importantly, Catherine, The Black Queen could not give a damn; they are the imminent future of the monarchy and they do not care about Meghan or anyone who looks like Meghan. Again, this is a couple who have chosen not to tour any predominantly black Commonwealth nation since being wedded nine years ago. There is no such thing as happenstance. Both William and Catherine, The Black Queen have a chief feature of stubbornness and such persons never change and are never open to change or deviation from the norm and their position on any subject. They – persons with a primary chief feature of stubbornness – are difficult, intransigent persons and both the Cambridges’ 9s only add to their difficult nature.
In the Cambridge’s world, they want a realm that is Brahmanistic as per their worldview: Whites, Asians and blacks somewhere comfortably distant with the rest of the uncivilised teeming humanity. They are no different to the average white of their generation – they are alarmingly racist; however, their brand of racism is so sophisticated that one never ever discusses race. Why would they? That would be giving away the power enjoyed by those who thrive on racism. Their realm is mirrored by the teeming trolls who in the tens of thousands flock to tabloid online outlets to spew their vitriol at this fairy story that should never have been that they, the print media and the Cambridges will stop at nothing to nullify. Now that they have succeeded in banishing that black bitch from the realm, their current focus is on divorce watch.
At every turn that goddamn black bitch was to be lynched, unrelentingly vilified and ostracised in no uncertain terms. At the core of it all are the Cambridges, who have smugly, idly sat back and watched their scheme unfold. Of course, like HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York, the Cambridges’ have failed to realise that they do not have absolute power to have things turn out as they would wish them to.
At their core, all racialised persons are cowards. Indeed, how cowardly have the Cambridges proven themselves as they have fled to Amner Hall yet try and remain relevant with these PR outings that only highlight the source of Catherine, The Black Queen‘s grudge of Meghan. Listen to Catherine, The Black Queen speak; she is a weak, mousy, inarticulate bore who no doubt is bullied by the boor next to her for being such a dense, listless plank. Catherine, The Black Queen is as wooden as HM Queen Mary was a dour, starchy-looking, mean-spirited boor.
In two short years, the Cambridges managed to have reset the fairy story to better reflect their sense of what a fairy story should be. How like all the childless, spinster white females for whom the fairy story of being rescued by a prince, like Harry, the Cambridges had to wage war to restore order to the realm. Not only is it an attack on an individual; it is also an attack on an entire people. The Cambridges have decided that you do not belong; you are not welcome within upper echelons of the epitome of civilised, classist society.
If for a nanosecond you think that race has nothing to do with how Meghan was treated within the royal households, the print media and British society at large then you sadly have failed to realise that fairy stories are not real. The callous truth is that if HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex had taken a Jewish, East Indian, East Asian or Muslim wife, there is positively no way in high hell that such a wife would have been meted out the same treatment in general and especially in the print media’s tabloid cesspool as has so racially predatorily been meted out to Meghan… and Harry. There is no way, had Harry married a Jew, East Indian, East Asian or Muslim, that one would want to give offence to Jews, East Indians are way too favoured to be openly ridiculed and discriminated against and god only knows, the very real threat of retaliatory violence from radicalised Muslims, would have Britons making of such a marriage a fairy story like no other and proof that they were no longer a stuffy classist society; rather, as per a marriage by Harry to a Jew, East Indian, East Asian or Muslim, the United Kingdom was truly an inclusive, modern society.
After the blackamoor brooch incident, seven months earlier, you can bet that Meghan did not want that vile, flat-arsed woman, HRH Princess Michael of Kent, at her wedding. Clearly, though, she was overruled. Just imagine if Meghan were Jewish and HRH Princess Michael of Kent had shown up wearing a swastika to The Queen’s Christmas Lunch in 2017 at Buckingham Palace; there would have been outrage across the globe and there is positively no way that she would not have been banned from the wedding. Even if Meghan were to have objected to her presence, she would clearly have been overruled and was.
Much of the decision to step away, is due in part to the Cambridges; however, HM The Queen has to take some ownership of this turn of events. This has always been her MO. Perhaps, it is because she takes seriously her role as supreme governor of the Church of England; however, HM The Queen has one weak spot and it played out with the Sussexes treatment in the media as has previously occurred. The Queen simply does not become involved; instead, she would rather that things play themselves out.
Previously, this was the same response that Her Majesty employed during her sister, HRH Princess Margaret’s life when tormented by the politics of whom she had fallen in love with. Rather than get involved, The Queen was cold and resolute in not getting involved and letting the thing play itself out – much to the detriment of her own sister.
Again, with Diana, Princess of Wales, The Queen was cool, indifferent and just hung back and let the thing play itself out. There was a great deal that HM The Queen could have done; she could better have protected Diana, Princess of Wales when she clearly knew that the young bride was but a lamb to the slaughter – look at HM The Queen’s indifference to Earl Spencer on the carriage ride back from St. Paul’s Cathedral to Buckingham Palace after her heir had just wedded a woman whom she, HM The Queen, knew her son, HRH Prince Charles, Princes of Wales, did not love. Look at the 02:07:00 through 02:10:00 minutes, HM The Queen clearly could not have cared less about the Earl Spencer.
Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, The Black Queen has been the architect of all this vicious vendetta against the Sussexes. Back in November 2016, HRH Prince Henry of Wales, released a scathing attack on the print media for their focussed agendum of vilifying, demonising and character assassinating his then finacée, Meghan Markle. Months later, in May 2017, though, it was an established fact that HRH Prince Henry was committed to and in love with Ms. Markle, Catherine, The Black Queen and her family banned Meghan from attending, Pippa Middleton’s marriage to James Matthews; Meghan was, however, permitted to attend the wedding reception. This act betrayed Catherine, The Black Queen‘s petty, mean-spirited persona. She is a 9 and like females with 9 energy body, Catherine, The Black Queen is possessed of a spiteful, malicious, sadistic disposition. Catherine, The Black Queen has always been the dominant partner in her marriage to the hapless, dolt, HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge, who is an emotionally juvenile, spiteful boor as a result of his parents’ loveless marriage and divorce; William has also never recovered from his mother’s death, which he considers murder. As with Catherine, The Black Queen‘s rude dismissal of her husband, the future sovereign, during the taping of the BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas in 2019, this woman, Catherine, The Black Queen, simply does not give a damn. She has had a tough go of it not being aristocratic by birth as with all past Queen Consorts; she suffered mightily in the cutthroat world of Britain’s rigid class system and damned if it did not leave her scarred and compensatorily arrogant, discriminating and a vulgar boor.
No matter how the print media try and paint this woman as elegant, stylish and the epitome of class – all of which are just non-too-veiled racialised language – she is an inarticulate, bland, sadistic boor who for being a warrior soul – in perseverance mode no less – would compete with Meghan or any other woman who married her brother-in-law. Even if HRH Prince Henry of Wales had wedded Cressida Bonas, Catherine, The Black Queen‘s reaction to her would have been the same. Catherine, The Black Queen would have been less favoured by the public than blonde Cressida and for that, there would be nothing but misery meted out by Cressida by Catherine, The Black Queen behind the scenes. The fact that racism is so rife in classist Britain, gave Catherine, The Black Queen the upper hand against the threat of her brother-in-law’s wife.
Added to all that, Catherine, The Black Queena warrior – all warriors make the most formidable foes – is in perseverance mode, which means that she would stop at nothing to see that Meghan was literally driven out of the kingdom. It does not matter that like a disproportionate number of Caucasian persons born after the mid-1970s, Catherine, The Black Queen is averse to being around blacks, thus it would have been to Catherine, The Black Queen‘s advantage as HM The Queen deemed having the black duchess, Meghan, Duchess of Sussex going on those Commonwealth tours to predominantly black Commonwealth nations which she, Catherine, The Black Queen, still cannot bring herself to undertaking. No matter how prejudicial HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is, he is ruled by a wife who is more prejudicial and sadistic than he is. Anyone who intimately knows Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge would readily admit that hers is a bitchy, biting, sarcastic sense of humour that is given to being vengeful, mean-spirited and adversarial.
Here in the 02:14:00 minute mark Catherine, The Black Queen on her wedding day is supremely in control. Of one thing she is assured, she is now to be the mother of a future sovereign and in time Queen Mother. She has a confidence which befits her knowledge of her place in dynastic history but she also has a focus which betrays her being a warrior soul in perseverance mode.
From the 04:20 minute mark, Meghan proves a contrast and validation of her role in essence. As an artisan soul, she becomes almost manic-euphoric as her multiplicity of channels become engaged and she becomes caught up in fantasy merging with reality – the same artisan soul euphoria was evidenced as newlywedded Diana, Princess of Wales walked down the aisle at St. Paul’s Cathedral in July, 1981. A warrior would never do this and certainly, Catherine who had focussed on becoming Queen Consort for years and also a warrior in perseverance, was singly focussed on being poised, regal and glossily plastic.
By the time that Meghan came along, Catherine, The Black Queen had morphed into the unpleasant aspects of her nineness and comfortably secured in her role in history and within the Windsor dynasty as future Queen Consort and future Queen Mother to HRH Prince George – should William predecease her. Warrior souls compete with everyone and everything and where Catherine, The Black Queen is most admirable is as Sporty Kate. Her athleticism is truly admirable – I often wonder what she must be like racing on horseback. However, in all other areas of her life, she is surpassed by Meghan. Catherine, The Black Queen lacks the stage presence, she is inordinately inarticulate all by herself, to say nothing to being compared to trained thespian Meghan who excels at being centre stage. Meghan can command one’s attention where Catherine, The Black Queen never can.
Catherine, The Black Queen has a power which befits her role as a warrior in essence. Catherine, The Black Queen is supremely confident in the fact that not only is she a future Queen Consort, she also is very likely to be Queen Mother; this is a role which Camilla will never fulfil as she did not give birth to any blood royal child. Until Meghan came along, all that Catherine, The Black Queen had in the way of competition was Camilla – she who would never be mother of a future sovereign; indeed, where is the threat to Catherine, The Black Queen from Camilla? This awareness of her place and power had Catherine withdraw to the Middleton seat in Bucklebury, Berkshire rather than visit with her father-in-law HRH Prince Charles and his wife, Camilla with whom he has no heirs after HRH Prince George of Cambridge was born and for months thereafter.
Thus, Camilla is no threat to Catherine, The Black Queen. Indeed, both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen are comrades-in-arms as they both are solid, single-channel roles which preyed on artisan soul threats to their power. Artisan Diana, Princess of Wales was bullied and driven to divorce by Camilla, who considered Diana a nuisance and a threat. Similarly, Catherine, The Black Queen has considered Meghan, also an artisan soul like Diana, a threat to her power. What Diana & Meghan possess is the artisan’s inability to remain singly focussed on the task in hand. Also, both Diana & Meghan were/are emotionally centred artisan souls who would have found it virtually impossible to stay the course when subjected to the campaigns that each uniquely met in the way of Camilla and Diana, and now Meghan and Catherine, The Black Queen.
Look at Catherine, The Black Queen in action; she hangs back and says positively little to nothing, allowing Meghan to shine… or does Meghan actually shine? Of course, in the tradition of a nine energy-bodied female, she hangs back because in the tradition of being a snide, snarky passive-aggressive, condescending Caucasian who traditionally fault-finds, criticises and is negative in response to everything about someone black, Catherine, The Black Queen, knows that to hang back wins her favour throughout the realm. Catherine, The Black Queen, hangs back grinning like a Cheshire cat as she knows that she has the non-blacks of the realm in her palm; she knows that the more Meghan speaks, the more she will be resented. This is good for Catherine, The Black Queen because she simply cannot speak whilst sharing the same stage with Meghan; however, in a society and world where race is everything, Catherine, The Black Queen‘s liability proves an asset.
True to her role in essence, warrior soul, for Catherine, The Black Queen, clothes are uniform. Indeed, the future Queen Consort, like the sovereign, is at the apex of the United Kingdom’s Armed Forces. With a chiefly Saturn body type, Catherine, The Black Queen, is tall, angular, steely and given to being power-focussed and competitive. Another reason where both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen were destined to succeed in their campaigns against their perceived biggest threats is seen in all four royal women’s body-types, their centreing plus primary needs.
Both Camilla & Diana though rivals had the same body types: Lunar/Venus; however, as they are very different soul types Diana (artisan), Camilla (scholar) their use of those energies, especially the lunar energy, would be markedly different. Catherine, The Black Queen is Saturn/Mercury/Venus body-type whereas Meghan is Venus/Solar body-type. For an artisan soul, this puts Meghan in a league stratospherically above and beyond Catherine, The Black Queen and she would always have greater mass appeal than Catherine, The Black Queen, as a result.
How could Catherine, The Black Queen, not be jealous of Meghan; moreover, what tempers that friction is that Catherine, The Black Queen, is focussed in the intellectual centre as compared to Meghan in the emotional centre. This is precisely why in her interview with ITV’s Tom Bradby, Meghan focussed on how she was feeling and how no one took the time to ask how she was doing? Both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen are focussed in the intellectual centre and similarly, as with Meghan, Diana was focussed in the emotional centre. Both Camilla and Catherine, The Black Queen would perceive their rivals, Diana and Meghan respectively as weak and a nuisance for being focussed in the emotional centre.
Not only is Catherine, The Black Queen, a warrior in perseverance mode, which is as devastating a foe as one can encounter, she also has power as one of her three primary needs. The woman is bad-ass maniacal when threatened and to top it off, she has a task companion, William her husband, who is moving centred. Everything she utters in her scheming pillow talk, like an attack dog en chaleur, William would unfailingly execute.
The Black Queen, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge with a nine energy body with primary need of power does cast quite a long sadistic shadow. Like Anna in V in the clip above, the Cambridges with their 9 numerological makeup, wanted not to have their dynasty diluted/sullied by the presence of Meghan; she is not fit to be within their realm. In her campaign to dispense with the threat of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex, Catherine, The Black Queen, needed the obsequious sado-masochistic loyalty of persons, also numerologically possessed of 9, in the media.
Lady Colin Campbell 17.8.1949 Ox 8.7.3 = 9.
Pay close attention to minutes 1:14 through 2:05. Listen to that laugh; if that is not a likkle Trenchtown skekkle, I don’t know what is. So goddamn fake, you can almost smell the formaldehyde. More than that, like Thomas Markle Sr., TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge, HRH Prince Michael of Kent, Lord Frederick Windsor, the failed fluid-gendered, old bat has got that archly toxic and bigoted 9 in her makeup. She is no more aristocratic than the paucity of nacre sliding down her orangutan breasts are decidedly Poundland fare. A true pity that Lily Safra pulped the wrong work of fiction.
Piers Morgan 30.3.1965 Sheep 3.6.9 = 9 Double 9s.
Double the toxicity from the drunken, racist eunuch, who as can be expected, sees nothing remotely racist in his and other media Brits’ lynching of Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. No matter how Piers et al try turning their stale piss into wine, Catherine, The Black Queen, has not found her voice – you cannot find what you never had to lose, is not the epitome of class, style and royalty. Catherine is The Black Queen, a paragon of 9 toxicity grown rabid with power; the media and Britons at large still have yet to address her rude dismissal of their future sovereign during BBC’s A Berry Royal Christmas.Catherine, The Black Queen, is, like Anna, the usurper Queen in the American TV series V – there can be but one queen and Diana her mother on the TV series V had to be slain. Just as these venal 9s in media refuse to expose or fixate on HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York’s sexually predatory behaviour and paedophilia, is precisely why they have yet to expose Catherine, The Black Queen, for precisely what she is. Both the paedophile and racial predator are white; besides, perpetuating racial animus towards blacks is the most lucrative business venture in media.
Fact is, if Meghan were difficult and given to being a toxic diva, there would have been reports from ‘sources’ advantageously leaked, of course, by Catherine, The Black Queen, that Meghan refused to attend Pippa Middleton’s wedding because she was not a royal. Indeed, if Meghan were truly difficult, after having been excluded from the church ceremony, clearly by Catherine, The Black Queen, and by extension William, Meghan would then have insisted to Harry that she was not going to attend the reception – especially the reception of a non-royal. That is how a diva would have responded.
Nonetheless, in keeping with the media narrative, in collusion with the Cambridges, of vilifying, demonising and racially preying on the black duchess who does not belong, as soon as the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex was concluded, the divorce watch was on – a media blitzkrieg against the Duchess of Sussex was begun with every effort made never ever to mention her race as Meghan, Duchess of Sussex fast became the most famous lynched black woman in history.
Well, there you have it. Go think twice if you believe that the Duke & Duchess of Sussex are going to be suffering for leaving the royal fold and being successfully driven out of Britain by Catherine, The Black Queen and her pussy-whipped dolt, William, in collusion with the royal households and the media spinning lies in place of the truth.
My first reaction on seeing this masterful portrait of Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge during my visit in 2017 to London’s National Portrait Gallery was visceral. Straight away, I was reminded of all the times to that point – once every weekend for at least the first 18 months after their marriage, you simply cannot capture everything on one viewing – that I had looked at the Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge and how much they rowed on the way back to Buckingham Palace during the imperial state landau carriage ride, as well as how utterly dismissive of him Catherine, The Black Queen, was whilst standing on the palace balcony. This portrait perfectly captures Catherine, The Black Queen‘s false personality, her sadistic/Saturn body type and primary need for power. Most of all, this is the portrait of a woman whose first number – her energy body – is 9.
After having been successfully lynched in the British tabloid media, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge, The Black Queen went one better and made her point by having her place as mother of future sovereign, Queen Consort and future Queen mother solidified against the threat of the abundantly more popular Meghan, Duchess of Sussex. Just as she had stood, grinning sarcastically at Royal Ascot sticking her tongue out whilst being regaled by senior royals, Catherine, The Black Queen had her campaign of banishing the otiose black threat magnified by tearing her arse in Meghan and Harry’s faces with the 2019 Queen’s Christmas message where the photos on display eclipsed and banished the Sussexes’ existence by including sovereigns and their direct heirs.
Alas, history is the most callous of whores and she is never economical with the truth. In time, history will reveal Catherine, The Black Queen as truly unsavoury fare, who was the architect of all that transpired in the Sussexes’ banishment from court. Actions ever betray the truth and it is not happenstance that Catherine, The Black Queen has refused to undertake a tour of any predominantly black Commonwealth nation 9 years into what is not the most loved up or blissful of royal marriages. Her 9 betrays her true nature. More than that, that Catherine, The Black Queen was not of aristocratic birth is precisely why this hideous racism has blossomed within the royal family, royal households and media. You most certainly cannot accuse aristocratic persons like Ashley & India Hicks of being racist boors as has episodically manifested with Catherine, The Black Queen being a warrior with need for power and the most powerful royal at court at present. More than any other royal, Catherine, The Black Queen, is the most powerful royal at present. HM The Queen is at the end of her reign. Charles has no power as his Queen Consort will never be loved as long as the memory of Diana, Princess of Wales survives. More than that, Camilla also has no power as she will never be Queen Mother and no issue of hers will ever be sovereign. William is weak, unaware and bullied by his wife, Catherine, The Black Queen. Catherine, The Black Queen is the most powerful royal, especially since she does have a primary need of power in dynastic Britain. When HM The Queen passes, Catherine, The Black Queen will set about cutting adrift the predominantly black Commonwealth nations with the same disregard as her campaign to banish the threat represented by the blackamoor brooch – Meghan, the self-made vastly more articulate, charismatic American outsider and black to boot.
Most of all, what Catherine, The Black Queen has unleashed with her grudging campaign against Meghan has taken on a life of its own, which as with HRH Prince Andrew, Duke of York, she could not have fathom. Catherine, The Black Queen, in collusion with William, the royal households, the tabloid media engaged in the deliciously indulgent game of racist bullying which has seen an explosion of racist attacks against the Sussexes and by extension the British Royal Family. This is not to be taken lightly and one of the chief reason for the Sussexes having removed themselves from the cesspool that is Britain is the very real threat that they faced for being in Britain. This all began with a scheming, jealous, bigoted nine-energy body insecure woman who has never fully gotten over her being not of aristocratic birth into a world where she now finds herself at the apex of power. Of course, just as with Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall who for causing Diana, Princess of Wales to experience sheer hell, Catherine, The Black Queen will also – for not being of aristocratic birth – always be insecure and Meghan’s ascendancy only heightened how woefully ill-equipped Catherine, The Black Queen ever will be. All of that was assured, when Catherine, The Black Queen chose to be racially predatory towards Meghan – by extension Harry and everyone else – thereby revealing her true nature to all who are not blind. History will be callously ruthless to Catherine, The Black Queen; indeed, how utterly prophetic Paul Emsley’s portrait of Catherine, The Black Queen has proven. Remarkably, that portrait will stand the test of time to best illumine the dark, sinister and sadistic persona which lies beneath the façade of Catherine, The Black Queen as she beguiles the blind in the here and now.
*Since having posted this dream blog some years back, I was always fascinated why I was simply summoned to be with the actor, River Phoenix when he passed. I did mention that sense of feeling strong resonance at the time of cadre mates’ passing. This dream was a poignant example of being called into action, to be of service to someone with whom I have a strong and connected soul bond that spans multiple past lives.
This was something that I felt at Natalie Cole’s passing and, of course, she proved to be an entity mate. In the case of River Phoenix, whose overleaves I will include here and which can now be found in the revamped and tidied up Michael Overleaves Appendix page, not only is he also an artisan soul but he happens to be a greater cadence mate of mine. This dream would not have occurred if we did not share this very strong bond; as a result of my cardinal casting, I am often called into action in dreams such as this one when entity and cadre mates pass on.
Read these dreams anew and do enjoy!.
Whilst the Moon transited both Gemini and my first house, I would be transported to a cul de sac of the astral plane wherein I am not frequently focussed. It was Monday, November 1, 1993. At the time, as now, I did not own a television and hardly looked at it. Also, at the time, I hardly listened to radio or read newspapers et al. I was also much removed from most daily chatter as I had been off sick from work but did go in to participate in the annual Halloween costume competition which the year prior I had won when dressed in full drag and looking hotter than even Tina Turner herself in my high heels. The above photo of yours truly was taken at Halloween 1993, the day prior to this dream.
Thus it was that I would fall into sleep and immediately be summoned to be in service to the higher good. What is really interesting about the experience with the famous actor encountered in these dreams, I rather suspect that he may be a cadre mate from the tenor of the dream encounter. Too, there are a number of famous persons in my cadre and he seemed vibrationally not dissimilar to them.
That being the case, this likely explains why I was called on to be of service at the time. I am said to be rather cardinal in casting, which is clearly reflected in yours truly being inordinately gifted when it comes to fathoming the depth and breadth of the dream realms. Too, as these dreams were clearly focussed on the astral plane, naturally, there was dream flight. More than that, whilst focussed on the astral plane in the dreamtime, one did encounter at least two, possibly three, extra-human species.
As there is flight and levitation in these dreams, I pray that they will richly inspire you. Fly my darlings, fly, don’t even for a second doubt, just melt into a mischievous plié and start flying – cause you can… cause you are magic incarnate!
A woman and I were together, in this the second dream, above the Arctic Circle. This woman did remind me of the woman, who had earlier been in the previous dream encounter with Niles Ben-Daniel and seemingly his lover. I was not fully certain that this woman was one and the same as, the one posing as Niles Ben-Daniel’s lover, in the prior dream. She had a couple of siblings whom she had asked to find out what time it was.
Here, they kept time quite unusually because there was no tundra about. They, as a result, kept sundials. They grew their grass such that they were able to tell from Sol’s shadows what time of day it was. Their sundial was a natural phenomenon which used the rugged flat landscape for keeping time. Standing there, I faced due north. Sol was still in the sky, but low, and at the two o’clock position. Sol was red and potent; it was almost serene-looking.
Over time, they had planted a hedge of Chinese boxwood, which stood a foot tall. From it were a series of radial-like spokes radiating out from the centre. All told, there were twenty-four spokes; of course, the spokes lined up with each hour of the day. Even in the wintertime, the hedge though submerged maintained an imprint of itself above – in the snowed and iced over terrain. It was quite nude (barren) landscape here. Sol’s shadow was presently pointing directly at the ten o’clock position though it clearly wasn’t. Ten o’clock could also have been four hours past midnight.
I decided that it had to be around four, in the morning, which is why Sol appeared in the sky where it was. This was the time of year when Sol never sets which made it difficult for me, a novice in these parts, to readily get my bearings. Quite a strange phenomenon because my body felt nocturnally phased, yet, there in the sky was Sol as plain as the Moon. She wanted to know what time it was because she was getting ready to go down south to the ‘Southland’.
She also referred to it as, ‘the land of the setting summer Sun,’ which did make sense. She had said all that in her Inuit tongue, yet I had been able to follow perfectly well as though she had been speaking English. More than being with her, rather, I was there as an observer and took in the minutiae of this unique culture. Certainly, we were keenly aware of each other and that we were both gifted telepaths.
Next, in this the third dream, I was in a crowded interior. It was a waiting lounge in a large depot that was not unlike New York City’s Grand Central Station. A sandy marble, time-yellowed hue, the walls here were the same colour as at Grand Central Station. A high-ceilinged cavernous place it also was. The main hall had several wings that adjoined its considerable length. Here, there was natural light coming in from the bathysphere-like windows that sat way up the walls and close to the ceiling.
In that sense, this was not unlike the grand hall in which I walked with Merlin during which we encountered the exalted magus on September 4, 1988. I was seated on these large wooden benches that were old, comfortable and looked not unlike church pews. Semi-circular in shape, they gave a sense of inclusiveness to them. All around me exclusively were men. This place seemed, if you like, some sort of way station. One guy there was very slight-bodied, young and naïve-looking.
Looking at him, he wore a navy-blue track suit. He came over to sit next to me, eventually sitting on my right. Patting him on the back, I told him that it was really good to see him. I wished him a safe passage and asked that he go in peace, “Have a safe passage. Go in peace and do have a good journey…”
Of all people, it was the actor, River Phoenix – he recently overdosed on heroin, early on Sunday, October 31, yesterday. This was a very vivid dream. I was quite lucidly awakened. Feeling great compassion for his tragic departure, I thought to be of comfort to him and to uplift his spirit in whatever way possible. There and then, I realised that this was a place where persons who had recently died came whilst in transit to their final destination as returning astral plane habitués.
*This, of course, did not surprise me. Right away, I was reminded of the sense of mammoth dimensions that also exemplified the architecture of the train termini, where I had run into Merlin in that momentous dream on Friday, July 9, 1993. END.
Seated there, next to him, I exclusively turned my focus on him. I then began doing an enormous amount of energy transference, thereby healing his spirit, before he could move on. Who cares the attachments to this man, in the waking state? I have never followed his career but here, in his astral plane hour of need, we were souls and healing is the most generous gift of love. After having left his life in such a dissociate state, River Phoenix needed to be made more whole.
This is why he had seemed so naïve and as if in a daze. He saw me and purposefully began walking towards me. God only knows what he noticed in me that was different to the others. Until he was about two feet away from me, I for one had not realised that it was him. By that point, he had already been intent on coming to sit with me. He clearly needed my services.
Phoenix, River 23/8/197031/10/1993
This fragment was a second level mature artisan – third life thereat. River was in the observation mode with a goal of growth. A realist, he was in the intellectual part of emotional centre.
Body type was Lunar/Mercury.
River’s primary chief feature was self-destruction and the secondary stubbornness.
Casting for River is fifth-cast in second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence three – greater cadence mate of Arvin’s. River’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.
River’s essence twin is an artisan and he has a sage task companion.
River’s primary needs were: exchange, expression and power.
There are 18 past-life associations with Arvin and 16 with Merlin.
At the level of soul, I could not have cared less who he was; his energy body’s vibration needed a good deal of realignment before he could move on. He chose me and I gladly obliged his wishes. When patting him on the back, I was keenly focussed on sending him a great deal of near-aqueous blue-white light. River Phoenix was saddened. Rather, he seemed to be in a state of shock, though, not horrified or enraged. There was just a degree of resignation as he came to terms with where he was at. When it was all over, in the brief moments that it took to lay my hand on his back, he got up to get going.
He was obliged to take his leave and move on. He seemed here truly dazed. Perhaps, these were residual effects of his having passed in a heightened soporific state. Seated there, I felt completely drained of my very breath itself. I was left feeling so overwhelmingly sad and strangely alone. Another guy had sat down, on the other side of me, whilst I energetically focussed on River Phoenix.
I can’t, for the life of me, say whether or not the guy had ambled up to join us seated there or if he had simply materialised – on the astral plane – for having just projected himself into our midst. Looking Hispanic, more than anything, this man had yellow-coloured eyes. Absolutely bewitching they were. He wore cream-coloured jeans with matching cream-coloured jacket. There was a lot of black in the clothing. This was in the style of Hip-Hop fashions.
He was a very sensitive man with a Hispanic accent and was slightly older than River Phoenix; he was about 24 or 25 years – at least he looked about that age. His hair was thick, black and curly. By way of conducting focussed energy transference, my function here was to provide counsel. I would simply tap into their vibration and, by way of their chakras, realign their energy. All of them seemed to have passed suddenly, completely unexpectedly. Thus they had a great need to become assimilated to what was clearly an unexpected turn of events.
They needed immediate supervision and companionship, until having become further acclimatised. Meanwhile, the persons around me were all being counselled by others – who were more solid-looking – whose role was like that of mine. I was, like all the others, a guide, companion and energetic facilitator to the arrivée habitués.
Architecturally, this place was so immensely massive. It was also more ancient by at least 30 millennia than the rise of the Roman Empire. Clearly, there is no way to get around the fact that this was an astral plane experience. There was also no way to get around the fact that the first man, with whom I worked, was the actor, River Phoenix. What was really impactful for me was that River Phoenix, like all the others, had absolutely no emotions. He was in a place of total detachment.
Though a sudden departure from the life being lived, his soul consciousness was totally matter-of-fact about the situation at hand. The past, his recently accidentally concluded incarnation, was concluded and behind him. Period.
Whilst we were all there, we were caught in some commotion when a Black guy appeared. He wore a blue jean jacket and wore on his face a flesh-toned fabric mask. He looked as though he had been in a burn unit at a hospital, I assumed, after having suffered massive burns to more than 95% of his body. It was the mask used for allowing skin grafts in such instances to take without becoming infected. My sense impression of his situation was that he had been in a violent car crash which turned into an explosive fireball. He had survived and was in hospital, for a while, undergoing massive skin grafting surgeries.
He also wore dark shades. The moment that he appeared, everyone instantaneously freaked out. All that one could see, was his mouth and nose; the image was upsetting, menacing. Right away, we all began fleeing that section of the grand hall. His arrival was simply instantaneous. He had simply manifested in plain view. When he came through, he brought with him a great explosive energy and immense suffering.This is what had upset the Chi in the place; it was quite an impactful energy wave that accompanied his manifestation. On closer inspection, I realised that he had not been a burn victim as he was still brandishing a large semi-automatic weapon.
Clearly, he had been holding up a business and got himself shot to death in the process. Thus, as is, he instantaneously appeared on the astral plane. The energy around his death was+ so immensely violent, as he went berserk, that it proved rather jarring for the rest of us. His body was violently sputtering away, as though, still echoing the massive volley of bullets that were being pumped into him. No doubt, a battery of over-armed police officers were only too happy to waste yet another ‘Black’ male.
We all immediately started bolting because here was he, suddenly arrived and carrying a weapon, on the astral plane to which all these arrivés were not yet fully acclimatised. There was a group of urbane Gays over to one side who kept to themselves. The Gays went truly berserk, fearful of him, as this man was clearly a zealous homophobe. That too was the other thing about this place; one was able to accurately ‘read’ a person on their arrival.
As I sat there on the pews doing my energy work with River Phoenix, most of the light flooding the hall came from off to the right and rear. From the inner hall, I went bolting along with everyone else and took cover. The armed Black man had manifested across the hall from me. Making my way from what I thought previously was the main hall, I ended up in a grand hall that was easily seven times larger than the atrium in which I had been counselling River Phoenix and then the yellow-eyed Hispanic.
As everyone else had been bolting in that direction, I made a left turn. From the main hall, I was now in another atrium; this one, however, was considerably darker. This one was several storeys high with the same colour schemata as at Grand Central Station. Though there were no discernible floors as such, at each storey there were landings. I would then bolt down to where all the other Gays were ahead of me. In a bid not to be captured by this guy, who had no awareness that he was now dead and on the astral plane, I leapt over the railing and down onto the escalator where the Gays were.
As they were all still clambering down the steps, this was not the greatest idea on my part; it was a truly chaotic scene. Deciding against pursuing the herd mentality, I willed myself from amongst them. With that I began levitating, above them and shot upwards, flying up into the nave of the towering complex. Goodness, this place was immensely massive. Soon enough, the man came to where we had been and made for the stairs from which I had just taken off. Being sufficiently distracted, I knew that he wouldn’t be able to either hear or see me way above him.
Too, he wouldn’t think to look up and see me. I flew in such a way that I progressed around a corner which took me into another wing of the massive complex. Here, there was a balcony whose wall was such that it had an indentation in the shape of an inverted top hat. Thus, the balcony was as if wrapped inside the hat. Hiding out in the cover of the balcony, I peered out – from time to time – where I saw others on lower balconies who peered up at me.
Others were off to the right in the inverted balcony. They discouraged me from coming because they thought that, somehow, my movement would attract the newcomer with semi-automatic weapon. They were of the impression that he was, in the first place, out to get me. All around, this whole episode was terribly unpleasant. It had all the chaotic madness that must surely exist, at present, in the streets of a war zone like Bosnia or Croatia.
Deciding against hiding out, I sought to be rid of this place altogether. With that, I began flying upwards towards the very ceiling of the grand hall. The ceiling was as if a force field and not a physical construct. Thus, without incident, I was able to will my way through its parameters. I was truly relieved to have made it out of there. One had the sense of leaving one dimension and moving on to another, whilst seemingly clearing the grand hall’s ceiling, and into the next dream experience.
Next, in this the fourth dream, I was outside where I immediately encountered some young teenage females. All were sarcastic, bitchy solipsistic twits. They were on an empty city street. Racy-edged, in the extreme, were there. Especially for feeling the enervation that I did for the massive energy transference work that I had undertaken with River Phoenix, I really did not care to be around these people’s energy.
At the time, I was still in flight but had slowed down, hoping possibly to interact with them. Finally, I had no time for them and their bullshit. No need to be around their imploding energy. Without haste, I flew on and went onto a side street. There, I saw a really large building from which there were some persons presently exiting.
It was as if one were looking outdoors, due west towards Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan. A young couple came from the building and entered a car which looked like a Bentley limousine. A massive stately old car it was and looked every bit as though it had been made from lead. A large structure stood to my left as I watched them drive away towards what seemed to be Fifth Avenue.
Looking to the structure, I realised that the structure was in fact St. Patrick’s Cathedral which, of course, meant that I was at 51st Street at Fifth Avenue. Naturally, the car made a left turn and went south down Fifth Avenue. Here it was nighttime with lots of snow in the street, the sidewalk, and covering just about everything. The car wanted, once on Fifth Avenue, to go westwards along 50th Street, but couldn’t because that street runs easterly one-way.
There was also too much snow jammed there in the street. So, in the end, the car went down to the south end of Saks Fifth Avenue to try and get onto 49th Street. Here in the dreamtime, contrary to the waking state arrangement, 49th Street flowed easterly. This made me realise that its attempt to go along 50th Street was not bizarre. I guess that they then intended to go easterly along 49th Street, over to Park Avenue then up 57th Street, make a left at that street, to try and get across town that way.
I figured that that major thoroughfare would not be impassable. I was keen to find out who was inside the car, which was a very regal, stately affair; they were a sophisticated well-bred couple. I was more intrigued by the car because it was mostly glass, with the rear windshield arching up to above their heads, as they sat there exuding their exalted classism. The side panelling on the outside, and where the rear windshield met the roof, was all solid gold. Atop the roof there was a beacon like on a taxi cab, however, it was made of solid gold.
Really, it was more a coat of arms than anything so crass as a taxi’s beacon; this was a truly luxurious-looking vehicle. As I inspected it, I had been in flight hovering a couple of floors above it. Rising in the air, I began speeding down on the east side of Fifth Avenue over St. Patrick’s Cathedral. When I got over the cathedral, I noticed that – unlike its waking state counterpart – this one had flying buttresses. Though it was very dark out, as though the dead of a Dark Moon night, I noticed that there was activity atop the cathedral. There were things there which I found immediately intriguing.
Abandoning my pursuit of the Bentley landau, I slowed down, coming closer to observe what was going on atop the cathedral’s roof. There, I saw wonderful fowl; there was a whole array of them which were quite large. One species was white with lots of black specs throughout its body. They were all on different ledges on the flying buttresses. All of them had nests that they were tending.
One of the nests had 8 large speckled eggs inside. There was, however, no fowl tending to this nest. Flying slowly, within ten feet of the buttresses, I inspected everything with a keen eye. This was so very astral plane in focus. Considering that I had previously been counselling River Phoenix, who had recently passed, it made sense that I should be on the astral plane. In any event, the rooftop was pitch-black and covered in tar. The masonry here was also much blackened with time’s passage. Too, there was a lot of moss covering every available nook and cranny.
I suppose that this replica of St. Patrick’s Cathedral needed to exist, here on the astral plane, to provide some sense of continuity to the dearly departed recent arrivés of the Catholic persuasion. Here on the astral plane, this St. Patrick’s Cathedral was considerably larger than its waking state counterpart. As well, it was millennia older than the Roman Coliseum. The older dead moss had left the structure blackened – along with the centuries of pollution and soot caked on in layers. Naturally, in order to get up to the roof of the nave, I had had to rise higher and beyond the buttresses.
Once higher in the air, I saw down between these two buttresses a group of Whites. They were dressed in animal skins and were, in the true sense of the word, barbaric-looking. They had not yet fully developed the ability to speak; thus, their speech consisted of a series of barks and grunts. Quite hirsute, they were obsessively fearful. Huddled on the top of the structure, they proved a smelly lot.
Everything was quite ancient and scorpionic-hued. As well, there was a tribe of black-furred monkeys with some red in them. The Barbarians also wore a skin that had a reddish hue to it which was seemingly a doeskin. Theirs was, as well, a tawny reddish complexion. On noticing me, the monkeys went wild, climbing up to the tops of the buttresses; frantically, they pounced and screamed up at me. Goodness, they had such large vicious-looking teeth; thank goodness they could not fly.
Mildly horrified, I simply levitated higher into the air and stayed clear of their none-too-evolved noise. Exceptionally tiny, they were also very intelligent-looking. Truth be told, they looked much more evolved intellectually than their simian cousins, the Barbarians. Goodness, they were feisty and noisy. Wanting to investigate everything about the queerness of the sight of me, they were truly inquisitive.
Going higher, I reached to the top of the nave where I noticed a couple lying there. They were lying on their backs. Looking not unlike the sphinx’s, theirs were the most abnormal-looking skulls that were splayed and large. Their clothing was unusual-coloured; however, on closer inspection, it turned out to have been their skin. Basically, their skin was as if a floral-printed fabric. Very brightly coloured, their skin was an interesting sight… to say the least. They lay there, looking not the least bit surprised at the sight of me. They also seemed not inclined to do anything but enjoy themselves in repose.
They seemed so mysterious. Looking down, I alighted to investigate. I spent some time looking down at their feet where their skin was also uniformly distributed. I had wanted to leave but decided to head in the opposite direction; as they lay there, their feet were in my way. I didn’t want to have to upset or interact with them. They seemed alien, in the true sense of the word, but were not in fact to be disturbed. Silently, they lay there and directly looked at me. One had the sense that they could have turned deadly in a femtosecond and gone at me like a cobra on the attack. They had very cool eyes that were powerful, truly scorpionic. Theirs were the kind of eyes that were beguiling but utterly untrustworthy.
*Their eyes much reminded me of that dream encounter with Lars Gamst, set in the British Isles some centuries back, wherein we encountered a litter of oversized cats, which turned out to be not only psychic but also feral. This was back in the summer of 1988 – before recording the dreams on audio-cassettes. END.
Soon enough, I flew away from there because this was much too astrally focussed an experience. I might add, as dreams go, it was one that was very much so real and quite layered. It was simply much too intense; so, with that, I withdrew being energetically focussed therein.
A house that much reminded me of the one in Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts proved the setting for this most potent dream. There were five of us here; although, one person’s identity now eludes me. There in the living room, seated on the blue sofa of our Crab Hill home, was Merlin with his back to the north. Directly behind him was the five-foot oblong mirror; it was hung against the living room’s wall. On the other side of that wall, in the waking sate, was Harella’s bedroom.
Here in the dreamtime, which was definitely astral plane in focus, the living room was elongated; it was more oblong-shaped, along a north-south axis. Merlin’s right side was closer to the veranda and the main road with the McHughs across the road. Across the room from me, with her back to the street and facing due east, was Gita Gurucharan – Oberon Samuelson’s lovely wife and mother to miracle worker extraordinaire, Vijayalakshmi Gurucharan. Oleg de Brontë was seated directly opposite Merlin. There was a man, to my immediate left, who sat directly opposite Gita. Whilst I was closer to Merlin than anyone in the room, I was not however sharing the sofa with him.
Abruptly, Merlin got up and took his leave of us. He went into Harella’s bedroom. The others had dropped by to visit. It was clear, early on, that Merlin simply wasn’t into it. There was strain to the social dynamic which Merlin put an end to – he rudely took his leave of us. This was so unlike his former self during his recently-concluded incarnation. Yet, I fully understood where he was coming from. Whilst being in the soul state, he was now more so his true self. This gathering of persons represented the past to him, which at this point, clearly served no interest for him.
I then got up and stood next to Gita who was on my right. After Merlin rudely took his leave of us, we had all silently gotten up. To say the least, it was awkward. As we faced towards the dining room, our backs were now to the veranda. Filling the void that Merlin’s departure had created, Gita and I began making conversation. To say the least, it was a strained, canned affair. Here, I was keenly aware of how much I am dismissed as a social misfit. I was aware that these were persons who had long ago decided that I was not the swiftest of souls – I don’t indulge in clever repartee and such plastic aggressiveness when socialising.
The Black man then came over; he was tall and handsome with a gorgeously mesomorphic body. He stood to my left, directly facing Gita, and began talking. There were a lot of pauses here; they were trying to get me to shove off by firmly excluding me. Finally, I dryly said, “Well, I’m going to go and see how my man is doing.”
I then walked between the chairs, on which Oleg and the Black man sat, as though heading for the boys’ bedroom rather than Harella’s to which Merlin had retreated. I then, however, made an abrupt turn left going instead through the door from the living room to Harella’s bedroom. On entering the bedroom, I saw that Merlin was lying in the girls’ bedroom next-door. Merlin seemed as though asleep. He did look as though ill with full-blown AIDS. It was not, however, distressing to have seen him thus; I was lucidly awakened here.
Initially, when out in the living room, Merlin looked robust and even leaned towards a robust, mesomorphic body type. It was clear though that having to visit with these persons, from the past, had very much so enervated his spirits. Rather than sit there interminably, enduring what was an unpleasant situation for him, he thankfully had taken refuge when he had. On drawing closer to him, I gently caressed his face – all the while thinking of how difficult this was for him. I wanted to share some of my energies with him; I wanted to restore his. The vibrations from the living room, however, were distracting.
After excusing myself from Merlin, I returned to the living room. Immediately, I dramatically shifted personae and became rude. I told them to sit down, at which point, we all did. Oleg then got up after awhile; he was holding a long-necked, brown beer bottle. There were three empty identical ones on the floor and next to his chair. There was no mistaking the fact that he was drunk.
‘Who the hell gets drunk on the astral plane anyway?’
Oleg wore a woollen jacket that was dark and nondescript. Incidentally, on my return, the Black man was no longer present. In his place was a White man with the same physical description; he came over trying to save face. The unfamiliar man charmingly suggested that it was time that they pushed off. Oleg had gotten very drunk indeed; he was not at all being belligerent. It turned out that Oleg had gotten emotionally distraught – about Merlin’s condition; he was upset at the way that things had turned out between them. The fact that things were unresolved between them, at the end of Merlin’s last life, caused Oleg a great deal of distress.
He did not know how else to deal with it; thus, Oleg got miserably drunk. I wanted to be of solace to Oleg, however, since my energies were already committed to being with Merlin that option proved a nonstarter. Clearly, Gita and the other man had been there to try and broker some sort of peace between Oleg and Merlin. Obviously, Merlin was not up to it. At one point, I had actually headed to the dining room and called back to Oleg. My voice rang out as I asked Oleg if he wanted another beer.
This was the point at which the unfamiliar White man had interrupted and declined the offer; instead, he suggested that they take their leave of Merlin and me. Oleg, of course, was inclined to take another drink. I did not like my role here – that of keeping Oleg grounded by drink. Certainly, it did give the impression that I was trying to block any resolution or any communion between both him and Merlin. Although, to be honest, Oleg had begun drinking after Merlin had left the room. It was quite embarrassing really. Oleg could hardly get up – let alone stand on his own.
The man had had to rush to Oleg’s aid. Like Merlin in the bedroom, Oleg was completely enervated though he had used alcohol to drown his pain. Oleg was devastated that Merlin was not going to return. More importantly, Oleg knew that Merlin had positively no intentions of suffering him for a minute. The man threw his arms about Oleg and braced him up. More than that, he was fortifying his very spirit.
Again, I took my leave of them in the living room and headed back for Merlin. However, I did not spend time visiting with Merlin. On returning to the bedroom, I got a long, black, woollen evening coat. It was rather expensive and cut close to the body. Bearing the coat, I returned to the living room where I insisted that Oleg take it to stay warm. For not realising that he had been drinking to excess, I had felt badly. He was truly distraught; nothing pained me more than seeing this truly beautiful man’s spirit in disrepair.
Whilst his White friend got him into the coat, I stood in back of a disjointed Oleg and held the evening coat open. Interestingly enough, Oleg’s handsome, Black friend earlier was the same handsome Black man, with the striking resemblance to Maxwell Bowleson – he had appeared with him in that august-energied dream, on Friday, July 21, 1995. Eventually, they all took their leave of the house; they were rather low-key when doing so. When I had returned to the living room, after having visited with Merlin in the girls’ bedroom, Gita had not said anything further.
No sooner than had they all left the house that Merlin came out to the living room to join me. I was surprised to see that he was again looking so healthy. Directly opposite Merlin, I now sat alone. Merlin silently sat there. Whilst consciously sending him loving energies, I held my back erect. Much to my surprise and amusement, Merlin carried a large, clear plastic bag with about 1.5 pounds, likely more, of marijuana. Merlin meticulously rolled a large thick joint with all the Zen focus as he had when incarnate.
I sat there being truly blown away at the sight. I had completely forgotten the sublime, almost Zen, sight of Merlin rolling a joint. Moments like this were when Merlin really turned up the hues of his magus nature. It was a groove into which he slipped, in order to conceptualise – to non-linearly think. These ganja joints were so thick that they looked like short white cigars; they certainly smoked profusely like a cigar does. I was mildly humoured by Merlin’s realness. It was grounding.
On looking up, Merlin paused before lighting up and turned up the sensual hues in his large brown – which they were not when incarnate – eyes. Coolly, Merlin intoned, “I have no intentions of seeing these people…”
He then pursed the fat joint in his rosy lips and lit up. Casually, Merlin blew on a long even breath that readily perfumed the air with its pungent aroma. Up to that point, the room was sillaged by that most glorious of scents patchouli – it was Merlin’s favourite fragrance. As an afterthought, Merlin added that Oleg had intended to come back tomorrow and join him for lunch. There was supposed to be some woman or other present then.
Apparently, it was not going to be either Morag O’Hoare or Gita Gurucharan. I don’t know who she was supposed to be but it was also definitely not Elektra Skanczchowicz – and definitely not Hélène Plotte-Visage. Merlin took his time and drew on another breath. He then announced that the luncheon had been arranged by none other than Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny. Merlin, however, was not into it. “Are you sure that you’re going to be up to it?” I asked obviously concerned.
As I looked across the room at Merlin, I spent a great deal of time being spiritually focussed and sent him energy. What was really interesting in this process was that with his long even breaths, when dragging on the ganja joint, I used his breathing rhythm to become harmonised with his vibration. The focussed process of sharing my energy with him was very potent – real. The energy flowed with great ease. For being intensely lucid, I thought of elevating my vibration’s frequency. I had hoped to thus cycle off a ton of my energy into Merlin. I accomplished this by envisioning us both encircled by spheres of intense blue-white light. Soon, I saw my energy body cycling off a coil of white light.
This light originated both from the top and bottom of the sphere of light which completely enveloped my seated body. The light travelled the distance between us, across the room, some seven feet away at most. It made contact with both poles of his energy body’s identical sphere’s integrity. Together, we were truly in communion soul-to-soul. The interesting thing here was that we both continued casually visiting though I knew that Merlin was keenly aware of the energy work that was being accomplished between us. As he continued his detached Zen-like smoking, I knew that it served as a backdrop to his being receptive of the energy work that I was doing on his behalf. Our breathing was completely synchronised.
I used each inhalation to draw off the negative vibrations. It was this energy that had caused him to become completely enervated when seated opposite Oleg whom he clearly had no desire to have encountered. Merlin then chose to abruptly retire, whilst the others visited, to the girls’ bedroom to crash. With each exhalation, I sent him intense, white-light energy that was being liquidly drunk by his energy body. The marvellous thing about this entire experience was how utterly feminine Merlin’s modalities were. This was in marked contrast to my very masculine, martial, warrior-energied focus.
It was truly a validation of the creative principle, Merlin being yin to my yang. Together we were becoming whole. Together our energies were perfectly harmonised. As a result, Merlin’s energies were thusly realigned. Too, for being in this very expansive state, I caught brief glimpses of the outlines of the light energies that were being manifested between us. During the moments when he would exhale potent puffs of smoke, I observed the manifested spheres of light each time. The smells of the patchouli and ganja, combined with the ganja’s smoke, created the effect. I was so grounded for being here in this astral plane reanimation of the Crab Hill, Sandy Point, St. Kitts house. It was a truly sublime shamanic experience.
It was clear that Merlin had no desire to experience unpleasant aspects of the past. As he sat there, Merlin waited for the air to clear; he waited for the ganja to wane and the strobe of the light spheres to fade out before replying, “No, no. It’s okay. I’ll be okay…” As Merlin spoke for the first time, he looked healthier than he had looked at any point before during our astral plane dream encounter. Earlier, he was lying on his stomach with his left cheek on the pillow; his face looked out the door that led to the room from Harella’s bedroom. There was a cool sheen of sweat then that covered his brow and body; he laid there looking truly wasted.
Even his breathing was loud then. As I patted his cool brow, I could hear the crackling in his lungs that suggested that he was again suffering from a bout of pneumocystis. On soothing his spirit, I had brushed the wet strands of his shoulder-length hair from his brow. It was so very good to have seen Merlin. The most exquisite pleasure of being in his presence was the great sense of peace that I felt for seeing him whole again. The simple act of his rolling a joint was, for me, on the order of bliss; he was transcendent. Of course, as was the case during our relationship in the waking state, he did not offer me a toke of the cigar-like joint.
I do know that I found the second-hand smoke pleasurable. It was sweet; it did much to relax me, along with the focussed deep breathing that I independently did – that we did in unison and which had been triggered by his breaths when smoking the joint. Feeling the need to come down from the intense energy work that I had accomplished with Merlin, I got up and walked slowly over to Merlin. I asked him if he was going to be okay on his own. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about; he would be fine. I knew it too. So with that, I took my leave of him. In a bid to move back into my regular-dream body, I went out to get some air on the veranda.
He assured me that I did not need to come back, later on, and join him. He would be quite okay to handle things on his own, he assured me. I believed him. Merlin simply glowed throughout; his cheeks were flushed and fleshy even. Merlin looked centred and genuinely contented. I then found some ice cream, beneath one of the living room chairs, which earlier I had been eating. Naturally, it was not all that great as it had melted down and lost its flavour.
Yeah groovy people, you know the score, just plié, push off and fly like when you have just had the greatest sex and dance as if this gorgeous planet ain’t nobody’s property but yours. I love you more.
As the dreams of Merlin after his passing betray, our relationship endured beyond dimensions. This enduring love allowed my growth to continue. This love allowed me to become immensely enriched for having known Merlin. This dream betrays the continued spiritual growth that I experienced. This growth was much enhanced for having known and loved Merlin, before meeting him, during our seven-year relationship and after his passing.
The dream occurred, on Tuesday, September 22, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Leo and my third house. At the time of this dream, I was visiting Pandora in Paris. On this trip to Paris, I would meet the delightful Louka Duplessis. Clearly, the dream touched on past life experiences in France but, more importantly, it reflected my spiritual maturation during the course of this lifetime. The dream chronicles my ascension to new plateaux spiritually as mirrored in the dreamtime.
The dream in question also occurred in the ‘B’ or second sleep phase that day. Too, it was the second of four dreams that day.
I was staying in this old building. It was a normal six-storeyed, Parisian pied-à-terre. The windows across the way were naked of any drapes. The window, from which I looked, allowed me a view into the third storey windows across the street. There was no fencing between the properties and both buildings were fairly close. It was an old building and it was situated in the rear of the property. I was two storeys higher up whilst looking down at this guy. He was mesomorphic, developed and swarthy. He was definitely of North African descent.
This man was head of the household guard of the limestone mansion. This mansion was not unlike the one I passed by, last night – that is, in that dream experience, wherein Tina Turner performed her heart out, on the mansion’s veranda. It was, however, not that palatial home – in that dream, the residence was a bungalow which this certainly wasn’t. This building though was many storeys tall. I instinctively knew that I was the owner but, somehow, my life was now in danger. He, for being part of the household guard, was fiercely loyal. He saw to it that I was kept securely insulated. I was kept secured in the abandoned building, in the rear, since no one would be expected to go looking for me there.
The building that I was in was old and missing all of its window panes. He sat there, on the third storey, on a red velvet chaise longue. On his immediate right sat a woman. Seemingly, she was a daughter of one of the maids. The household staff here was quite large. He was lounging back, on the backrest, stroking her long brunette mane. I could tell from his rhythmic stroking of her head that he was aroused and that she was more than likely giving him a blowjob. I couldn’t, however, make out his cock from my perspective. He was, at the very least, exposing himself to her and wanted her to give him head. She, however, was being very cautious.
Obviously, he was easily made impatient by her inaction. From his energies, I could tell that he would likely soon overpower her and force her to go down on him. Frankly, I did not approve of him abusing a woman thus. However, it was a situation that she had little control over although it was clear that she did not want to do it. Since it was my house, I wanted to go there and intercede on her behalf. In any event, I really did not like being held up in this confining space.
To have been caught up in this sort of situation, it proved truly stifling of my energies. More than that, I wanted to kick some arse because he was abusing his powers by manipulating his subordinate. I did not approve of this at all and, more importantly, I also didn’t want anyone in my employ to be abused thus. So I managed to make my way back down into the palatial digs.
Entering at the ground level, as I progressed, the main foyer was fairly empty. Here there were lots of large columns that were wooden and in the Gothic style. The ceiling here was wooden with flying buttresses. This was a very high-ceilinged affair that was easily two storeys. The floor was tiled with black-and-white marble with each tile being some two-and-one-half feet square. It was very beautiful here with a very shiny polish to the floor. As I walked, I wore riding boots and had a very strong, demonstrative stride. At times, as I did not want to be heard making my approach, I was being very slight.
Instinctively, I knew where to be forceful in stride but I also knew where to be otherwise slight. All of this was about announcing my presence to certain persons therein. I then began mounting the very dark-wooded, high-glossed, polished staircase to the landings. I was impressed with just how clean the household staff kept the place. There was much loving care put into their jobs. I was warmed by this and knew that it reflected their respect for me. Clearly, I was a good steward in their lives – one who cared about their well-being. Each storey of the large staircase had a square landing which looked out to the landings below. Though I had not taken the time to look up, as it was very brightly illumined, there just may have been a skylight overhead the staircase. When I did look up, on one of the landings, I saw a woman a couple of storeys up. She was older and wore a greyish smock.
Her head she kept tied in a turban with white, heavy-looking fabric. On seeing me, she rushed back away from the landing. Straight away, I went stealthily speeding up the stairs without as much as a sound. When I got to her landing, I slipped into this back room that was one to which I knew she would have retreated. This was the chambermaids’ quarters. Very wide-eyed and full of fear she let me know, right off the bat, that she did not know anything. Clearly, she was trying to cover for the fact that the house guard had been overpowering the woman. She did not want to get involved. More to the point, she did not want him avenging himself of her.
The young woman may even have been her daughter yet she was not prepared to risk her security. Hissing, I interrogated her but she was so overcome with fear that she avoided becoming caught up in the politics of it all. She understandably felt obliged to do as I said yet she was sexually acculturated, to be subservient to men, such that she simply couldn’t bring herself to defy any man. Even a corrupt one whom she knew was not my superior, she simply could not cross. The attacker was a feared and forceful man – sadistic. Seeing that he was part of the palace’s security, he could easily have her killed and made it look like an accident. She knew this only too well.
This very shrewd woman had no misgivings as to just what lengths male ambition would go to assure its self-preservation, most especially, at the expense of the opposite sex. Indeed, she too had once been a young woman. She had clearly had to learn some hard lessons about the hearts, rather the lack thereof, of men a long time ago. She was, if nothing else, shrewdly pragmatic. He was to be feared. She was not in the world to provoke or affect change. I assured her that she would be protected then sent her to her quarters. I then took my leave of her. We spoke exclusively in French.
She was clearly multiple-generational peasant stock and from northwestern France which I deduced from her accent. A very self-deprecating individual and one possessed of pronounced humility. From there, I went rushing back out onto the stairs. As I approached she had been tipping off others, in a hushed voice, to the fact that I was returned to the house. Just as I was beginning to come down the stairs, the North African captain of house’s guard came out. He stood on the landing, one flight above me, very impatiently asking who the devil I was.
He demanded to know who this intruder – meaning me – was. I was frankly humoured by his bravura, so smiled at him, and thought to play along. Whilst standing there very regally, I thought to call him by his name thereby calling him on his temerity. Instantaneously, he flashed this unusually large, black weapon which seemed part rifle, part spear. The top of the spear was all gold-leafed as a bayonet would be speared. It was not unlike the top of the wrought iron fencing that girdled the property which I would notice afterwards when leaving the property. Still very casually, I mockingly tossed my hands in the air and begged for his mercy.
“Fine, if you want to treat me as an intruder, go right ahead. I’m not an intruder…” I said, not liking the flow of this exchange.
When he suddenly began shooting at me, I was certainly surprised. The shots explosively came, a volley of five rounds, at me. When they were discharged they came at me with quite an incredible force. It was as though, at will, I was able to slow down the bullets. I saw the bullets’ progression in slow-motion. Each shot appeared as if streaks of red light coasting through the air. Starting out on target, directly towards me they came. I managed, my mind totally focussed, to will them to avert making contact with me. Every one of them ended up veering off to the right.
He barked a grunt of displeasure on seeing that the bullets had not made his intended mark. He drew the gun again to try once more. I knew that this man was quite a good marksman yet he never did catch me. Making like I really was an intruder, after he had finished his second attack, I began bolting down the steps. I manically scurried, down to the ground floor, all the whilst he kept on firing after me as I fled. Even with my back turned, I was able to maintain my mental focus and escaped being shot by him. Still focussed, I continued directing the bullets away from me. The thing about the bullets was how incredibly powerful they were. As they sped by, like the high-speed trains here in Europe do, each bullet created the same gravitational drag.
*This led me to the conclusion that when one is struck by sniper fire, it is a very impactful occurrence. As a matter of fact, the soul itself simply gets suddenly knocked out of being focussed in the body. It is clearly a jarring experience. The soul, at such times, is instantaneously slapped back to the astral plane in mere femtoseconds. END.
On rushing down to the ground floor, I took cover under the canopy of the second storey’s landing. When the bullets would strike the ground floor’s marble tiles, they zinged and sounded much like swords noisily clashing against stone during battle. It did cause me to wonder if the weapon’s ammunition were not, as it were, tiny spears. Rapidly travelling, the tiny spear-like bullets created a fiery streak of light whilst tearing through space. The friction of the bullets’ speed was what would have ignited space’s explosive oxygen. The bullets were experienced in exquisite close-up, gnawing away at the fabric of space, as if some fiery eagle lancing through the air to make the kill.
From under the cover of the landing, I ran across the foyer over to this large secretaire. The secretaire did not have any gold leaf detailing on it but it was very large and beautifully designed. Jumping onto it, I went there to be out of range of his gunfire. He did, however, keep on shooting at me. Naturally, I continued defending myself by deflecting every shot he directed my way. Pretty soon the shots were ricocheting. Some shots did serious damage to the secretaire. Not wanting to completely destroy it, I leapt off the secretaire. In a streak of unbridled energy, I went bolting outside through the large heavy doors. As I made it through the doors, I could hear him coming down the stairs after me.
By this point, he was being joined by other house guards whom he had called to his aid. Obviously, he had inspired the other guards to turn against me. This was truly an upsetting surprise for me. I ran into the most beautiful garden imaginable. Not unlike the other garden, before the sprawling bungalow that I had dreamt of the night earlier where Tina Turner sang, was this one. However, this garden was considerably more extensive. Like a house afire, I went running down the garden path. Following the path that led from the front doors, I ran screaming my lungs out. As I worked off all that angst, it was part fear… it was part celebratory war cry.
In one leap, I bolted through the front gates. Yet again, it proved another very large, high, wrought iron, gold-leafed, spear-tipped fence. All that I could think of was that I had to get the devil lost and as soon as possible. Still running, fast as all hell, I had managed through the narrow streets to get myself onto a near-deserted off-street. This road seemed to border the abandoned building. It was another building which was in back of the mansion. Here it was definitely as if Paris but a few centuries earlier. It was as if the height of Napoleon Bonaparte’s reign because the second empire architecture was not yet a ubiquitous fixture.
These were buildings that had a stone ground floor with the upper ones made of wood. Few of them, if any, had very little to no second empire signatures. It was the most minimalist empire detailing and as such it was not very widespread. The style here predominantly was Roman, rather than not, with some neo-classical signatures. Some of the roofs, in their prelude to the second empire sensibility, were more so like barn roofs than not – mansard-roofed they were. Whilst running down the off-street, I happened on a crowd of persons who were walking. All of them were dressed as if of another age. This was garb from an earlier time in Europe. Drab-coloured, heavy fabrics predominated here.
On forging ahead, I managed my way into the thick of them. They were a group of guys who were walking in the nighttime streets. It was an indeterminate time of night. It could easily have been a full Moon or even coming on to dawn. As it was simultaneously dark, it was hard to discern. As a result, it was also not too bright. A strange light it was, which I think was also silvery-sooty, for being so choked with wood-burning fires partout. There was the sense also that there was heavy cloud cover that dappled the full force of the full Moon.
As I hid in amongst the throng, I noticed that there were also Black men present. They seemed to be headed off to go drinking at a bar. These men were, however, not a rowdy crowd. Neither were they singing nor, for that matter, were they being obstreperous. Some of them were telling tall tales and getting us in good spirits. It was an immediate warm group of energies. No sooner than had I joined them that the house guard, along with his henchmen, appeared at our rear. He began yelling at us, in a hostile tone, telling us to stop and give up.
We were stunned. At least, I was surprised that they had managed to find me. Next, they were indiscriminately shooting at us. Of course, I was the object of their hunt. Right away, I began ducking behind some of the larger-bodied guys in the group. One of the Black men turned on me on realising, that for being an outsider, that they were clearly trying to get me. He and some of the others in the group, who had their own guns, immediately began to shoot at me. Again, I began dodging the bullets and was able to run away.
I acrobatically tumbled, leapt and soared through the air, sometimes rolling on the ground, in hopes of escaping their fury and gunfire. This time – for fleeing so rapidly – I was able to easily dodge the bullets without having to focus my will on diverting their trajectory. However, there was one point, when he had shot at me that I had been of the opinion that he had shot me. He had shot at my legs catching me in both knees. Self-preservation demanded that I not look down at my knees. Had I done so, on seeing that I was wounded, I would have been paralysed to take further action.
All I wanted to do was to secure my escape from this tumultuous place with its volatile emotionality. For that reason, I kept on going and ran from the narrow-streeted place. Here in the street confrontation, as they streaked by at great speeds, I did notice that some of the bullets created a blue light. This occurred as the bullets gnawed into the fabric of space. Here, too, they were very powerful and created a sense of drag as they noisily zinged past me. Their sound was like that of some giant beast of prey, noisily rocketing in, before the kill.
Along the block, I caught wind of a crack between buildings. Straight away, I darted through the crevice. By shifting sideways, I had managed my way into the crevice thus. From this vantage point, I discovered that there was much fighting going down between both sides. The fighting unrelentingly kept up without me being directly affected. Meanwhile, I managed to inch my way further inwards and away from the street. Here the little crevice-like lane led back into a courtyard area. Pleased that I had made it to the courtyard, out of harm’s way, I took the time to enjoy the cool damp air of the enclosed space.
Clearly, no one ever made it into this courtyard. Winded, I needed to recharge my energies. Whilst there alone, I noticed that it was suddenly getting considerably brighter out. Intrigued, I began venturing from the courtyard to investigate the cause of the light change. Unmistakably, there towered from on-high a shaft of intense blue-white light. It went from the ground, in the distance, and extended up into the darkened night sky. This light was off to the left, as I looked on, and across the street from where the street battle was going down.
This manifestation was quite intense. It proved a constant bleed of energy. Simultaneously, one readily discerned that the flow of energy was moving in both directions. It was all very intense with a great deal of power to it – a power which you could feel. The quivering, almost liquid, undulating light gave off a tingling sound. This sound matched its non-static, shifting appearance. It was a cool sound like a whistling wintry wind. This light manifestation was rather intense.
Soon, I noticed that there was a column of white light which looked decidedly umbilical. It much reminded me of the umbilical light being which I saw descending from the sky, in that dream of Thursday July 7, 1988. Back then, in the dreams of July 7, 1988, it appeared as if a cetacean-like creature. However, it turned out to be a manifestation of some aspect of self, some aspect of the soul, which proved to be Merlin’s soul totem. Right away, I knew the significance of this dream. This dream was clearly all about one’s totemic symbology. Off in the distance, I could hear the tinny sound of persons speaking.
One particular woman was remarking that this was happening as a result of persons having recently been shot and died. In other words, this was a manifestation of their ascension to the next plane. She speculated that this was likely their spirits taking flight away from this age and time. Frankly, I got the sense that she did not know what she was talking about. Since I was in hiding, I knew that I couldn’t seek her out to correct her perception of what was truly taking place. I was really excited and strongly resonated with the nature of the experience.
Instinctively, I fully understood the whole process – both the imagery and meaning of the whole experience. Here however, I knew that I couldn’t call out to the light, as I had to the light on July 7, 1988. For obvious reasons, I stood there resonating with the light. I was being overwhelmingly energised by the light. With the greatest yearning, the greatest compassion, I began reaching out to the knowing light force. The umbilical cord of light next began snaking its way up, the column of blue light, like so many of the columns of smoke that rose up from the chimneys all about.
However, this was definitely not smoke at all. It was a nimbus-like, smoke-like, umbilical-like being of light. It was so very knowing, gentle, familiar and intimate in is sublime, graceful beauty. It was an umbilical cord of light that snaked up into the bosom of the shaft of blue-white light. When the cord of light got up into the massive clouded sky it began circling around, like some giant spiral galaxy viewed head on, up above in the night sky. On reaching the sky, the look of it as it circled was as if it were an illumined sea in the sky. Here, of course, the major source of light would have been submerged and just beyond the aqueous surface of the sea on high.
This, too, exactly mirrored what had happened on July 7, 1988. In both cases, it was as though the sea was now where the sky should have been. It was revolutionary. Just as in the earlier experience, four years before, there was no sea visible at the conventional terrestrial site of the sea. I was just inside the tiny lane, which was off a street, which was higher than anywhere else around. This gave me a really good view of what was going on in the distance. To again experience this magical occurrence, I again felt greatly inspired. This was definitely set a few centuries back in France.
If not set during late pre-revolutionary Paris, then the tumultuous times of the revolution and early Napoleonic times. If not Paris, it was definitely one of the larger cities but it was definitely in France. The light was so pure, so immensely intense indeed, it was breathtakingly beautiful. What’s more, the light on making contact with the sky simply billowed outwards and became a greater explosion of light. As it rippled outwards, the giant spiral galaxy of light would then spawn smaller spiralling encircling galaxies of light. No music ever created or experienced, could ever evoke the beauty of experience that this light did. It was quite simply looking into the bosom of the soul.
They soon became circles within circles that were fast-moving independent of each other. Whilst there were others which moved counterclockwise, some spiralled in a clockwise fashion. All this movement occurred in the greatest display of slow-motioned grace. This was power on an order that was mind-altering. It was as though my mind were being expanded into new uncharted realms of spirit and intellect. As four years earlier, the parallel experience had left me, I felt just as greatly inspired. Within each spiralling galaxy of light, there were sparks of light that reflected every colour of the rainbow.
In that sense, they were as if circling rainbows of light. Lights they were that created a form of music with their tingling sound. Inspired great music of the soul it was too. Whilst looking into them, I saw colours that have never been experienced on this side of the dreamtime before. It was so revolutionary to think that there could be colours beyond the known spectrum, yet, there they were. Even more interesting was the fact that these lights flickered in and out of existence. Each manifestation caused a resonant quiver at the solar plexus which itself had rippled outwards, in waves of ecstasy, to and from my very soul itself.
Thus these spirals were pulsating light at what, though seemingly random, was a rather orderly progression. With every flicker, my entire body was being inundated with the most intense stimulation of light, sound, emotion and awareness. Most of all, I was being inundated with love. Standing there, it was as though I were having the most thrilling flying dream experience whilst remaining perfectly motionless. My skin, as it were, had become peeled away. This heightened sensitivity allowed my every nerve ending to hungrily drink of the purity and intensity of the experience. This was so elevated an experience that it can never be adequately articulated by mere words.
It was so profound and so sublime that it was sheer simplicity. It would be like trying to describe a rose ad nauseam. A rose is manifested inspiration for it is creativity at its most sublime. For that reason, a rose is experiential and is totally beyond the realm of description. The rose is creative manifestation, as such, only one’s correspondent state of beingness allows one to experience its inspiring beauty. Beyond that, the rose simply is yet another symbol in the pantheon of acculturated signs. For every one of those symbols one has an automatic response. The symbol of the rose or anything, nine of ten times, causes one to never genuinely experience anything. The experience of the spiralling light, which only mushroomed outwards, grew more and more intense.
Its vibrational frequency kept on rising and pushing into octaves that previously I could not have fathomed. With this expansion, the blackened, aqueous night sky only grew more and more intensely and predominantly white-lighted. It was as though, as it slowly churned into greater actuality, it was hurricane season with some massively powerful storm cloud gathering strength. Where the umbilical cord of light broke through the surface, of the aqueous light surface on high, it became increasingly intense. So intense, in fact, that soon there was a break in the continuum of the medium there.
Now the light became even more intense than already it had been. The poor container of my relatively tiny body seemed unable to sustain so potent an experience for much longer. Soon, the light’s intensity waned as it had instantaneously mushroomed outwards forming a perfect circle. Within this supra-circle were the infinitely mushrooming circles of light wherein each was teeming with an array of pulsating spectra of lights. This was music on the order of the cosmic. This was truly music of the soul. Now the expanded supra-circle began flickering like some giant lightning storm.
There within its aqueous-looking light confines, the counter rotating circles began exploding in the most symmetrical and geometric shapes imaginable. Here, there were some geometric entities that are unknown to waking state thought which have as yet been discovered. In that sense, it was as if one were experiencing pure mathematics. Even though the whole thing looked like water, however, it was definitely light. Moreover, with the explosion of geometric shapes, it now looked like crystals that were made of pure light. They were light crystals which were spherical and simultaneously musical. They moved in amongst themselves without ever crashing into each other. This was pure creativity at its highest order. The whole thing was a very molecular organic process.
In the centre, the aqueous-looking lights on high then bled open. It became as if a giant crystalline rose of light, in an aqueous sky, which kept on breaking open its infinite petals. By this point, my body was quivering throughout. Too, as I stood there lucidly dreaming, I silently laughed whilst losing tears. The whole magical unfoldment was so immensely humbling. Finally, instead of revealing its seed pistons the petals parted revealing this incredible planetary entity. It was more brilliant than Luna. Try – if you will – to fathom the accumulative intensity of Luna since four plus billion years ago, it first shone full, and every full Moon since.
However, it was no mere planet. It was so brilliant that it was not even a star. It was far more powerful and brighter than any star could ever be. Even though it was so intense it was not so harsh a light, as a star’s, such that one couldn’t look at it. This body was easily seven times as large as Luna. Too, this immense orb was more potently luminous than Luna. The surface of it was as if aqueous as it constantly shifted and changed form. More than that, in its collective kaleidoscopic beauty, all this stellar planetary body proved to be was a face. It was quite simply a glimpse into the face of one’s soul.
Swept away, I yogically stretched my arms into its very bosom and let out a thrilled cry of joy. This was an air pocket of inspiration like no other I had ever coasted. I did just then begin hearing similar cries from persons who were in the buildings in the neighbourhood. There were no persons in the abandoned buildings, which bled into the tiny courtyard, to my rear where I had been earlier. There were several voices, all female, all of them naturally speaking French. They were marvelling at the sight but, frankly, they did not get the picture.
For them it was an apocalyptic event that no doubt presaged the end of the world or the second coming… paradigms which like the symbology of the rose they had been acculturated to believe – their loss, I realised. As for me, I was really connecting with the experience. I totally knew what it was all about. Again, their lack of awareness only reflected their not having achieved this reflective state of creative beingness which would have truly allowed them to experience the rose of the experience.
Rather, for them, it was an experience outside of themselves. Just as in that dream of experiencing a planetary totem, back in July 1983, I instinctively knew what it was. Here it was to the east and not yet reached its zenith. This was such an incredible experience. At this point, my body started resonantly vibrating. Before I had been trembling, as though grounded by the force of some booming bass which impacted everything in its wake, now though I rattled throughout. This was such a fuck-all glorious experience.
As it had also been so long since I had experienced that kind of uplifting connection, with the soul element within, I was very much so moved. I was humbled. The whole revelation only lasted briefly… mere seconds. To have been longer in duration would, finally, have been too overwhelming. Nonetheless, I had gotten it. I had made the connection and was greatly inspired for having had the uplifting experience. The other townsfolk hadn’t gotten the essence of what it was; this finally was a moot point. Quite simply, this stellar, illumined, aqueous anthropomorphic face did not exist either inside or outside of space, time or dimensional experientiality.
It was, quite simply, a glimpse of the soul. Whose soul, mine or Merlin’s, smiled back at me? It was not here relevant. I had matured into the experience for having met and known Merlin. So to that end, it was the face of both his and my Soul. This was the most rapturous state of being that I had experienced in a long, long time. There and then, I knew that my life had matured onto a higher octave for not just having had the experience but for having assimilated it – gotten it. Just when it seemed that my mind was going to irreparably nova, the crystalline light of spiralling spheres began shifting.
They ended their contraction and began expanding, collapsing over the magnetic orb, to which the umbilical cord of light had ascended. Their movement was orderly, graceful and utterly organic. It was like looking at a fast-action film of a crystalline rose bloom over a massive expanse of time. This, however, was as if being cinematically experienced in slow-motion and in reverse – very spectacular.
*God I am so glad that I have never done drugs. END.
When the supra-circle had finally collapsed, to cover the self-illumined, face-like, planetary being-like entity beyond the veil of glowing lights, the orb it now hid then novaed in an explosion of intense white light. What then shot through me can only be described as enlightenment. Quite simply, my cellular integrity was vibrationally sped up to momentarily become light itself. When the orb’s light had imploded to nothingness, I was left instantaneously feeling very drained. Even here in the dreamtime, I was aware of having a numbing headache.
By the time that I came back, through the crevice-like lane, all the gun fighting had finished. They were all gone, as a matter of fact. On looking down, I discovered that there was nothing now wrong with my knees. Just as I had suspected earlier, I had been wearing boots but they did not cover my knees. Coming out into the street, I hurried along the sides of the buildings going back to the wonderful, palatial residence. Going back towards the grounds, this time I saw another building there which was one on the side of the property. Looking down the block, I saw four or five cars and all of them were red.
Sure enough, just as I suspected, Magnus Colsen’s car was one of them. As I came closer, his car was beginning to move but only slightly. I went and said hello to him. Inside, there were lots of boxes crammed everywhere as though he was moving. It would seem that he was moving out of his family home, to get a place of his own, for the first time. Unusually enough here, he was spectacled – so perhaps he is a Scholar soul. Whilst we warmly spoke, the lens over his left eye automatically moved upwards in a sweeping arc. Revealed, his left eye was intensely blue and warm. They were much bluer than, in the waking state, they actually are.
Magnus let me know that he had to be on his way and began driving off. However, he did suggestively add that he would be back later to get some more things. We parted, saying so long and he took off. With that I turned around, never returning to the grounds of the palatial residence.
*This dream was totemic for me. I knew instinctively that it signalled the mark of me beginning to manifest at my true soul age. Of course, during the time of my Saturn Return and Merlin’s illness, my transit from young-souled consciousness and egocentrism was affected. During the time of Merlin’s illness and transition, there were those rather momentous and totemic dreams. I had a very strong sense of Merlin’s vibration during the experience. However, I never thought of him as being physically close-by nor had I anticipated seeing him in person. Now four years later, pushing closer to my true soul age, I was crossing the seas of consciousness. I was manifesting as a seventh level mature soul.
We are incarnate for two chief reasons, to empower ourselves and thereby spiritually grow. Of course, this can only be successfully achieved by choosing to conquer fear through love by choosing to love rather than fear. This momentous dream had positively nothing whatsoever to do with anything so disempowering as experiencing God or any such tribal bullshit. I was come face–to-face with my soul state and the energies and power which being part of an entity and itself part of a cadre represent. There were times that I had an awareness of Joop van der Pelster who, of course, is a cadre mate. Of the more than one hundred and fifty Michael Overleaves that I have had channelled, through both Mathilde Duchenne and Kritika Bhatt, he has proven to be the oldest-souled at fifth level old.
I do know that I definitely do feel a sense of limitlessness when in his company. Truth be told, the sweetest most pleasurable sex that I have ever had was not with Merlin but with Joop van der Pelster. With Merlin there was passion and intimacy that was unsurpassed. However only with Joop van der Pelster would one, after lovemaking, feel so exquisitely fulfilled that there was a fatigue that was of the most pleasurable order. Every time that we have been intimate, afterwards I have felt as though that all I would have to do is simply continue the smile by closing my lids and letting go. For doing so, I would become instantaneously an astral plane habitué – yet again.
It is shamanic what Joop van der Pelster affects as a lover. This is something which is also achieved between us during phone sex. This is why he remains the only person with whom I ever have phone sex. It is an aspect of our relationship that has lasted, for the some thirty-five-plus years that we have known each other. Joop van der Pelster and Merlin never met nor did they ever once speak on the phone. What Joop doesn’t realise is how incredibly uncannily his voice, when we are having phone sex, is exactly like Merlin’s. It has always been that way even when Merlin was incarnate and knew of my phone sex relationship with Joop.
It is as if we get into a groove whereby he channels Merlin and affects, what can only truly be called, long distance intimacy. It is the most pleasurable form of lovemaking imaginable. I have lived a richly beauteous life and, when it is concluded, I and a choice few will celebratorily dine on the astral plane. I suspect that then, we will experience moments of quiet rapture. What we will be celebrating is having lived life with the greatest panache and the sophistication befitting the brotherhood of the truly sly shamans that we are. We are, every last one of us, truly magus.
These dreams – and these twenty-five volumes of dreams – would not exist had I never met and loved both Joop van der Pelster and Merlin. They have affected in me the expansion of spirit and consciousness which is reflected in the nature of the dream experiences that I have lived. Of course, Joop van der Pelster was in a previous life the Flemish painter, Sir Anthony van Dyck.
Now then, before this afterthought meanders on longer than the dream itself…
On this the eve of what would have proven Merlin’s 72nd birthday, I share these rather totemic dreams. This November 18, 2019 marks the 30th anniversary of Merlin’s passing of full-blown AIDS, on a cold November Saturday morning when icy snowflakes aimlessly drifted across the city streets. Whilst at dinner recently, a dear friend asked if I am never saddened at the loss of Merlin and if I ever do miss him. Of course, as I write this blog, I am warmed by the fact that on December 2, 2006 – almost 13 years ago, Merlin was reincarnated in a canalled northern European city. Merlin is now female and the third of three children – two older brothers.
What’s more, Merlin reborn has eyes that would now be even more phenomenal than when last I gazed besotted and rhapsodic into those large, soulful hazel eyes. Whereas Merlin was on his sixth life as a seventh level mature scholar soul, now reincarnated and female that soul is now living its first incarnation as a first level old scholar. These next dreams were dreamt in May, 1989 when Merlin was then still incarnate and at that point, he daily listened to the audiocassette recording of my dreams. This he did because they fascinated him; more than that, he did so because ever the director, he was keen to give insight and direction.
“Come on, Arvin, you have to be more descriptive. I have no idea if the car was blue, green, for that matter a convertible and was it a tan or white leather interior?”
Certainly, it can never be underestimated the pivotal role that Merlin played in the depth and thoroughness of the audiocassette recorded dreams. He was ever a loving but tough taskmaster and happy am I to have had his loving input and direction. After having listened to the recorded dream being now shared herein, Merlin came to dinner at our 20 Amelia Street home and declared, “Well, let’s not get too caught up in trying to interpret and figure out the symbolism of those dreams.” After, he winked, we softly kissed; his lips as ever warm and full as internally an unrelenting disease determinedly consumed his body… but never alas his spirit.
These were potent, lucid astral plane dreams. To say that they were totemic would be understating fact. The dreams were a glimpse beyond the veil as Merlin shamanically wound down another incarnation and got ready to put to rest another life. Ever focussed on my spiritual maturation, I am immensely proud to have survived so long after Merlin’s passing. Had anyone wagered that I would be still in the game 30 years later, I would have said, “You are reading the wrong tea leaves.”
Well, here I am still shaking arse and the Rathore to the core. These totemic dreams were dreamt on Monday, May 22, 1989, audiocassette recorded on tape IX of the 250 audiocassette recording of my dreams and yet to be found in Volume one the 25 Volume dream opus. Too, at the time, the Moon then transited both Sagittarius and my seventh house – wherein my natal Moon is posited. Truly few are they who are brave enough to drink from the chalice that is life.
Your support and choice to be focussed herein are both humbling and a source of inordinate pride. I am immensely grateful. Sweet dreams and as ever do remember, death is just a shift in focus; one is merely focussed at a different frequency. Besides, as one rather beguiling astral plane habituée put it, “Trust me, death is not wasted on the living.”
Dreams serve as the most expedient conduit for sustaining the bonds and communion of souls between persons who are no longer focussed in the physical plane but refocussed on the astral plane between lives as astral plane habitués whilst resting, reviewing and weaving the tapestry of future incarnations. So, drink and live in the moment. Take a deep breath, open your eyes within – don’t be afraid – and there within the silken folds of self is the massive beauty which is spirit.. go on explore and discover the true you. I love you more.
The first dream found me posited on a hilltop looking down into a valley which then rose up into a lower hill. From the vantage of the mountains in Sandy Point, St. Kitts or Nevis, the view was of being down towards the ocean. Topographically, it seemed more like St. Kitts – however, this was definitely set in Nevis. I looked out and what did I see but a house on this hill; it was a very huge and lovely house.
Down from the sky, before the house on the rolling plains, fell a column of white light that shimmered. The manifesting light had the power of a tornado and it was a force that moved… it undulated. Truth be told, this was a liquefied white light – not unlike a waterspout. As compared to the left and right sides of the shaft, it was as though the centre of the light was faded. The centre of the column of light seemed invisible but it wasn’t. As a matter of fact, it was sort of greyish-coloured.
*A very fleeting dream this was but it was one that was potent. The sky overhead was ominously dark as though the cloud cover was simply to mask something else. There was no getting around the fact that the light was used as some sort of transport or conveyance. The light was being used for the relay of energies between the house’s occupants, if there were any, and whatever was beyond the clouds.
The dream seemed to have abruptly collapsed because I had happened on the scene. There was no one else about. Too, it was the only house on the landscape. I felt as though I had been ejected, from the dream, for having been there and witnessed what I wasn’t supposed to have been privy to. The dream collapsed around me; I was deprived any further knowledge of what was going on. In light of the dream that would follow, it became fairly obvious that the light column was channelling.
Eventually, the astra-human soul quality of Merlin’s would quite potently manifest. Of course, just as in the dream of Thursday, July 7, 1988VI, again, there was a lone house on the landscape. As will become evident, in later moments of the dreams, Merlin’s soul quality would manifest. END.
The next dream immediately found me in bed with Merlin. He got up and he looked very old. Looking very tired and old, he turned around to me then went out into the hallway. He turned around and asked me, “When are you going to start moving on because I’d like to die by the end of this year? When are you going to go back to school? I’m really tired of this; I’m tired of this illness… I just want to move on.”
He was terribly impatient. Indeed, Merlin here was very forceful. That was when he began shapeshifting; Merlin underwent a metamorphosis before my eyes. He became, as he spoke, more impatient. I watched spellbound as his physiology morphed into the very astral-looking faun – though elfin-looking, he was taller than his known humanoid self; Merlin became the archetypal Chiron. I started crying sounding real childlike and said, “No… no! Please, please don’t!”
His face then became part of the pink walls, thus his transformed face was flesh-toned. Here his face looked faunlike; his eyes were on the sides. He had the face of a faun and I only ever saw the right eye. The eye was black-within-black. The eye looked down at me because the head – which was the only thing visible when mounted – was up on the wall. Shapeshifted, Merlin’s was a very hard-looking eye.
Merlin’s eye rapaciously looked right into the soul. An ancient eye it was. I caressed the softness of the fur-like skin and pleaded with him and said, “Please, I can’t live without you. I couldn’t go on. Please don’t lose your strength and get ill,” I pleaded with the shapeshifted Merlin and cried. I was aware of being here in bed asleep whilst dreaming and that my body was going through the motions of crying and being pained. Merlin did not hear me, although, I thought that as I slept that I was talking aloud in my sleep.
*This was an intensely upsetting dream because it dramatised how Merlin wished to be allowed to move on. He no longer cared to be focussed in the life. Though it was obvious that he could have soldiered on for months more, he simply lost the desire to go on being focussed. Clearly, this was owing to the bilious discord created by Tytanikka and Oleg’s betrayal.
Though he never physiologically resembled the classic centaur, Merlin’s face not only further morphed becoming like a fawn’s, more accurately, his head and face did have the eventual shape of a young bison’s – very Taurean, strong and potent.
On preparing for the video to celebrate the 70th anniversary of Merlin’s birth back in 2017, I decided then to head off to the costumer, Malabar on McCaul Street where artist and lover George Hawken lived in the late 80s to early 90s. Inspired by the first dream of Merlin had 41 years ago in July 1978, I decided to get a cowl as a tribute to the cowl Merlin wore in the inaugural dream encounter with him, four years before having met on Friday, October 1, 1982 in New York City. So, there was I at Mount Pleasant Cemetery on Saturday, July 15, 2017 in my cowl and the panama hat purchased at Versailles to escape the heat. I thought it fitting as Merlin always loved wearing panama hats.
My trusty friend, J.J. who happens to be an artisan entity mate whom I have known in 20 past lives –- which is a high incidence of contact -– was the director. Initially, I had hoped to throw a white party on the lawn to the southwest of the chapel at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and have a drone film the event where a gathering of friends would raise a glass to Merlin on the anniversary of his ennobled birth. Merlin always threw a white party each year for his birthday at his parents’ stunning backyard in north Toronto’s Servington Crescent.
The plan was not approved by the cemetery and thus, one had to improvise. I got my panama hat and my cowl and together, we proceeded with a dozen long-stem white roses to visit Merlin’s resting place. I had a pretty good idea what I was after. With the matching white cowl, I wanted to evoke the magic of meeting Merlin in that initial dream which is shared in volume one of the dream memoirs, which is already published: Merlin and Arvin: A Shamanic Dream Odyssey.
Get your copy! Thanks as ever for your support!
In the hardcover edition of human civilisation’s first dream memoirs, the initial dream encounter with Merlin is shared. The dream begins on page 110 in the hardcover edition. I wanted the same sense of wonderment and magic that I felt for having met Merlin in that first dream four years prior to having met reflected in the video. In that dream, Merlin’s appearance was preceded by a white totemic creature which seemed, in its astral plane outréness, to be part Russian wolfhound, part alpaca, part dog.
So, moving to the lawn, having descended the steps of the chapel, I began walking across the open lawn towards the statuesque lion-festooned mausoleum with the five remaining white long-stem white roses. Seven roses, of course, were left at Merlin’s grave -– one rose for each of our seven glorious years together. As I stepped onto the lawn, it seemed magical… timeless even. Slowly, confidently as I approached the filmmaker at the other end of the lawn, I thought of Merlin and that initial dream.
Just then, I very distinctly thought of Merlin greeting me by purring, “Hello Lambs.” As if right on cue, from off stage left, an adult deer came from behind the bushes and tombstones that line the far edges of the open lawn. Never before had I seen a deer at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Indeed, the good burghers of Forest Hill who clearly regularly jogged in the park-like setting stopped and were overheard remarking that they had never seen a deer in the cemetery before. All that I could do was tear up and continue walking as the deer then bolted and ran from stage left to right as I continued my stride uninterrupted –- unfazed by the appearance of an adult deer on the grounds of the cemetery. What is more astounding, is that J.J. at the time was filming my walk; at the last minute, I decided against a run-through as I was concerned about the natural light possibly changing if we were to rehearse the shot.
Unbeknownst to me, the deer after having made it to stage right, then returned to the centre of the lawn and stood there perfectly still whilst observing my progression across the lawn. J.J. who was astounded by the occurrence remarked that he had just witnessed a miracle. There is no doubt in my mind as I tried to recapture the magic of that initial dream encounter that there was a subtle validation of that dream from the magical shaman himself on the other side by having had Merlin’s spirit step in as director emeritus and had the deer enter the shot as validation and a token of his appreciation of the love that we shared and my steadfast loyalty to him. After crossing the lawn and turning to watch the deer stand there, looking down the lawn at me, I felt such utter peacefulness and abandonment of spirit — just as when alone and intimate in the dark with Merlin.
Yes, I believe in magic as did Merlin and as though an appreciation of having stridently done everything to fulfil his mandate to me, Merlin’s astral body conjure up the same magic here and now as he had in July 1978 –- four years before slipping inside a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up and readily winning me over with his sexy elfin charm, magic and sex that proved the most grounding shamanic passion… every time. Standing there, I was reminded, too, of that dream in 1989 before Merlin passed wherein he shape-shifted and became a fawn-like creature who morphed and became one with the wall in our Cabbagetown home.
All the music chosen for this 13-minute video is music that Merlin loved whilst incarnate and to which he returned time and again -– whether at Joe Morton’s tiny Upper West Side apartment in autumn of 1983, Toronto’s 20 Amelia Street in tony Cabbagetown. From Glenn Gould’s mastery of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Goldberg Variations, to Elton John, Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight and Dionne Warwick singing That’s What Friends Are For –- in that segment of the video, I included friends whom Merlin valued: Kareem Benezra, myself, Wayne Robson and his oldest and most loyal friend, the ever-gracious, Maxime Gascoigne-de Montigny.
Of course, for Stevie Wonder’s Isn’t She Lovely, I exclusively included photos of Merlin and his very handsome and gracious father, David Ben-Daniel. Whereas I favoured Sir Paul McCartney’s Hey Jude, Merlin ever loved George Harrison and especially My Sweet Lord. Of course, one Saturday, whilst staying at actor, Joe Morton’s Manhattan apartment, when Merlin and I secretly committed to being together, we slow-danced to Supertramp and Roger Hodgson’s unmatched magical vocals on Supertramp’s Breakfast In America.
Additionally, Jeffrey Osborne’s On the Wings of Love which was one of Merlin’s favourite ballads is also included. Merlin loved Black male soul singers: Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jeffrey Osborne –- most especially –- George Benson, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Donny Hathaway, Barry White. Most of all, I am especially proud of the video that J.J. and I have created; I think that it masterfully captures the depth of my love and fealty to the most fabulously magical shaman encountered on this incarnation’s spiritual odyssey.
Naturally, before having left for Mount Pleasant Cemetery, I had flooded my apartment with the music that appears in the video. Perhaps, unwittingly by so doing, I was invoking Merlin’s spirit, which later joined us when he played ultimate director and pulled off the most magical bit of stage direction –- an adult deer in the middle of a cemetery in the heart of mid-town Toronto. Lastly, I played the sublimely soulful Shirley Horn’s interpretation of, Here’s to Life! Whilst raising a glass of coconut water, I had forgotten to pick up some champagne the evening prior and it was too early in the morning to find champagne anywhere –- the lighting was way too good. Besides who knows if that magical deer would have been anywhere about.
Here’s to life… most of all, here’s to Merlin… here’s to dream shamans everywhere!
Merlin’s mandate to me ever remains:
“Please my darling, I want you to write about our lives together. I promise you, however possible, I am going to send you dreams to include in the story of our love… our lives together.”
The dream was the first that day and occurred in the B sleep cycle, on Thursday, June 25, 1992, whilst the Moon transited both Aries and my eleventh house. As with all past life dreams, this was inordinately lucid, all my senses were piqued. Of course, there was the sense of being locked in – not being able to change the outcome of events as they unfolded.
A marvellous hall at nighttime where I was with a companion progressing through the place. I don’t quite know who it was that accompanied me. Then I wandered off and was with myself. I rather relished having done so. On the right side of the wall, it was rather dark and dimly lit by candlelight or torch flames. There were all these books everywhere. They were of brown-covered, time-faded colours. They were in the fantasy genre.
Immediately, I was intrigued and got excited when recognising some as the same ones that I had bought before. Sadly, I had never gotten around to reading them. Interest peaked in me because I wanted to see what the covers of the books were like. As a matter of fact, one of the books was opened. Almost every one of them was opened.
Somebody had been reading them but hadn’t finished doing so. Whoever had been reading these books would, as a matter of fact, then turn them upside down on the ledge of the fragile-looking bookcase. Each night before going to sleep, this was the habit which the reader employed with the books. I progressed down the length of the shelf leisurely perusing their covers.
There was one there which stood out and immediately appealed to me. It was brown-covered with a young, handsome man on it. Another had a man with a dragon in the image. It was in the fantasy genre and terribly scorpionic in tenure. Its sensibilities were terribly medieval. As I kept walking along, I came to this one image on one of the walls. It was of a very large tapestry. Immediately on seeing it, I stopped dead in my tracks because it was readily recognisable.
It was something for which every residual resonance harked back to a former lifetime. It was a stunning tapestry. It was, as a matter of fact, quite large. On the bottom of it, there was this writing in red that was very Gothic. Arcane writing it was. Though it seemed to be in Latin, I was more so of the impression that it was in arcane Welsh. There were lots of Ws in the very long words.
I tried my best to read and interpret what it was saying but couldn’t quite make it out. It did have something to do with a particular event which was depicted as having occurred in the year 1209 or earlier. The writing was at the base of a stump in the tapestry. It sat there, a stone outpost that appeared on closer scrutiny, more so like a crypt. Whilst facing the tapestry, I looked at it and keenly recorded every lush detail of the very real experience.
The head was of this very princely man who was bearded and luminously silver-haired. He wore a long, flowing, white robe and as one looked at the wall, which was on my right, so too was the tapestry’s actions in that direction. As he lay there on this large, stone slab, the head of the man was plainly visible. His head was to the left of the tapestry. The robe that he wore came and hung over the edge of the stone slab.
The fabric beautifully cascaded over the edge and down to the floor. It was a wonderful, beautiful, shiny, white robe. The threads in the tapestry were such that the light striking it, from the room, caught and imbued it with a handsome glow. There was a woman there in the hallway, where the tapestry hung, who was dressed in medieval garb. Her arm outstretched, she was looking up with great yearning. The left arm on her heart, the right stretched up over the head of the prostrate ruler.
Supplicating the gods as it were, she was arched backwards. She was mourning. Her mouth torn-open birthed her bloody pain. She was wailing. All of this left one feeling such gravity at the sad state of affairs. Behind her was a large, brawny, warrior-like man. Basically, her arm was outstretched to block him off. He carried an upraised sword. He wore gold chain-mail. Experiencing this tapestry was very painful. I just couldn’t bring myself to look at the face of the prostrate ruler. Immediately, as I looked away, I was instantaneously made aware that I was participating in the action being depicted in the tapestry.
I was caught up in a re-enactment of the tapestry. Rather, it was a reanimation such that I was reliving the events depicted in the tapestry. There I was, of all things, lying on the slab. I was, in fact, the princely leader. As I reclined there, I immediately became familiar with the body. Large, mid-aged and overweight, I immediately became fully synchronised with the princely body’s every nuance. Also, I was instantaneously reminded of that large body which I had ensouled in that dream recall of that past life in Roman times. In that past life dream, I was murdered at the baths by my very shrewd wife’s centurion guard-cum-starfucker-stud agent.
In between feigning wailing at my loss, the woman was now leaning over me and whispering to me. Straight away, I realised what was afoot. I was not yet dead and she knew it too. We were trying to affect a faux death. This is why I was covered in all that heavy material which would easily disguise my shallow breathing. I was supposed to be faking being dead. Lying there, there was a commotion outside the large, heavy, wooden doors to the damp, empty room in a stone, fortress-like dwelling. Where it was seemingly at nighttime, there was a great deal of light coming through the high-placed windows about the room.
The man outside the door, who had been shouting in a violent display of temper, barged in and commandingly approached the cold slab on which I laid. I remained catatonic truly overcome with fear. He was a very large-bodied, brawny, hirsute study of Sagittarian, Martian energies. There was a dense concentration of warrior-spirited drive in his body. On his waist he carried his sword and was one impatient, disgruntled soul. He wore a chainmail suit of dull gold or bronze. When he walked there was all this noisy clanking from his armour, chainmail and sword.
He was bearded and much younger than I. He was long-haired, handsome, like a fierce warrior, with jet-black, glossy hair. His mouth was youthful, full and beautiful. His was the intensity of unbridled fearlessness and sheer, brutish force. He was cool and deadly. On seeing him, I was immediately filled with fear. My pulse uncontrollably raced. All I wanted to do was get up and bolt. However, I could not have. Approaching, he began talking to the woman in this strange, archaic, Aryan tongue. Basically, he was refuting the news that I had died. In essence he was saying, “He isn’t dead. Are you trying to fool me?”
He had the most powerful, booming voice whose echo slapped the damp chill out of the room.
“Look at him! He should have been dead a long time ago!”
I guess that he was my heir and was quite upset and wanted to claim the title that I had which, of course, was his by birth. Although he was my son or heir, at the very least, I had a mortal and ultimately fatal fear of him.
“Damn you! You should have died a long time ago. Why aren’t you dead yet?”
Then he suddenly stopped as it dawned on him that I could be faking it. He barked a loud breath of impatience and immediately drew his sword. At that the woman cried out, tossing herself at him, asking,
“What do you think you’re doing?”
With the most ferocious force, he brought down the sword vengefully attacking my body. The sword entered my stomach like an intensely hot spear. Simultaneously, it had struck my left hip as they both stood to the left of me – as indeed, she was standing in the tapestry. When he smote me the blade came down and hit me on the hip but then he moved it by thrusting it into my stomach.
Turning and twitching, I rigidly nudged my head to the right in pain. As he triumphantly laughed, the loudest most vulgar laugh erupted in the hall. Naturally, had I been dead there is no way that I would have moved.
*As I slept here, I had a corresponding cramp in my stomach. It was of a sharp, stabbing pain. This correspondingly made me simultaneously turn away to the right in the waking state. This was a very, very, vivid dream. END.
My sense of smell was quite piqued and there was no way to get over my being alive in this experience. It was very damp with a foul odour of agedness in the air. My stomach was convulsing and there was a taste of blood in my mouth mixed with the loud smell of faeces in the air. The woman, my companion, cried trying to explain that I had only recently died thus it was a nervous twitch – a nervous reaction if you like.
She was not very convincing to which he shot back, “Ha, well then if he is dead…” he began walking around her forcefully approaching the head of my body, “…he won’t mind having his head removed!”
All that I could see, from beneath my quivering lids, was her reaching up and lunging as she bawled aloud, “Noooo!” She reached up her hand and I tried to throw open my lids terror-struck. However, when the sword crashed down into my neck severing my head at the spinal cord, I swiftly felt a loud thud.
At that there was this immediate abortive blank. It was abrupt and with great finality. Gone was the woman’s horrified scream in mid-breath. I could feel the contact of the sword on my spine at the point of decapitation. This was, in fact, rather traumatic because abruptly and with great force my life was ended.
*At that point, the moment of blank displacement, I was slapped back into my body instantaneously awaking. Finding myself fully awake, I was in the midst of raising my head off the pillow as I slept on my back. When I heard my infamous neck injury snap and being aggravated anew, I had not yet sat up in bed. I collapsed back into the pillow stunned and short of breath.
It was all so overwhelming that all that I could do was just relax. I dissolved in a silent, teary cry. It was the only way to address the tense rigidity that my body had become. As I laid there it was extremely hard to simultaneously cry and breathe. I had no desire to get up. I was simply resigned with sheer exhaustion and the weightiness of having re-lived a traumatic end-of-life experience. This was a past life which undoubtedly was in the early part of this millennium, in Wales.
This obviously was, from every richly detailed nuance of the very intensely lucid, progressional experience, a slice of a past life. What was really impactful, even more so than the beheading, was the moment at which I saw the tapestry. It was immediately familiar and infused with a certain validity which couldn’t be denied in any way. I wanted to run, to not see it, on first contact with it but was incapable of doing anything.
The tapestry depicted the slaying, of the aged leader, as being a pivotal moment in that realm’s history. I did not get the sense that the man was my son but rather my usurper. Regardless, I was rather afraid of this man. This dream was much like so many others that relate to matters of trauma which resonate to the level of soul itself.
I can remember thinking at the time of that dream of Francesca and of the one with Merlin, in which he collapsed a great deal in that life in Spain with the Ludnezes and I protested by saying, “I want out of this dream, now!”
It does go without saying that as Merlin is a scholar soul, the upturned, unread books – which were brown-covered and time-faded – were a residue of his true soul in essence and agedness of soul. After all, it was Merlin who nightly read several books, one of which he would conclude. Until he was prepared to return to one of them to conclude the following night, the others were kept upturned or down-turned about the apartment.
In the event that they were to be accidentally closed, there were even times when he would wedge a piece of pretzel in between the pages. Of course, I was in the habit of going around and closing the books when cleaning house. Merlin, time and again, expressed displeasure at what he saw as interference. I would never mischievously close the books that he had kept opened about our home. Alas, such is wedded bliss.
Every detail in these dreams was so richly realised and resonant. There was no way that Merlin could not have been instrumental in this past life revisit and reanimation. I am confident that Merlin was crucial to the invocation of this past life milieu which awaited my arrival. Of course, thanks to the jarring vividness of the decapitation, I abruptly awoke.
However, I still felt as though I needed to dream on. I knew that there was more yet to come. Despite Whoopi having leapt from the bed anticipating being fed, I chose not to get from bed and do anything. I would much later after this dream learn, from Mathilde Duchenne’s channelling, that Merlin and I are indeed task companions – he a seventh level mature scholar to my seventh mature artisan. This validation only made the dream of the library, of much loved books, that much more relevant.
Obviously, that dream set in late-twelfth, early-thirteenth century Wales involved both he and I. I don’t, however, know whether he was the large-bodied woman who pleaded for me not to be killed or whether he was the Sagittarian-Martian energied usurper/heir who came to make sure that the job was done and I was truly dead. It was all very lucid and like every reincarnational dream one was incapable of affecting change in the outcome of events. One was, as it were, simply along for the roller-coaster ride. END.
As ever, straighten up and fly right, all the while singing, vocalesing and having a merry old time of it… because you are special and I say that you are damn well worth a flying dream. Thanks for your ongoing support.
As this November marks the 30th anniversary of Merlin’s passing, rare indeed it is that I should dream of him. Recently, I remarked to a friend that in all honesty if I were to encounter Merlin a dream at this stage, I would likely be more surprised to see him than not. Of course, Merlin reincarnated in December 2006 and is female and was born in Holland and will likely have a life that will likely be exclusively focussed in academia. Alas, with all these glamorous royal weddings of late, Lucian Mann-Chomedy reminded me of that gloriously lucid dream had of Merlin almost a year on from his passing; it was a dream wherein we were man and wife being married – a truly glorious drink for the soul it proved.
Here then a dream of him and me in a possible future incarnation as lovers yet again. As ever love endures. Whilst the Moon transited Gemini and my first house, on Sunday, November 4, 1990, I would have a most revelatory dream. It would prove a glimpse into the future and probable relations, between Merlin and me, when incarnate together again.
The dream concerned getting married and as man and wife. It was the sixth dream that day.
Soon enough, I entered this building and there was a wedding in progress. There was a very dark-skinned Black man. He was timid and bore an uncanny resemblance, both energetically and facially, to Merlin. He seemed very much so African.
Then a woman came up and she was much like Dustin Kynes’s wife, Allegra Kynes – a slightly light-complected, big-boned woman. A take-charge person, she was very much so the leader. Clearly, she was the one in that relationship who called the shots.
They were getting married. She wore a gown that was, quite simply, out of this world. She was an utterly vain woman. I was quite reminded of myself by her. I got a strong sense that this was a look into the future, in which Merlin and I were being married, during a life up ahead.
It proved an unusual ceremony. For one, she was not dressed in white. She wore a gown that was very expensive. It was green and opened from the neck down; there, it was tied with a big black button.
It opened outwards and was very regal, very priestly, in feel. It was covered from the shoulders on down, to mid-torso, by a very richly dark exquisite sable.
HRH Princess Michael of Kent at Royal Wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge 29.4.2011.
She had on a large-brimmed hat that was round-shaped. It was actually like the hat that the new empress of Japan recently wore, at a state ceremony, following the death of Emperor Hirohito.
The ceremony was very Oriental, in fact, but they were definitely Black people. She had lots of curls that hung from beneath her beautiful hat. Her hair was very long and gathered up under the hat.
She came up to join him wearing green high heel shoes that matched the green lower part of the regal cape that she wore. She wore a maxi but it was split in the front, midway up the legs, to just below the knees.
She came regally up the church aisle, going up to meet the man – her groom. She was alone as she progressed, the length of the aisle, towards the altar.
She joined him and stood up and turned around, doing a little pivot, so that her left shoulder was leading her around. This movement brought her to face her audience.
When she did, she should though have moved out of the way. By not having stepped to the side, she had ended up covering the groom.
However, he did not even know where to go. Totally unaware of this gaffe, she simply smiled at the audience. She was totally lost in her own world that was saturated with pride and vanity.
As if next to her, I heard her from where I was in the rear of the large church. She impatiently directed him, through clenched teeth, saying,
“Come on, get beside me.”
However, whilst in back of her, he did not know whether to go to her right or her left. She snapped at him, still smiling, as he was going to go to the right,
This was the traditional side for the male but she impatiently snapped,
“Get over here on my left. I want you on my left.”
I thought to myself,
‘My goodness, wouldn’t they have had rehearsals for this before?’
However, I realised that this woman was so utterly vain that she was being blinded by her vanity.
The dress was simply out of this world. It was truly an haute couture original, à la Christian Lacroix, with just a hint of ostentation suggesting perhaps John Galliano’s creative genius.
It was covered with peacock feathers that were turned down, with the crowns down and not up. They were, of course, shaped as though tiny fans.
I thought that direction to the fans an interesting one. There were, too, precious stones throughout the gown between each plume. These precious stones brilliantly glistened and added to the gowns dramatic effect.
It was utterly beautiful and utterly expensive. This was a dress of light-green – olive – satin with matching shoes that you just knew some poor cobbler had to slave over to complete her outfit. It was utterly expensive. Utterly beautiful she was.
The cathedral was tightly packed. Everybody was utterly enthralled by the sight of this beautiful woman. She was very self-possessed and utterly vain.
She was the kind of handsome beauty that always married wildly successful men. Her groom was so handsomely dark, strong-featured with a beautiful moustache and a little goatee.
He had a prominent aquiline nose. Most of all, he had such wonderful, beautiful soulful eyes.
It was so very much so Merlin – the mouth, nose and eyes. It was the same soul, using the amalgam of all the lives lived to date, to create this particular look.
He was Black with a very Nubian-to-East African look that somehow could maintain the overall physical attributes and integrity of the primary central features of the face, which was Merlin’s, in his last and just-completed life. That gloriously magical lifetime of Merlin’s, here in fin de siècle twentieth century Toronto, when he and I were together and lovers did shine through.
It was very, very beautiful to have been a witness at this ceremony.
He was so much like Merlin yet so very timid. Rather than timid, the operative word should be gracious – responsive to her (future my) authoritative self. Very much the gentleman, gentle-souled and highly evolved was he.
Definitely, this future incarnation of Merlin’s found him being feminine-principled to my strong, take-charge, animus-charged persona though female. Reincarnate male Merlin was yin to my future reincarnate female yang. Together, again, we formed a solid and complementary partnership.
Whilst hovering over everyone in the cathedral, I viewed the splendid nuptials and was actually rather taken by the man. I was, of course, not seen by anyone.
It was a high moment, at the level of soul, for both persons being married.
She did, of course, carry a bouquet in her hand and a very beautiful little bouquet it was. It was very good to see them both.
As ever dream as if it is the very last dream your soul will have dreamt for this incarnation… So go on, take a deep breath, plié, push down whilst mischievously grinning and start having the most fuck-all glorious flying dream ever. Coz you are more beautiful of spirit than you’ve ever imagined on your better days… I love you more and please continuing supporting my creative tour-de-force, uplifting dream memoirs!
HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex announces the birth of his son.
Lips trembled and I came undone whilst watching this beautiful spirit revealing his sheer delight at becoming a father. As a last-born, I always more readily identified with this man rather than his brother.
Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor being introduced to his great-grandmother HM Queen Elizabeth II whilst his grandmother, Doria Ragland, his great-grandfather HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh by his enraptured parents, TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex.
Doria Ragland, grandmother of Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl of Dumbarton. This woman has the most exquisitely beautiful papaya-seed succulent, ensouled eyes.
Meghan Markle en route to be wedded and pronounced, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.
There is a reason why there was so much beauty and love overflowing at the marriage of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, for less than a year later they would give birth to a most remarkable older soul. Before getting to that, I still think that the best dressed woman at their nuptials was the dowager Duchess of Westminster who looked for all the world as though she were merely traipsing about her lair in her favourite muumuu. There was something so disarmingly unpretentious yet elegant about the look and air she projected.
At once delicate and vulnerable; it is so immensely satisfying to see this young man flower into the true essence of his being.
As Meghan possessed of a true sense of theatre, she who was formerly Margaret Beaufort, entered and strode the knave of St. George’s Chapel alone… a Queen returned, she joined her lover and invited us in to share in a love that was tangible, real and undeniable.
Less than a year later, the love blossomed into the most beautiful, magical flower.
There he is, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, of all the senior royals he would prove the oldest soul. This young man will prove a most uplifting member of the British Royal family.
Mountbatten-Windsor, Archie H. 6/5/2019
Michael: This young fragment is a seventh-level mature priest – second life thereat. Archie is in the perseveration mode with a goal of stagnation. A, realist Archie does not yet have a centre.
Archie’s, as can be expected, does not have chief features.
Archie’s body type is Venus/Mercury/Mars.
The fragment Archie is second-cast in the second cadence. Archie is a member of greater cadence four. Archie’s entity is five, cadre six, greater cadre 7 pod 418.
Archie’s essence twin is a priest and the slave task companion is likely to be known at a later date.
Archie’s three primary needs are: exchange, acceptance and communion.
There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 7 with Merlin.
This fragment does have a facilitating agreement with the father, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex to be his son; he also has one with the artisan, his mother Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex and it is that of parent/child. All three, along with HM, The Queen are of course cadre mates.
We would say that this inspirational fragment is likely to have some notoriety as would be expected and can serve to inspire others to cross perceived boundaries.
HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales his paternal grandfather has to date been the oldest-souled senior royal. Like HRH Prince Charles, Archie is a seventh-level mature soul; however, whereas Charles a warrior soul is an ordinal fragment, his grandson, Archie is an exalted fragment for being a priest. Priests are the feel-good great souls. I rather suspect that this man will go on to have the same inspirational effect as have Barack H. Obama, Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King Jr. all of whom are priest souls.
Of course, President Obama is a young-souled priest, whereas both Martin Luther King Jr. and Nelson Mandela were both sixth mature priest souls. Archie is an older soul than the latter two mature-souled priests and like both, his role will prove rather uplifting and inspirational to blacks globally. Indeed, there is no happenstance that as TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex departed St. George’s Chapel in the Ascot landau, after their nuptials, the Kingdom Choir sang, This Little Light of Mine.
All priests have one thing in common; they have the most radiant, magnetic eyes. You never forget their eyes; indeed, their inner beauty of spirit is more readily reflected in their eyes than with any other role – at least, that has been my experience of priest souls. Priests constitute roughly eight percent of all souls in the cosmos. They are greatly motivated by a sense of justice and are in the world to both inspire and promote harmony. With his father’s double sixness, Archie, born a six day, is well equipped to inspire and empathise with the needs of many. He is, like his father, greatly gifted with the ability to inspire others. Archie also happens to be a cadre mate of both his parents TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex, plus his paternal great-grandmother, HM The Queen.
One thing is guaranteed, as the only priest soul who is a senior royal*, Archie is going to be a standout like no other. This is a family of slaves, scholars, warriors and artisans. I think that his parents’ open and abiding love speaks to them serving as parents to this rare soul being born into the BRF. In a way, he is the perfect maturation of the qualities that his paternal grandmother embodied; Diana, Princess of Wales with her inordinate empathy and compassion gave birth to a deeply empathetic warrior, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, who in turn has fathered the very embodiment of all the higher ideals that both mother (Diana) and son (Harry) have represented.
*As I have not had channelled the Michael Overleaves of the three children of TRH Duke & Duchess – HRH Prince George of Cambridge, HRH Princess Charlotte of Cambridge and HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge, I do not know if any of them are older souled than HRH Prince Charles or Archie. I also do not know if any of them is an exalted role – King, Priest or Sage, though, none of them strike me as any of those three roles.
On another note, what more proof does one need that Diana, Princess of Wales had greatly succeeded in being a parent.
Third royal wedding in twelve months, featured the handsome Lady Gabriella Windsor – look at that neck! As always, one looks for the notable sartorial moments.
Carole Middleton wearing the best hat and outfit that easily surpassed the Catherine Walker ensemble which she wore to her daughter, Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge’s wedding and her outfit at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex last year.
Look, as we West Indians always say, ‘there is always a but’ her blackamoor brooch notwithstanding, I am always a sucker for a woman with a prominent forehead and HRH Princess Michael of Kent has always been a favourite of mine.
I definitely did not like her lilac outfit at the wedding; the mother of the bride looked infinitely more elegant in what she wore later to the reception.
HRH Princess Anne, The Princess Royal, Lady Frederick Windsor and HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex.
Hands down, Lady Frederick Windsor was the best-dressed lady at the recent royal wedding – that hat, those feathers that soothing blue… perfection.
HRH Princess Marina, HRH Prince George TRH Duke & Duchess of Kent.
Without doubt, the most handsome Windsor male of the past century. Of course, that tiara was worn this past weekend at the royal wedding of the Mr. & Mrs. Kingston.
HM The Queen at Lady Gabriella Winndsor’s wedding.
HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh at Lady Gabriella Windsor’s wedding.
James Middleton attending the recent royal wedding at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle, Berkshire.
There is no stronger validation for the fact that all gap-toothed Caucasians having been black in their immediate past life than this photograph of James Middleton. James is a spitting image of a black Haitian former coworker in Montréal. Same vibe, same eyes and the exact same teeth. Jean-Yves was a pretty laid back man who loved fishing and riding donkeys in his native Haiti. One gets the same vibe of James; his is a look that I have seen many times throughout the West Indian community – laid back men with the same gap-toothed smile. Moreover, his smile is exactly like that of a voluptuous woman who lived in Sandy Point, St. Kitts when I was a child; who knows, perhaps, James is her reborn.
Here’s to love! Here’s to this beautiful dream called life. Here’s to HM The Queen. God Save the Queen!
Most of all, thank you for your ongoing support, happy to have you vicariously along for this most lucid of flying dreams. Be well as ever, and don’t forget to push off and start flying for magic is the stuff of the sweetest dreams. I love you more.